Ruth knew then that he had never felt anything for her. He had used her and never valued her. She hated her life and how she had always been the one used and dumped. As she threw the resignation letter in his face and ran to her car crying, she swore to remain single. There was not going to be marriage for her as long as she was concerned, and she was definitely not letting herself fall in love with any man. Not ever again.

Her vision was blurred by tears, and she had to pull over and cry her heart out. Alicia called her later that day and tried to cheer her up, all to no avail.

Now, as she pulled into the waffle house where she was supposed to meet Alicia, she told herself she would be fine. She had applied for a few jobs out of the country, and she hoped to get one soon.

Alicia was fidgety. She sat tapping nervously on the table, and Ruth could not miss the look of relief that spread across her face as she reached her.

“Hey, Ruth… I wanted to meet you here because I have a shift to work at Ford’s in the next one hour,” Alicia said.

Ruth nodded and pulled a chair for herself. She looked a mess. The lines and shadows under her eyes—caused by insomnia—were impossible to conceal, no matter how much makeup she wore. Good for her, it was almost totally dark.

“Okay… why are you so fidgety?” Ruth asked. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed how restless her friend was.

“I didn’t want to talk about this over the phone, so I decided to meet you here. I will be evicted from my apartment in the next five days because I haven’t been able to raise my rent. And I spoke with my boss, Ford, but he told me he’s teetering on the brink of bankruptcy and doesn’t have anything to spare at the moment. He wants to get a loan himself. I want the rent from you, and I will pay back as soon as I can get the money,” she explained.

Ruth looked ready to burst into tears. Her lips trembled.

“What is wrong, Ruth? Are you okay?” Alicia asked. She thought perhaps Ruth was still drunk with grief from having been heartbroken by her boss, Mark.

“I do not have money to give you. I have spent my savings, and I am now looking for a good job, Alicia. You can move in with me until you can raise money for another apartment,” Ruth offered.

Mist had begun to form in her eyes, and she swiped at the corners every now and then.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way out of this. I cannot come and put up with you, Alicia. I have my siblings with me.”

“I know. We could all manage for some time and then figure out a way to get you another apartment.”

“Getting an apartment in these parts of New York is about the hardest thing, and for that reason, I don’t want to be evicted from my apartment. I’ll figure out a way. Thanks for your concern,” Alicia said as she stood up.

“I have to be at Ford’s in the next few minutes. See you some other time.”

Ruth nodded.

Ever since Alicia started working at Ford’s, she had stopped using her truck. Tony used the truck more often for fruitless adventures, and she had not thought to get her keys from him—only to give them back when necessary—until she saw Ruth walk to her truck.

Their directions were different, so she took a taxi and left. Soon, she was at Ford’s.

***

Marc was getting weary of having to fly into America every few weeks to see Antonia Flemming. Only a few days back, he had been in France to see to his business, and now he was in America to see the spoilt brat he had been match-made with.

Few things about his parents annoyed him more than their constant desire to pick what they thought was best for him. He had drummed it into their ears countless times, even sat them down to explain that he was a grown man who would do whatever he pleased, but all he ever did to make them stop bothering him was to no avail.

Marc had been born into a rich home. His father was an international olive oil exporter based in Greece, even though he was Italian. They had had the best schooling—his sister, Olive, and himself—and they had toured the world until she was married off to some noble Englishman about three years ago.

He, on the other hand, had done exceedingly well with the family business, and they now made thrice what they used to make from exporting and planting olive oil. His father had retired the previous year, leaving him to run the business alone, and he was doing well, making the man proud.

All had been going smoothly until he was match-made with one of his father’s ally’s daughters.

The lady, Antonia, had been as uninterested as he was, and she seized every opportunity to tell him she would not marry him for any reason in the world. He, too—he liked nothing about her. Or so he thought. Not her artificial lashes, nor her artificial yet extremely long fingernails, and definitely not her brazenness and open flirtations with all the beautiful men she met.

She was the spoilt, arrogant brat he would never have anything to do with… she was mean and… witty. How he hated her wit.

The first time he had been forced by his parents to attend a party with her, he had had to deal with her abusive intake of alcohol and her glee for a smoke. She had smoked and blown the puffs into his face, and he hated her for it.

He had told his parents angrily that he was never meeting Antonia Flemming for any reason whatsoever, and his mother had cried him a bucketful of tears for reasons he did not understand.

Now he was sitting opposite her in a fancy restaurant—as was the ritual whenever they met. They ate and drank and hardly spoke. The point was that they met. He was supposed to be courting her. Soon, they would get married.

He knew he could back out at any time and lose nothing, but for some reason he wanted to see how it would turn out with Antonia. Maybe it was curiosity. But no—he wanted to stay and please his parents. Yes. That was what he was doing: pleasing his parents, even though their displeasure would cost him nothing.

He did not realize he had been staring at her too long until she lifted her head from her phone, her favorite companion, and glared at him.

“You are staring at me!” she said through gritted teeth.

He shook his head. “There is nothing about you to stare at, miss. I had my mind elsewhere and was totally ignorant of my eyes resting on you of their own volition,” he said.

She opened her mouth to speak but soon decided against it. She forced a tight smile. He had said the words to spite her, and lawd, did he spite her.

“Do well to keep your itinerant eyes from me. You can mess with your phone if you are as bored as I am,” she said.

He sighed.

***

Reynolds was sure Jenna would be happy to meet his father. Sincerely, he had promised himself that the next time his father ever mentioned his sexual life—which was not suffering—and marriage, he would introduce Jenna to him.

It had sounded too good even to him when he introduced her, only a few days after he returned to town. She had flown in from France and made a show of demanding certain French dishes at dinner which, unfortunately, Imelda had not prepared.

When she eventually met his father, she had been all fussy and excited. Reynolds had agreed within himself that he would ask for her hand that same night. He needed not be on his knees; he would ask her, and she would agree.

The thought had propelled him to knock on her door that night while she had just stepped out of the tub. She opened the door still wrapped in her towel. He was torn between asking her outright to marry him and having her body molded firmly against him while he smelled her hair.

He chose the latter.

She looked up at him and giggled lovingly. “What now?” she asked playfully.

He ignored the question and took her lips in his. For a while, they both stood in the middle of the vast room—the night lights streaming in, the freshly cut flowers in the vase still fragrant. The air hung thick with sweetness, and he knew he would not find the energy to leave the room without taking her.

No sooner had he reached one hand to loosen her towel than her hand shot out to hold his.