Page 75 of Five Stolen Rings

Yes, Stella, even though we haven’t seen each other inyears, it would appear that I am still utterly obsessed with you. However, I go back and forth between dreaming about you and trying to reassure myself that I actually don’t have feelings for you, because…

Because what?

Because I’m scared?

Because I lost my mother and my father and to some extent you, and I’m not sure I could survive loving you only to lose you again?

I grimace and knead the dough in my bowl a little harder. I could really use Dr. Barb right now—except, of course, I already know what she would say.

She would tell me to move forward and stop trying to control every aspect of my life.

I punch down the dough with more force.

“Ah,” Stella says from next to me, looking vaguely concerned. “I’ll take that, okay?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond; she just pulls the large metal bowl down the counter toward her. “I think my dad might have an old punching bag in the basement if you need one.”

“Sorry,” I say with a sigh. “No, I’m good.”

She hums, a skeptical sound, and when I shoot another glance at her, her brows are pinched in the middle as she looks at me.

“I’m good,” I say again, with more feeling this time. “Just got lost in thought for a second. But I’m really fine.” I gesture to the kitchen; we have a rare moment alone, so I go on in a low voice, “This is great. Your family, your parents—they’re great. I forgot how much I liked them.”

“They are,” Stella says with an enthusiastic nod. “They’re the best. I mean”—she laughs lightly, and the soundisn’t entirely without bitterness—“they let me move back here after I fell flat on my face, didn’t they?”

A grimace settles over my lips. “Did you tell them everything that happened?”

“Of course,” she says, and she begins kneading the dough properly. “I needed somebody to tell me I wasn’t crazy. But they were mostly just angry on my behalf.”

“I’mangry on your behalf,” I mutter.

Her laugh is more real this time. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I’m trying to move on. It’s a skill I’m trying to learn—how to fail properly.”

“That’s all well and good,” I say, heated now, “but you didn’tfail,Stella. Failure is when you mess up and it’syour fault.That might happen to you in the future. But this time—” I break off, shaking my head. “This wasn’t a failure on your part. It was a failure on the company’s.”

She sobers, her smile fading as her eyes glaze with what might be tears. Her hands cease their bread-kneading as she speaks.

“But what if it was my fault?” she says, the words almost a whisper.

“Did you knowingly break the law? Did you knowingly break any rules?” I say. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until my words bury deep and settle in her soul, but I know that’s not the best way to handle this conversation. So I keep my voice steady and gentle.

“I don’t think so,” she says, her voice breaking.

I nod. “Did you know Nathan was married and flirt with him anyway?”

“No.”

“Then you haven’t failed, Stella.” I reach over and tuck her hair behind her ear, since her handsare covered in flour and dough—although I realize at the last second that mine are too. I do it anyway. “You didn’t fail. You will someday; we all do. But this time, you haven’t failed.”

She blinks rapidly and begins working the dough again, but after a moment of hesitation, she gives me a sharp jerk of the head.

It’s her call, how she handles the situation, so even though I’m tempted to demand she open a lawsuit against Smith and Sons, I don’t. “Any ideas on new jobs so far?” I say instead, because it might be best to change the subject now. And it’s stupid, the way my pulse suddenly jumps at this question like an Olympic athlete clearing a hurdle.

But what if she decides to leave Lucky? Or, equally as scary, what if she decides tostay?

“I’ve got a few,” she says, clearing her throat. We both pretend we don’t notice the single tear trickling down her cheek. “I didn’t expect—” She breaks off, glances at me, and then looks back at the dough in front of her. “I didn’t expect to like being back here so much, but I do. So I’ve been considering looking for work in Boulder. I haven’t done it yet,” she adds quickly. “But…I’m thinking about it.”

A question blooms in the space between us then, unspoken but deafeningly loud at the same time:How do I feel about that?

It’s a good question. Judging by the jubilant cartwheels my stomach is doing, I’d say I like the idea.

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