Page 2 of Five Stolen Rings

“Let’s take a moment of silence”—Ted pauses, inclining his head for a second, and then he goes on—“and then let’s say the Serenity Prayer, shall we?”

Voices rumble to life around me—“God grant me theserenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference”—but I’m barely paying attention. Something like mortification has slithered into my gut and pushed all the blood in my body to my flaming cheeks.

I’m not supposed to be here. I amnotsupposed to be here.

I shoot to my feet before Ted can say another word, clamping one hand over my eyes. I hear my book fall softly to the floor—probably landing face-down, knowing my luck—and I bend down, reaching around blindly for it.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp into the now-silent room. My hand is still firmly over my eyes, but I can only imagine everyone is staring. “I’m not supposed to be here. I thought—I thought this was book club—I didn’t look at anyone’s faces,” I add quickly. “I mean, I did, but I wouldn’t remember any of you if I passed you on the street.” I sincerely hope this is true. “I’m so sorry,” I say again.

I’ve found my book, and I begin to fan myself to dispel the heat in my cheeks. I take my other hand away from my face, squeezing my eyes shut instead, as I grab my fuzzy hat and gloves from where they’ve fallen too.

I hear a little chuckle, from Ted, I think, and then he speaks. “No need to apologize,” he says, and I’m relieved to hear nothing but good-natured humor in his voice. “Open your eyes so you don’t trip on your way out.”

Bless you, Ted.

“Thank you,” I say quickly, already hurrying toward the door and keeping my gaze averted awkwardly so I don’t make eye contact with anyone. It’s a weird way to walk, but isn’t it part of Alcoholics Anonymous that everyone stays…well,anonymous?

I take what feels like my first gulp of oxygen when I get out of the room and into the hallway. I close the door behind me with a bump of my hip, and then I turn around to give Ted a little nod of thanks and apology through the narrow window. He smiles and waves back, and relief blankets me as my body begins to relax—although I startle like I’ve just been discovered breaking the law as someone thumps loudly down the stairs at the end of the hall. I avert my gaze in case it’s someone headed to the AA meeting, but the man just gives me a sideways glance and then continues past me and down the hallway, a snow-dusted hat pulled low over his head, a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, eyes dark and glinting.

“Oh, goodness,” I breathe once he’s out of sight. I drift toward a miscellaneous folding chair propped against the wall and balance my book on top; then I tug my hat down over my hair. A few stray locks obscure my vision with a staticky haze of blonde, and I shove them impatiently aside. When I’ve got my gloves back on, I grab my book.

Maybe I should go follow that guy and ask for a tour of this place so I never, ever,evermake this mistake again.Ever.

But I head for the stairs that lead back up to the lobby instead. Forget about book club. I’ve had enough for one evening; I’ll face my new reality another day.

The entryway doors are made of dark wood, rough and old and heavy enough that I have to push with both hands to open them. I’m hit with a blast of December wind as soon as the church spits me out into the night, icy and crystalline but somehowwarmdespite the obvious cold. The street lamps that line Main are festooned in twinkling Christmas lights, and across the road a little way down is the cheerful glow of Pumpernickel, one of the town’s only cafés.

I exhale and watch as the puff of breath drifts into the night sky, dissipating into nothingness. “I’m tired,” I say softly. “And I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Tired people sometimes forget,the sky seems to answer, and I sigh.

“Yeah. Maybe.” The clouds of my words rise again, away, away, away, until they’re swallowed by the darkness.

And I’m only thirty, too young for a midlife crisis, but I don’t know what else to call this blip in my timeline. I was never supposed to return to Lucky. There’s nothing wrong with my little hometown—I was happy enough growing up here, even if it wasn’t perfect—but my plan never included moving back. My plan, or more specificallyThe Plan,was to move to California and work for Smith and Sons, the most prestigious, most sought-after architectural firm in the country.

Which I did. Because I was voted Most Likely to Succeed in high school, and words likequitandfailwere not in my vocabulary.

They’re in my vocabulary now.

“Why are you like this?” I mutter to myself, pulling my hat down lower to shield my ears from the wind.

This time, no answer comes.

Me

I accidentally crashed an AA meeting tonight because I thought it was book club.

India

!!!

WHAT?

Me

Yeah.

I’ll be hiding under a rock if you need me.

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