**The Ring Box**
Annie and Jack had been friends since primary school. They lived in the same block of flats, just different stairwells, and shared the same classroom. For the first two years, Jack’s nan used to pick them up from school. Annie’s mum worked shifts, and her dad was always away on business trips.
“Annie, love, come over for tea, I’ll feed you proper,” Jack’s nan would offer every time.
As they neared home, Annie would brace herself, hoping the invitation still stood. She’d happily tuck into steaming shepherd’s pie, roast chicken with mash, or a proper fry-up.
“Did you not eat again? Who am I cooking for, then? Like you’re starved at home,” her mum would scold later, peering into the fridge.
Annie would say eating alone was miserable, that Jack’s nan had insisted—how could she refuse? But by Year 3, they switched to afternoon classes. No more lunch invites—Mum was home now. Soon after, the pick-ups stopped altogether.
“Don’t be daft. I’m not a kid. Nobody else gets fetched. It’s embarrassing,” Jack grumbled when Annie asked why his nan had stopped waiting for them.
Annie noticed Jack no longer lingered by the coat hooks, dashing off before she’d buttoned her coat. Sometimes he walked home with the lads, oblivious to Annie trailing behind.
At school, he dodged her. The lads ribbed them about being childhood sweethearts, and Annie sulked. When he begged to copy her homework, she’d lift her chin and refuse.
By sixth form, most lads had girlfriends. Jack stopped avoiding Annie. They walked home together again. He’d pop round to crib notes or finish coursework.
One day, Annie came home to find Mum in tears.
“Is Dad hurt?” she panicked.
“Worse. He left us. For some floozy. Hope he rots.”
Mum withdrew after that—crying or staring blankly. Home became unbearable. Annie dreaded going back. Then Jack’s nan fell ill, forgetting meals, even turning on the gas. Jack had to watch her till his parents got home. They only saw each other in class.
Before A-levels, everyone debated uni plans. Annie knew they couldn’t afford it—no shot at a bursary—so she enrolled in college. Jack got into uni.
Now they barely met, just accidental run-ins. At first, they’d exchange a few words. Then just nods. Sometimes Annie spotted Jack with a girl. He’d pretend not to see her.
She seethed. Liked him? Loved him? She’d never dwelled on it. But watching him with someone else twisted her stomach.
In her final year, a new lecturer joined the college—fresh out of teacher training. He blushed, avoided eye contact with girls, and wore thick black-framed glasses.
One rainy spring day, Annie forgot her brolly. She loitered under the college awning, waiting out the downpour.
Out stepped Mr. Thompson, fishing an umbrella from his briefcase.
“Ackroyd, far to your place?” he asked.
“Four stops by bus.”
“I’ve my car. Fancy a lift?”
“Oh, Mr. Thompson, it’ll clear up—”
“Doubt it.” He held the brolly over her, leading her to a silver Vauxhall.
As he drove, he removed his glasses.
“You drive without them?” Annie side-eyed him.
He smirked. “Plain glass. Look more authoritative in them. But mum’s the word, yeah?” He flashed a boyish grin.
“Deal.”
*Not bad-looking without the specs*, she thought.
“Enjoying college? Planning uni, or straight to work?” he asked, suddenly dropping formalities.
Annie mirrored his casual tone. Why not? He was only a few years older.
At her door, he walked her under the brolly—though the rain had nearly stopped.
He gave her more lifts. She realized he waited for her deliberately. They even caught films, shared ice cream at cafés. She still called him “Mr. Thompson.” In his suit and glasses, he seemed worldly. Flattering, really—her mates were jealous.
One Sunday, he visited with flowers and chocolates. Over tea, Mum grilled him—his degree, why he taught. Annie stared at her lap.
“Annie’s job-hunting,” Mum nudged.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” he said. “There’s a teaching post free next term. I’d like to put Annie forward. Top marks—strong candidate.”
“Really? Love, d’you hear?” Mum beamed.
“I don’t want to teach. Not my thing. Sorry, Mr. Thompson.” Annie met his gaze.
He flushed, reflexively adjusting imaginary glasses.
“I, erm—came to ask…” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ackroyd, I’d like your permission to marry Annie.”
Mum gaped at him, then at Annie.
“I know it’s sudden. Take your time. I’ve a flat, a car—nothing flash, but she’ll want for nothing,” he babbled, mostly to Mum.
“Goodness. Annie, love, say something! You’ve stunned her, Mr. Thompson. She needs to think…” Mum prattled on.
*A ring box might’ve helped*, Annie nearly said. *Clueless git. Proposing over PG Tips?* She’d dreamed of fireworks, violins—not a chat between custard creams.
Both groom and mother stared, waiting.
“I… need time. Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Lovely meeting you,” Mum hinted broadly.
He rose, fumbling for phantom glasses. “Right. I’ll, erm…” He lingered, hopeful.
Annie stayed mute.
Mum escorted him out.
“Do you even *like* him?” she hissed later.
Annie shrugged.
“Well, he’s got prospects. Maybe say yes.”
*As if.* Annie wouldn’t marry a man who botched a proposal.
“Oh—saw Jack’s mum. Bragging he’s transferring to London.”
“*What*? When?” Annie’s pulse spiked.
“When was I meant to tell you? Your ‘fiancé’ turned up, didn’t he? He’s already gone.”
When Mr. Thompson returned a week later—same flowers, same chocolates (*still no ring*)—Annie said yes.
Mum arched a brow. “Maybe you’re right. Love fades; mortgages don’t.”
The wedding was quiet. Married life? Duller. Evenings were lesson plans, not romance. No whispered dreams, no sparks in bed. Annie realized she’d never love him. They coexisted, parallel tracks never meeting.
One evening, visiting Mum, she found Dad there. Mum blushed like a schoolgirl.
“We’re giving it another go. He missed me. That… woman didn’t last,” Mum whispered as Dad stepped onto the balcony.
“I’m happy for you. Truly.”
Walking home, Annie teared up. Her parents *loved* each other. And her? The thought of Mr. Thompson—predictable as a ticking clock—made her ill.
Two years in, they’d grown no closer. Leave? But where? Crash her parents’ second chance?
That night, she served dinner. He hunched over his plate, careful of his shirt. Still in work clothes, just no jacket. Watching him chew, hatred bubbled in her. Was this her whole youth?
“We should split. I can’t do this. I don’t love you.”
He looked up—now permanently bespectacled (eyesight worsened). His stare was teacher-to-dunce.
“And when—”
“Now.” She stood, packing her suitcase with bizarre cheer.
“I’ll drive you.”
“Taxi’s coming. Just help with the bags.”
Mum gasped at the door.
“You left him?”
“Mind if I stay? Won’t cramp your style.”
“Course not.” Dad took her case. Her room was unchanged.
“About time. You were frozen solid with him. You’ll thaw. Plenty more fish,” Dad said.
“Ta, Dad.” She hugged him, sniffling.
That night, she lay awake. End or beginning? Downstairs, her parents murmured about her “failed marriage.”
Summer arrived abruptly. Had Annie ever noticed leaves this green? She filed for divorce the next day—quick, painless.
He replaced her with a student. Annie rebuffed suitors, savoring solitude.
Walking home, sun on her face, she felt light—unburdened.
“Annie! Blimey, where’s the fire?”
Jack.
She hugged him, then recoiled, flustered. “Back for good?”
“Yep. You?”
“Divorced for good.” They laughed. “God, I’ve missed you.”
But they barely met—both busy. Weekends were films, pub hangs. Summer blurred intoOn New Year’s Eve, as fireworks lit the sky, Jack knelt in the snow, finally offering her the ring box she’d waited a lifetime for.
