Page 26 of Falling Like Stars

A silence.

“The one I gave you in Yosemite?” I press.

The first time I proposed. The one that counted. Not the one in Mallorca you wanted later, with a huge diamond and a photographer snapping pics to sell to People magazine.

“Eva?”

“I don’t know where it is, but I’ll—”

“You lost it?” My headache kicks up several notches. It’s a mystery that I’m even surprised.

“I didn’t lose it,” she snaps back. “It’s in with all my jewelry somewhere.”

I jump off the couch and head back up to our bedroom.

“Look, I have to go,” Eva says. “Unlike some people, Laurent cares about my well-being. He’s taking me for a little getaway. For my mental health. Are you going to be around in a week or so?”

“No,” I say, stepping into our mirrored walk-in closet that’s the size of a small bedroom. Eva’s side is all designer clothes and a huge vanity littered with perfumes, lotions, and jewelry—most of which I bought for her.

“Oh right, you have the Oscars,” she sneers. “God forbid you miss a chance to be worshipped and adored.”

“Yep, that’s me, the attention whore,” I mutter, rummaging through her stuff. “I’m going to Alaska for another shoot.”

She scoffs. “And you can’t take one day for us to sit down and talk?”

“Remind me again who’s going on a getaway with the fashion asshole?”

“Laurent isn’t the asshole in this scenario,” she says. “He actually gives a shit about me—”

“I’m hanging up now, Eva. As soon as you tell me where you put the ring.”

“Find it yourself, Zach.”

The line goes dead, not because Eva is out of stuff to yell at me about, but because she can’t stand it when I hang up on her.

I toss my phone on the ottoman that sits between our two sides and dig in earnest through a mountain of tennis bracelets, rings, and a $100,000 Van Cleef & Arpels watch Eva had to have, and that I’ve seen her wear maybe once. This stuff should all be in a safe. Or better yet, auctioned off for charity.

I’m starting to panic that Eva’s lost the ring—a family heirloom—when I see it tangled in a string of pearls. It’s a white gold Victorian-era ring, with a round diamond surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds—the only thing of value my great-grandmother retained when she immigrated to the States from Wales in 1905. Since then, it’d been passed down, mother to son or son-in-law. My fraternal twin brother, Jeremy, vowed to never marry so it was passed to me. Mom called it a good luck charm because there’s been no divorce in three generations.

And I nearly cursed it.

Eva said she loved the ring but never wore it, claiming it was too delicate. Even back then, I knew she was disappointed that the center diamond wasn’t the size of Mt. Everest. The giant oval solitaire I bought her in Spain was more her speed.

I ease a sigh of relief and evict a ruby ring from its black velvet box and tuck the antique ring there instead. I contemplate packing my shit and getting out of the house now, but it’s late and my head is thundering.

I’m in the kitchen rummaging through cabinets since not one bathroom in this godforsaken house has Advil, when my phone chimes a text.

“It hasn’t been enough drama for one night, Eva?” I mutter. But it’s from Rowan.

You’re probably crazy busy and don’t need/want my friends gawking at you, but I’m having a birthday party on the 26th.

And just like that, my headache vanishes.

Will there be a piñata? I type. Piñata or no dice.

It’s a BYOP situation. 8pm.

An address follows and I Google Maps it. Not far but not close either—up the 10, to Wildwood near Topanga State Park.

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