The Phantom Ring

Lonnie found the ring by accident while looking for aspirin in Joaquin's nightstand. The drawer stuck halfway, the way it always did, requiring that familiar jiggle-and-pull maneuver she'd perfected over the years. Behind the bottle of ibuprofen, tucked into a small velvet box she didn't recognize, sat a simple gold band with a tiny emerald—exactly like the one he'd proposed with three years ago, except they'd never gotten engaged.

She held it up when he came out of the shower, steam following him into the bedroom like a ghost. Water droplets still clung to his shoulders, the shoulders she knew so well—the small scar from a childhood bike accident, the way the left sat slightly higher than the right.

"What's this?"

Joaquin's face lit up with unmistakable relief. "You found it! I thought I'd lost it during the move." He crossed the room in three quick strides, kissed her forehead with lips still warm from the shower, casual and familiar. "I should really get it resized so you can wear it again. I know you miss it."

The words lodged in her throat like broken glass. They'd talked about marriage, sure. Dreamed about it during those late-night conversations that stretched until dawn, when the wine was gone and they were drunk on possibilities instead. She remembered specifically the night they'd discussed rings—how she'd said she never wanted a diamond, how he'd suggested an emerald because it matched the dress she wore on their first date. But he'd never proposed. She would remember that. She would remember every second of a moment like that.

"Right," she managed, her voice sounding strange and far away. "The move."

That night, she lay awake replaying their entire history like a film reel, searching for gaps in the narrative. First date at the French place on Brookside—she'd worn her red dress with the thin straps, the one that made her feel invincible. He'd been twenty minutes late because of traffic, had arrived flustered and apologizing, his hair still damp from a rushed shower. First kiss under the awning during a thunderstorm, the taste of rain and possibility on his lips. Moving in together after eighteen months, arguing about whose couch to keep, christening every room of their new apartment. All of it clear and sequential, a story she'd told friends dozens of times, worn smooth like a river stone from repetition.

Except at brunch that weekend, her best friend Miranda mentioned the engagement party.

"That was such a beautiful night," Miranda said, stirring her mimosa with a casual grace, the restaurant's ambient jazz barely audible over the Saturday morning chatter. "I still can't believe you guys did it at the botanical garden. So romantic. The way those lights reflected off the koi pond? Magic."

Lonnie's hand stilled on her coffee cup, the ceramic suddenly too hot against her palm. "The botanical garden."

"Don't tell me you were too drunk to remember your own engagement party," Miranda laughed, reaching for her phone. "Though you did have quite a bit of champagne. We all did. Remember when Sam tried to make that speech and fell into the rose bush?"

The photos were already on Miranda's phone, queued up like evidence in a trial. Lonnie and Joaquin, surrounded by faces she recognized—friends, cousins, her college roommate who'd flown in from Seattle. Her left hand displaying a ring, the emerald catching the light like a tiny star. Both of them glowing under string lights she didn't remember anyone hanging. Lonnie recognized her dress—the navy one with the lace sleeves she'd bought for her cousin's wedding. She recognized her smile, the way it crinkled her eyes at the corners. Even recognized the way she leaned into Joaquin's shoulder, a movement so habitual it happened without thought. But she had no memory of that night. Not the taste of the champagne, not the smell of the roses, not the feeling of his hand in hers as they apparently announced their engagement to everyone they loved.

She started testing Joaquin with small things, each question a carefully laid trap. "Remember our trip to Sonoma?" she asked one Tuesday evening while they cooked dinner together, him chopping onions while she stirred the sauce.

"Which one? The disaster where the car broke down on Highway 12, or last summer?"

They'd never been to Sonoma together. She was certain. She'd wanted to go for her birthday last year, but they'd ended up in Monterey instead because of the wildfires. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she forced her voice to remain steady, casual. "Last summer."

"That food tour was incredible," he said, not looking up from his cutting board, the knife moving in practiced rhythms. "Especially that little place with the lavender ice cream. We should go back. Maybe for your birthday this year?"

The photograph albums told a different story than her memory. She found them while Joaquin was at his Thursday soccer game, spreading them across the living room floor like she was mapping an alternate universe. There she was in Sonoma, holding a melting ice cream cone, lavender apparently, Joaquin making bunny ears behind her head. Their engagement announcement in the newspaper, a clipping she didn't remember saving, the edges yellowed as if it had been treasured for years. Thank-you cards in her unmistakable handwriting—she recognized the way she looped her L's, the aggressive slant of her T's—for gifts she didn't remember receiving. A KitchenAid mixer from his parents. Crystal wine glasses from her aunt in Phoenix.

Lonnie started sleeping poorly, waking at 3 AM with her heart racing, studying Joaquin's face in the darkness. The streetlight outside their window cast shadows across his features, making him look like a stranger one moment, achingly familiar the next. This was the same man who'd forgotten their six-month anniversary, who hated bell peppers with an irrational passion, who hummed Bowie songs in the shower without realizing he was doing it. The same man who brought her tea without being asked when she worked late, who knew to rub her feet after she wore heels, who could make her laugh even when she was determined to stay angry. But he also remembered things that had never happened, spoke casually about moments that didn't exist in her mind, lived in a version of their relationship she'd never experienced.

"You okay?" he asked one morning, catching her staring. Dawn was just breaking through their bedroom curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility. "You've been weird lately. Distant."

"Just thinking about when we met," she said carefully, watching his face for any flicker of uncertainty.

He smiled, the same crooked smile that had undone her three years ago. "The coffee shop. You were reading that Murakami book—what was it? Norwegian Wood? You had three empty coffee cups on your table and I thought, 'That's either a grad student or a writer on deadline.'"

Her stomach dropped through the floor. They'd met at a bar, through mutual friends. She could still taste the whiskey sour she'd been drinking, still remember the Dido song that had been playing when Miranda introduced them. Could still feel the way her skin had tingled when he'd leaned in close to hear her over the music.

"That's not—" she started, then stopped, the words dying in her throat. Joaquin was already back to reading his phone, absently reaching over to squeeze her hand. His thumb found the base of her ring finger, stroking the empty space where apparently a ring should be, had always been, a gesture so practiced it must have been built from years of repetition.

She went to her parents' house while Joaquin was at work, desperate for confirmation of her own history. Her mother pulled out the family photo albums without being asked, as if she'd been expecting this visit.

"You looked so beautiful at the engagement party," her mother said, her reading glasses perched on her nose, pointing to a picture of Lonnie laughing, head thrown back, the ring catching the light like a promise. "Though I still think you should have worn your hair up. And I wish you'd let me help with the planning, but you always were so independent."

Lonnie didn't remember her mother being there. Didn't remember any of it. But there was the photographic evidence, her mother's careful handwriting beneath: Lonnie and Joaquin's engagement, May 15th. The date meant nothing to her. May 15th was just another day, unremarkable, unmemorable. Yet apparently, it had been one of the most important days of her life.

"Mom," she said slowly, "tell me about that night."

Her mother's eyes lit up. "Oh, honey. Joaquin was so nervous. He kept checking his pocket for the ring—we could all see him doing it during dinner. And when he finally got down on one knee, right there by the fountain, you started crying before he could even ask the question. You just kept nodding and saying 'yes' over and over. I don't think I've ever seen you that happy."

The story her mother told was beautiful, romantic, perfect. It was everything Lonnie had ever dreamed an engagement should be. It was also completely foreign to her, like hearing about the life of a stranger who happened to share her name and face.

That night, Joaquin made dinner—pasta arrabiata, which he claimed was her favorite, though she had always preferred carbonara, could remember specifically the first time she'd made it for him, how he'd said it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. They ate in comfortable silence, the kind built over years of shared meals, where conversation was optional because the important things had already been said. The pasta was perfectly cooked, the sauce exactly spicy enough. He'd remembered to put red pepper flakes on the side, the way she supposedly liked it.

He told a story about his coworker that she'd heard before, or had never heard, or had heard differently. She couldn't tell anymore. The boundaries between what was real and what wasn't had blurred beyond recognition. She nodded at the right moments, laughed at the punchline, all while feeling like she was performing in a play she'd never rehearsed.

"I love you," he said later, pulling her close in bed, his breath warm against her neck. The weight of his arm across her waist was achingly familiar. "I'm so glad you said yes. I can't imagine my life without you."

"What made you choose the botanical garden?" she asked into the darkness, one last test.

"You don't remember? It's where we had our third date. You said the koi fish reminded you of us—swimming in circles but always together." His voice was already thick with approaching sleep. "You said it was the most romantic place in the city."

She'd never been to the botanical garden with him. Their third date had been mini golf and the badly-ccoked rainbow trout that gave them both food poisoning. They'd spent the next day texting each other from their respective bathrooms, turning misery into comedy. It had become one of their favorite stories.

Lonnie stared at the ceiling, feeling the phantom weight of a ring she'd never worn, remembering clearly the proposal that had never happened, the life she hadn't lived continuing to unspool in everyone's memories but her own. Somewhere, in some version of reality, another Lonnie was wearing that ring, was planning a wedding, was living the life everyone else remembered.

"I love you too," she whispered into the darkness, no longer sure which version of them she was talking to, no longer sure which version of herself she was.

The ring sat in the nightstand drawer, real as anything, tangible proof of a romance she couldn't remember living but couldn't seem to escape. In the morning, she would try it on. She already knew it would fit perfectly.