I tried to give him back the ring. He was standing in the back yard, and I'd already finished packing, but we were still too angry to be in the same room. So, from the balcony of the master bedroom, I tossed him my set of keys. He reached to catch them, fumbled, and resisted bending down to retrieve them from the dirt patch lawn. "You don't have to be such a bitch about this."

 

"I'm not trying to be. Really." I worked the ring off my finger and made it two steps down before he stopped me.

 

"Keep it. I don't want it. It's useless to me."

 

I opened my mouth to beg him to take it, to take it back, to erase our half-intentions, but he'd already turned his back and was in his truck before I could sputter any semblance of a plea.

 

I put the ring back on my finger, put on my coat, and left the front door open behind me. Anything of value in that house was leaving with me, anyway.

 

When the October sunshine caught my diamond on my ride across town, I remembered the sick way he'd boasted about how much he'd paid. How he'd finally found something as rare and expensive as my violin. And I'd had to smile and accept the gift, ignoring every impulse to run, to remind him that I'm not a girl for shiny, delicate things.

 

At the next stoplight, I put the ring in my pocket, vowing to sell it to the highest bidder as soon as I could.

 

I moved my silver band from my right hand back to its original place - where commitments never should have been made.

 

***

 

In college, I worked in an office with a girl who lived in my building. We became friends later, but at the time, we were just coworkers. One day, as we were passing another eight hours when the phones wouldn't ring and we had nothing to do but regale each other with anecdotes and highlight random papers to look like we were earning our keep, she blurted out, "Oh my god, are you engaged?"

 

"God, no. Why would you ask that? We're so young!"

 

"Your ring."

 

"Oh, no. My mom got me this when I was nine. Been wearing it ever since. I guess it was made by some local artist and she found it at a craft fair? Pretty cool, actually, to have a one-off. And, since this is the finger it fit, this is where I wear it."

 

"Wow. You're brave. I was taught that you never, ever wear a ring on your ring finger. Otherwise you'll never get married. That's the finger you leave open."

"I've never heard that before."

 

"Well, you'd better move that ring, or you'll never get married."

 

"I don't think that's how it works"

 

***

 

I said yes to the fourth proposal to come along. And it wasn't until that night that I finally moved my silver ring to another finger. Against my mother's protestations, and against my own better judgement. I didn't want to say yes, and the fact that he only wanted to give me a bauble more precious than the simplicity I embodied should have given me greater pause.

 

Maybe I'd listened to my friend more closely than I realized.

 

Maybe I was tired of saying no.

 

I don't know.

 

I do know that now, ten years later, my friend whose left hand remained superstitiously empty is happily married.

 

And I've since moved my mother's ring to my right hand again. To flaunt the freedom that comes with a fully-nude left. The ring's steam has split as it's grown with me over the past twenty-four years. And when I think I may be making the wrong decision, I flex my hand and the seam pinches my finger, reassuring me that I have a solid base from which to work this through.

 

That, no matter what, I'll always be able to walk away.

 

And, if it gets really bad, I can sell my past for parts.