Page 51 of The Player's Obsession

I never could figure out what Melanie liked. She mostly listened to whatever was trending. She’d move on to the next popular song when her previous song grew old. Come to think of it, she did the same with her clothes and makeup. Her loyalty was to whatever designer she wore to Fashion Week and whatever makeup company was paying her to endorse their products. Maybe she grew bored with me and moved on.

Melanie knew a lot about fashion and makeup because it was part of her job as a model. She had no knowledge or opinion when it came to other things like food or music. So, unless she was getting paid, she had nothing to say.

My brother is right, now that I think back, Melanie never hung out with the guys drinking copious amounts of beer at a football game. She’d rather be hanging out in the owner’s suite with Taylor Swift. She is happiest when she’s rubbing elbows with someone popular and influential. And like a chameleon, she will clone their likes and dislikes.

I can’t see Penelope doing the same. She has shown that she knows her own mind and has no problem expressing her opinions.

“I listen to almost anything, but I draw the line at jazz. I think it’s an acquired taste. Sometimes, I think our minds are polluted by pop music. The locker room is filled with rap and whatever the kids listen to today.”

She chuckles. “Who knows? Maybe we just like what we like. I’m sure the artists gravitate toward what they do best, but as listeners, we have more freedom to pick and choose.”

“True. That applies to more than just music, doesn’t it? Free will to want what we want.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret saying them. That was rude because she knows I’m using her to make my ex jealous. I have to have Melanie. I want what I want. Maybe when Melanie rejected me, I liked the challenge of getting her back. But is it true I want what I can’t have?

When Penelope said no date, it motivated me to change her mind, no matter the cost. Why do I have to win everyone over to be happy?

This is my first time questioning my motives for wanting Melanie back in my life. Do I want her because I truly love her or because my ego was deflated?

Penelope is quiet. Dammit, if I alienate her on the drive, it will be difficult to convince my friends that we’re together.

Did I ruin my entire mission?

“Oh, by the way, open the glove box,” I say to break the spell.

She’s apprehensive and hesitates.

“Trust me, open it.”

I notice her French manicure as she opens the glove box.

“There’s a small box in there, take it out.”

“This looks like a ring box,” she says, picking it up.

“It is. You can’t be my fiancée without wearing my ring. Open it.”

She lifts the top to reveal a diamond ring sitting on a velvet cushion. Its opulence can’t be denied or ignored. When she says nothing, my heart sinks to the floorboards.

“What’s wrong?” Why is it so important she likes it? It’s not as if my life is in the balance. None of this is real.

“It’s perfect. It’s so pretty. Look at the way it sparkles.” She pulls the ring from the cushion and holds it to the light, letting the sun's rays bounce off of it. “It’s huge,” she murmurs. Her eyes are large—like she pulled the winning ticket to the Willie Wonka Factory.

“It’s the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen many, let alone held one. I can’t believe you found one like the picture I sent you,” her voice falters. The distance between us narrows. It’s an intimate gesture, ring-giving. It should have been filled with romance and words conveying love and commitment.

For a moment, I’m sad she’s missed out on the romance and adulation she deserves for this occasion. I know it’s something women look forward to from an early age. For men and women, getting engaged and married are milestones we celebrate. They are events we share with our family and memories we’ll cherish.

Using a knuckle, she wipes a silent tear from her cheek before she slips the ring on her finger. She holds her hand in front of her face to admire it. It suits her.

“It’s heavy.” She chuckles as she continues to stare at the ring.

“Do you like it?”

“What woman wouldn’t?” Her eyes meet mine, and I feel vindicated from my earlier comment.

Whew. She likes it. See, I’m better at picking out jewelry than Melanie thought.

Maybe Melanie isn’t the one for me if I didn’t know what her tastes were. Today I’ve given a ring to a stranger, and she loves it. Why didn’t Melanie love her ring?

“I’m sorry, this must feel weird because it’s a real ring but a fake engagement.” I pull my gaze away from her tear-streaked face to stare at the road.

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