“God, I Hope Never. I’d Rather Die Than Marry Him,” She Said After Her Friend Jokingly Asked When I’d Propose. I Smiled, Finished My Drink, And Left The Bar. She Called An Hour Later, Voice Shaking, Asking Why I Left. I Said, “Just Saving You From A Fate Worse Than Death,” And Hung Up.

Part 2

Rachel did not know about the ring until the next day.

That night, she sent seventeen texts.

You embarrassed me.

It was a joke.

Everyone thinks you overreacted.

Can you answer?

Okay, I’m sorry, but you know I didn’t mean it.

Why are you punishing me?

The word punishing again. People love that word when accountability knocks.

I drove to my apartment and placed the ring box on the kitchen table. I looked at it for a long time. It was exactly what she wanted, or what I thought she wanted: oval diamond, thin gold band, vintage setting. I had asked Sophie for help because Rachel once said I had “functional taste,” which apparently meant I could choose a good washing machine but not jewelry.

I slept badly. At nine the next morning, I called the jeweler.

The return policy was still valid.

By noon, the ring was gone.

At two, Sophie called.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

I almost did not want to hear it. Some doors should stay closed unless you are ready to leave the building.

“She knew,” Sophie said.

“Knew what?”

“That I was going to ask about proposing. She told me to bring it up because she wanted to see your reaction.”

The room tilted slightly.

“She wanted to see my reaction?”

“She said you’d probably get all hopeful and it would be funny.”

I sat down.

Sophie’s voice broke.

“I’m sorry. I thought she meant teasing. I didn’t know she was going to say that.”

A memory unlocked itself: Rachel laughing with her sister because I once wrote

“future fund”

on a savings account instead of

“wedding fund.”

Rachel telling a coworker I was

“husband material, unfortunately.”

Rachel saying I was perfect on paper with a tone that made perfect sound like prison.

The bar was not an accident. It was a test designed for me to fail gracefully.

Rachel came over that evening. She knocked lightly, the way people knock when they expect to be welcomed.

I opened the door but did not move aside.

Her eyes went to my face, then past me.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

She swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For the joke.”

“What was the joke?”

She frowned.

“What?”

“Explain it.”

She looked irritated.

“Don’t do this.”

“No, I want to understand. What part was funny?”

She folded her arms.

“It was dark humor.”

“About dying instead of marrying me.”

“You know I get nervous when people pressure me.”

“You asked Sophie to bring it up.”

Her face changed.

That was the real confession.