Chapter 15 - The Empty Slot
One year after I found the jewelry box empty, Sarah was upstairs getting ready for dinner.
I opened the box looking for a pair of cuff links.
The second slot from the left was still empty.
I stopped.
Not because I expected the old ring.
Because my body remembered the first time.
Garage.
Pawn receipt.
Phone vibrating.
Nine loans.
March fourteenth.
Twenty-eight thousand dollars.
I found the cuff links.
Closed the box.
Sarah appeared in the doorway.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at the box.
Then at me.
“You looked.”
“Yes.”
“Still weird?”
“Yes.”
She came into the room.
The silicone band wasn't on her finger that night.
I noticed.
Didn't ask.
We had paid off five of the nine accounts.
Four remained.
Emergency savings was just under ten thousand.
Not what we'd had before.
Ours again.
Sarah had been offered a promotion at her new company.
She told me the same afternoon.
Not after accepting.
Not after declining.
We sat at the table and discussed it.
She accepted.
I had been asked to join an on-call management rotation for more money.
I told Sarah before I answered.
She said:
“I hate it.”
I said:
“Me too.”
I took it anyway because one week every two months felt manageable.
Three weeks in, I decided I hated it more than expected.
We talked again.
No one turned discomfort into betrayal.
That sounds small until you've lived the alternative.
Dinner that night was for our anniversary.
Thirteen years.
We went to a restaurant we could actually afford.
Sarah laughed when I ordered the cheaper steak.
“Debt has changed you.”
“Temporary character development.”
“Sure.”
Halfway through dinner, a woman at the next table got engaged.
Whole restaurant noticed.
The guy dropped to one knee.
Applause.
Sarah clapped.
I did too.
Then the woman held up her hand.
Big diamond.
Sarah looked at it for maybe one second too long.
I saw.
She saw me see.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Daniel.”
“Do you want another ring?”
Sarah put down her glass.
“I don't know.”
I nodded.
She narrowed her eyes.
“You actually mean that now.”
“Usually.”
“Annoying.”
I smiled.
Then she asked:
“Do you?”
“Want you to have one?”
“Yes.”
I thought.
“I want the old one.”
Her face softened.
“Me too.”
“But it's gone.”
“Yes.”
We had checked once.
Months earlier.
The pawn shop no longer had it.
Sold.
We never asked to whom.
No point.
Sarah looked at her bare finger.
“I don't want to replace it just because anniversaries are supposed to have jewelry.”
“Okay.”
“And I don't want some huge second proposal.”
“Thank God.”
She laughed.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
She reached across the table.
I took her hand.
After dinner, we walked past a jewelry store.
Closed for the night.
Displays glowing behind glass.
Sarah slowed.
I did too.
We looked.
No plan.
No budget category labeled replacement ring.
No emergency.
She pointed at one.
“Ugly.”
“Very.”
Another.
“Too much.”
“Absolutely.”
Then a simple band.
No diamond.
Sarah tilted her head.
I asked:
“Want to come back tomorrow?”
She looked at me.
The old version of us would have turned the question into a decision immediately.
Buy it.
Don't.
What does it mean?
Can we afford it?
Are we healed enough?
Instead Sarah said:
“Maybe.”
I nodded.
We kept walking.
At home, I opened the banking app.
Not because I was checking on her.
Because Friday was our money night.
Sarah came downstairs with two mugs of tea and sat beside me.
We looked at the accounts together.
Mortgage.
Checking.
Savings.
Four remaining loans.
Nothing hidden.
Nothing solved.
Sarah pointed at one balance.
“We can kill that by November.”
“Probably.”
“Don't promise.”
“Right.”
I closed the laptop.
She looked toward the stairs.
“You still want to go back to the jewelry store tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Even if we don't buy anything?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
The empty slot in her jewelry box stayed empty that night.
Maybe it would stay that way.
May you like
Maybe not.
For once, neither of us needed to decide before morning.
