**The Little Ring Box**
Emily and James had been friends since primary school. They lived in the same council estate, just a few doors apart, and shared the same classes. For the first two years, James’s nan would meet them after school. Emily’s mum worked shifts, and her dad was often away on business trips.
“Emily, come over for tea, I’ve made enough,” Nan would offer every time.
Walking home, Emily’s heart would flutter, hoping Nan hadn’t forgotten to invite her. She adored the warming beef stew, shepherd’s pie, or spaghetti bangers Nan served.
“Were you starving again? Who’s this food for, then?” Mum would scold later, finding the fridge untouched.
Emily would argue that eating alone was dull, that Nan had invited her, and she couldn’t refuse. But by Year Three, they switched to afternoon classes. Nan stopped inviting Emily—Mum was home by then. Eventually, she stopped meeting James altogether.
“Seriously? I’m not a kid. No one else gets fetched. It’s embarrassing,” James snapped when Emily asked why Nan didn’t come anymore.
Emily noticed James no longer waited for her by the coat pegs, darting off before she’d bundled up. Or he’d walk with the lads, ignoring Emily trailing behind.
At school, he avoided her—all because the boys teased them about being “lovebirds.” Emily sulked. When James begged to copy her homework, she refused, chin high.
By secondary school, most lads started dating. James stopped acting shy around Emily. They walked home together again. He often popped by to borrow notes or cram for exams.
One day, Emily came home to find Mum sobbing.
“Is Dad hurt?” she panicked.
“Wish he were. He’s left us. For some floozy. Hope he rots.”
Mum withdrew, crying or staring blankly. Home became unbearable. Emily dreaded returning. Meanwhile, James’s nan fell ill—forgetting meals, even her own family. James had to watch her until his parents came home, making sure she didn’t wander or leave the gas on. They only saw each other in school.
Before A-levels, everyone debated university plans. Emily knew they couldn’t afford it, so she enrolled in college. James got into uni.
They barely met now, exchanging nods if they passed on the street. At first, they’d chat briefly. Then just “hi” before hurrying off. Sometimes, Emily spotted James with a girlfriend. He’d pretend not to see her.
It stung. She fancied him—whether as love or friendship, she’d never thought about it. But watching him with someone else felt like a punch.
In her final year, a new lecturer arrived—fresh out of teacher training. He blushed around the girls, avoiding eye contact. His thick-framed glasses dwarfed his face.
One rainy spring day, Emily stood under the college awning, soaked.
Mr. Williams stepped out, unfolding an umbrella.
“Bennett, how far’s your walk?”
“Four stops by bus.”
“I’ve got my car. Fancy a lift?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Williams. It’ll clear up.”
“Doubt it. Come on.” He shielded her with the brolly, leading her to a battered Ford.
He drove without his glasses.
“You can see without them?” Emily eyed him.
He grinned. “Plain lenses. Makes me look the part. But mum’s the word, yeah?”
“Sure.” *He’s actually nice-looking without them*, she thought.
“Enjoying college? Planning uni or work?” he asked, suddenly informal.
Emily teased back. Why not? He was barely older.
At her flat, he walked her to the door under the umbrella, though the rain had stopped.
He gave her more lifts—waiting intentionally, she guessed. They even caught films, shared ice cream. She still called him “Mr. Williams.” In his suit and glasses, he seemed solid. She preened under her mates’ envy.
One Sunday, he visited with flowers and chocolates. Over tea, Mum grilled him—job, degree, why teaching? Emily stayed silent.
“Emily’s job-hunting,” Mum said, nudging her into conversation.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” he said. “A teaching post’s opening. I’d recommend her.”
“Really? Em, did you hear?” Mum beamed.
“I don’t want to teach. Not for me. Sorry, Mr. Williams.”
He fumbled for his absent glasses.
“I also came to… *cough*… Mrs. Bennett, I’d like your permission to marry Emily.”
Mum gawked.
“It’s sudden, I know. Take your time. I’ve a flat, a car—old, but I’ll upgrade. She’ll want for nothing,” he rushed, mostly to Mum.
“Goodness. Em, why so quiet? You’ve flustered her, Mr. Williams. She needs space…”
*Shouldn’t there be a ring box?* Emily bit her tongue. *Clumsy git. Who proposes over tea?* She’d dreamed of romance, not this.
Both stared, waiting.
“I… need to think.”
Mum ushered him out.
“You *fancy* him?” she asked later.
Emily shrugged.
“Well, he’s got a flat, a car. Maybe say yes.”
No. She wouldn’t marry, least of all this bumbler.
“Oh, James’s mum said he’s transferring to London for his degree.”
“What? When?”
“She mentioned it ages ago. He’s probably gone.”
When Mr. Williams returned a week later—same flowers, same chocolates, still no ring—Emily said yes.
“Maybe you’re right. Love fades. Flats and cars don’t,” Mum sighed.
The wedding was dull. Married life duller. Mark (he’d dropped the formality) prepped lessons nightly. No romance, no chats, no spark. Emily realised she’d never love him. They coexisted, parallel tracks never meeting.
Once, visiting Mum, she found Dad there. Mum blushed like a schoolgirl.
“We’re giving it another go. He’s miserable without me.”
“I’m happy for you,” Emily said, tearing up on her walk home. They still loved each other. She? The sight of Mark repelled her.
After two years, she packed a suitcase.
“I’m leaving. I don’t love you.”
He adjusted his glasses—now real—and stared like she’d failed a test.
“I’ll call a cab. Help with my case.”
Mum gasped at the doorstep.
“You left Mark?”
Dad carried her bag inside.
“About time. You were frozen stiff with him. Plenty more fish.”
That night, she wondered: end or beginning?
Summer arrived abruptly—or maybe she’d just noticed. She revelled in the sun, the green, as if waking from a long sleep. The divorce was quick. He replaced her with a student. She dated no one.
Then, walking home, she heard: “Em! Where’s the fire?”
James. She hugged him, then flushed.
“Back for good?”
“Divorced for good.” They laughed.
They met sporadically—both busy. Weekends were for films, pubs, friends. Summer faded.
“New Year’s plans? With James?” Mum asked.
“Doubt it. He hasn’t asked.”
“Your dad and I are skiing. Join us?”
“Nah. I’ll telly-watch. Sleep.”
“Sure.”
New Year’s Eve, Emily dressed up—heels, hair done—though she’d never admit she hoped.
The doorbell rang as she sipped champagne.
“Happy New Year.” James stood there, flowers in hand.
“Mum called you?”
“Gonna stand here all night?” He saw the set table, candles.
“You.”
“Em, I’ve wanted to—”
“Shh. The countdown.”
They kissed as Big Ben chimed.
“Forgot to wish,” he murmured.
“Mine came true.”
“Wait.” He pulled out a ring box.
“Yes.” Fireworks, cheers, the telly—none of it mattered.
“Was that a ‘yes’?”
“I love you.” She swayed, giggling. “Room’s spinning—”
“You don’t fall from happiness,” he said, lifting her. “You soar.”
*Sometimes, waiting brings what rushing never could.*
