Chapter 8: Unfortunate Luck

Noelle

I sat in my car outside the pawn shop for a full ten minutes before I trusted myself to drive.

More than the shop itself, the words of the grumpy man kept looping, an ugly little chorus I couldn't shake.

I'd worn, slept while wearing, showered next to, brushed my teeth beside, a ring worth more than my entire apartment building, probably, and I hadn't even had the decency to be nervous about it until now.

Classic Noelle always landing herself in trouble.

Okay. Fine. New plan.

I couldn't sell it, wouldn't sell it, didn't even want it, not really. I wanted my dignity back and Clayton's smug face wiped permanently from existence, and this ring wasn't going to get me either of those things. It was only ever going to get me deeper into whatever this was.

Talking about Clayton, I imagined he was all cozied up with his new found love while I had to worry about being arrested for a jewelry heist I had nothing to do with.

Clayton was an asshole and I'd been unable to shake off the betrayal.

Who would have thought betrayal had a taste. Fucking bitter.

Despite the ring situation, I relished my little victory. The one Emeric's little stunt got me. The look on Clayton’s face was epic. A scumbag who couldn't take what he dished out.

So maybe the ring wasn't all that unfortunate but not giving it back would be.

I'd give it back. It was the only reasonable option even if my Brian replayed a possible worst outcome where Emeric was a thief who'd passed on the diamond to me so I would take the fall for it. Things like this actually happened.

No. No. He was an angel to me, at least last night, he couldn't possibly have all that up his sleeves, the kiss we shared was proof of that.

The simple, adult thing to do aside from calling my mother was to woman up and return the ring. Simple, easy.

I dug through my purse until my fingers found the card, cream stock, thick, his name in that small deliberate handwriting along the bottom. Emeric Vaughn Miller— of Oz. I flipped it over, half-expecting some kind of restaurant logo, an address for wherever he worked, something that made sense of a man who carries custom Miller Atelier rings around for emergency cases like myself.

Exasperated, I sighed and placed my head on my steering.

There was absolutely nothing on the back. Just the number, and beneath it, an address, handwritten in the same careful ink.

Perhaps he was the minimal type of man, the kind of man that lets his actions precede him rather than a logo.

I typed that address into my phone before I could talk myself out of it.

The map loaded. A pin dropped.

I frowned and zoomed in, waiting for a building name to populate the way they always did, something like Miller Holdings, Suite 4B, something corporate. Instead the little gray box beneath the pin stayed stubbornly, unhelpfully blank. No business name. No hours of operation. No reviews, no photos, none of the digital breadcrumbs every legitimate business left scattered across the internet whether it wanted to or not.

I switched to satellite view.

Trees. A long private drive curling back from the road, swallowed almost immediately by more trees. No parking lot. No sign. Nothing that said office or company in any language I recognized.

"That can't be right," I said out loud, to my empty car, to the ring still sitting cold in my cupholder where I'd dropped it after fleeing the pawn shop, it glistened back at me like it was gloating.

I tried the address again, typed it slower this time, double-checked every digit against the card. Same pin. Same blank gray box. Same long, tree-lined driveway.

This wasn't an office.

Maybe it was a very very private enterprise. Just maybe.

I sat there with my phone in my lap, the ring glinting faintly in the cupholder, and felt the same cold certainty from the pawn shop settle back over me, heavier this time.

Whatever Emeric Vaughn Miller of Oz did for a living, it wasn't done from a desk and it definitely wasn't from taking orders at a restaurant.

I could turn around. I should time around.

Mail the ring back, certified, insured, wash my hands of the entire humiliating chapter and never think about green eyes or coconut lip gloss kisses again.

But then I thought about the pawn shop owner's face going blank, it was as if he'd realized something that could change his life and even at that, he didn't even take the ring to do so. His eyes had greed in them but it was not enough to make him take the ring.

I thought about more than the shop itself, about how badly I wanted this over and now my hands were tied, I could only do this by physically returning it. I could mail it and it gets stolen, then it circles back to me and then consequently I spend the rest of my natural life explaining myself to lawyers. Or worse case scenario, in jail.

I wanted it done.Today. In person. Ring in hand, dignity intact, out the door before anyone had time to ask too many questions.

I put the car in drive before I could think better of it, and typed the address into my GPS. One more time just to be sure I had the right input.

“Recalculating,” it said, cheerfully unaware that it was about to send me somewhere I had absolutely no business going.

I knew the roads but I still let the GPS take me. I slowed down so much that a raging road user hollered an insult at me. I didn't quite hear him through all the noise in my mind. I had bigger fish to fry. Hence, I confined myself to one side of the road as if I was a noob.