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Nick’s black toiletry bag sits zipped up in the far corner. I crack open the bathroom door. “Hey, Nick!” I call, but there’s no answer. He’s probably still outside. He wouldn’t mind me borrowing a little waxy string, would he? Doubt it. I carefully unzip his bag and begin pulling things out, one at a time. A razor, earplugs in a plastic case, Trojans (boy, did those come in handy), loose Q-tips, a lighter, and... a white gold wedding band?
What the...
Is he married?
I examine it, enamored like it’s the ring that rules them all. But it doesn’t seem to be ruling Nick one bit.
Oh, no. I slept with a married man. I think I’m gonna be sick.
“Hey!” Nick calls, banging at the door, and I gasp.
The ring slips through my fingers and drops against the porcelain. Clink, clink—bouncing off the bowl. Frozen, I watch the ring circle the drain. And down it goes.
“Shit,” I whisper.
“You almost done?” Nick asks. “We need to get on the road soon and I need a shower.” Yeah, so he can wash the filthy affair off him. Oh, Lord. This is bad.
“Just a second,” I call, digging desperately at the sink, sweat beading on my brow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter under my breath, scrambling to put everything else back. And fuck him too. Playing the nice guy just so he can get in my pants. I try to swallow but anger clogs my throat. What am I gonna do?
Just tell him the truth. Spinach, floss, ring. It’s not like I’m the worst person in this scenario. Or am I?
Forget it.
I can’t tell him.
But I also can’t be the one responsible for losing his wedding ring, even if he doesn’t seem to care about it. I take a deep breath, settle my trembling hands on the knob, and yank it open like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Hey,” I say, feeling both guilty and indignant.
“Can I get in there now?”
“No, I need a little more time. I’m not feeling well,” I say, hugging my stomach.
Nick observes me for a moment, then his expression shifts—like a lightbulb going on. “Oh, did you just get your period?”
Why are periods always the go-to thing with men? Something’s wrong, it must be the menses! I don’t want to give him the satisfaction but at the same time, it seems like a reason he’ll accept long enough for me to rescue the ring. “Yeah, and it’s really bad.” If I have to buck up through mind-numbing cramps, it’s only fair that I be able to cry Bloody Mary every now and again (like you’ve never lied about your period to get out of something).
“Do you need me to get you something for your, um...” He signals to his crotch. Jesus, my condolences to his wife.
“No, thanks. I’m all set with my supersized tampons!” I slam the door in his face. Fucking philanderer. I look back at the sink, annoyed. Almost hormonal. Maybe I should’ve told him the truth and made him fish it out.
“Okay, you son of a bitch,” I mutter, and squat down in front of the open cabinet. Luckily, I know all about fishing shit out of pipes. Growing up my dad got sick of my hair clumps clogging the bathroom sink, so dismantling the plumbing and flushing them out became one of my regular chores. I set the garbage bin beneath the sink and unscrew the trap loose. The stench of rotten eggs mixed with sewage spills from the drain. Ugh. I gag and dunk whatever’s in there in the can. Pinching my nose with one hand and fishing around for the ring with the other bare hand, my imagination runs wild.
What am I touching? And whose is it? Gross!
It’s true what they say. Karma’s a bitch. I’m never going through Nick’s things again. And I still have spinach in my teeth. Then through the sludge, I feel that small band of gold.
Got it.
I repair the drain and wash all the gunk off the ring, then slip it back into his toiletry bag. And it’s like the whole thing never happened.
Except it did.
