The Ring Box
Emily and James had been friends since primary school. They lived in the same estate, just flats apart, and sat side by side in class. For the first two years, James’s grandmother would meet them after school. Emily’s mother worked shifts, and her father was always away on business trips.
“Emily love, come round ours—I’ll fix you both a proper roast,” his nan would offer every time.
Walking home, Emily would hold her breath, hoping she’d be invited again. She devoured the rich gravy, crispy roast potatoes, or shepherd’s pie.
“Honestly, you didn’t eat a thing again? Who do I cook for? As if you’re starved at home,” her mum would scold, opening the fridge that evening.
Emily would mumble that eating alone was boring, that his nan had insisted, and she couldn’t say no. But in Year Three, they switched to afternoon classes. His nan stopped inviting Emily—her mum was home now. Then she stopped collecting them altogether.
“Seriously? I’m not a baby. No one gets fetched. It’s embarrassing,” James snapped when Emily asked why his nan didn’t come anymore.
Emily noticed he stopped waiting for her at the lockers, darting off while she fumbled with her coat. Or he’d walk ahead with the lads, ignoring Emily trailing behind.
At school, he avoided her—especially after the boys teased them about being “childhood sweethearts.” Emily sulked. When he begged to copy her homework, she refused, chin tilted high.
In sixth form, most lads started dating. James stopped pretending not to know her. They walked home together again. He’d pop round to copy essays or cram for exams.
One day, Emily came home to her mum sobbing.
“Is Dad hurt?” she panicked.
“Hurt? He left us. For some woman. Hope he rots.”
After that, her mum shut down—crying or staring blankly. The flat became suffocating. Emily dreaded going home. Then James’s nan got ill—forgetting meals, wandering off. He had to watch her till his parents got back. They only saw each other in class.
Before A-levels, everyone debated uni plans. Emily knew they couldn’t afford it, so she enrolled in college. James got into university.
Now they barely met—just chance encounters on the high street. At first, they’d exchange awkward hellos. Soon, just nods. Sometimes, she’d spot him with a girlfriend, pretending not to see her.
Emily burned with jealousy. Did she fancy him, or was it just habit? She’d never thought about it. But seeing him with someone else twisted her stomach.
In her final year, a new lecturer arrived—fresh from teacher training. He blushed if girls looked at him, hiding behind thick-rimmed glasses.
One rainy April day, Emily stood under the college awning, cursing her forgotten umbrella.
Mr. Thompson stepped out, unfurling his.
“Emily, how far’s your place?” he asked.
“Four stops on the bus.”
“I’ve got my car. Let me drive you.”
“Oh no, Mr. Thompson. It’ll clear up,” she lied.
“Doubt it. Come on.” He shielded her with the brolly, leading her to a faded Vauxhall.
He removed his glasses driving.
“You don’t need those?” Emily asked.
He grinned. “Plain lenses. Makes me look authoritative. Our secret, yeah?”
“Sure.” *He’s actually cute without them*, she thought.
“Enjoying college? Planning uni, or straight to work?” he asked, switching abruptly to first names.
Emily matched his tone. Why not? He was barely older.
At her building, he walked her to the door despite the drizzle stopping.
He gave her more lifts—lingering by college exits. They went to the cinema, shared ice cream sundaes. She still called him “Sir” in class. The glasses-and-suit combo lent gravitas. Her mates were green when they saw him hold doors.
One Sunday, he visited with flowers and chocolates. Over tea, her mum grilled him about his career. Emily stared at her lap.
“Emily’s job-hunting,” her mum prompted.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” he said. “There’s a teaching post opening up. I’d like to propose her for it.”
“Really? Love, d’you hear that?” her mum beamed.
“I don’t want to teach. It’s not me,” Emily said flatly.
He flushed, groping for absent glasses.
“I… came to ask for Emily’s hand.”
Her mum gaped at him, then at Emily.
“I know it’s sudden. Take your time. I’ve a flat. The car’s old, but I’ll upgrade. She’ll want for nothing,” he rushed, addressing mostly her mum.
“You’ve shocked her! Let her think—”
*Where’s the ring box?* Emily almost said. *This isn’t how it’s meant to be.* She’d dreamed of moonlight proposals, not this tea-stained farce.
Both stared, waiting.
“I… need time,” she muttered.
Her mum hustled him out.
“You *like* him?” she hissed later.
Emily shrugged.
“Still—he’s got prospects. Maybe say yes.”
As if. She wouldn’t marry this bumbling fool.
“Oh, I saw James’s mum. Bragging he’s transferring to London.”
“What? When?” Emily’s stomach lurched.
“You never asked! He’s already gone.”
When Mr. Thompson returned with identical flowers a week later—*still no ring*—Emily said yes.
“Maybe you’re right. Love fades. Flats don’t,” her mum sighed.
Their wedding was dull. Married life duller. Nights together didn’t spark what daytime lacked. She’d wed rails running parallel—close, never touching.
Visiting her mum once, she found her dad there. Her mum blushed like a schoolgirl.
“We’re trying again. That woman dumped him.”
“I’m glad,” Emily said, fighting tears outside. *They still love each other.*
At home, she cooked silently, watching her husband chew meticulously, shirt pristine. Hatred bubbled. *Is this my whole life?*
“I want a divorce. I don’t love you.”
He peered over his glasses—real ones now—as if she’d botched an exam question.
“Tonight. Now.” She packed, oddly elated.
“Let me drive you.”
“Taxi’s coming.”
Her mum gasped at the suitcase.
“You left?”
“Just till I find a place.”
Her dad carried her bag up. Her childhood room untouched.
“About time. You were freezing solid with him. Plenty more fish,” he said.
She sobbed into his shoulder. That night, she wondered—*end or beginning?*
Summer arrived abruptly. Had she ever noticed blossoms before? She filed for divorce immediately.
He replaced her with a student. She turned down every new date.
Walking home, sun warming her face, she felt lighter than air—
“Em! Hey! Where’s the fire?”
James. She flung herself at him, then stepped back, flustered.
“You back for good?”
“Back for good. You?”
“Divorced for good.” They laughed. “God, I missed you.”
But they barely met—both working. Weekends were for cinema trips, pub quizzes. Summer faded. Autumn too.
“New Year’s plans? Seeing James?” her mum asked.
“Doubt it. He hasn’t asked.”
“We’re skiing. Fancy it?”
“Nah. Early night.”
Her parents left New Year’s Eve morning.
Emily decorated, cooked roast, glammed up—stilettos included.
*Why do I think he’ll come?* She nearly called twice. Pride stopped her.
Her mum rang, gushing about snow.
*Should’ve gone.* Midnight neared. She gulped champagne, tipsy—
The doorbell.
“Santa?” she giggled, barefoot.
James stood there, fizz and flowers.
“You’re smashed. Can I come in?”
“Did Mum call you?”
“Are we doing this on the doorstep? Twelfth night’s coming.”
He froze seeing the candlelit table.
“Waiting for someone?”
“You.”
“Em, I—”
“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Queen’s speech.”
“Sod that. I’ve wanted—”
“Pour the fizz.”
As Big Ben chimed, they kissed—twelve strokes, twenty, thirty—
“Forgot our wishes,” he murmured.
“Mine came true.”
“Mine hasn’t.” He opened a velvet box.
She drowned his question in cheers and fireworks.
“Was that a yes?”
She wobbled into his arms. “Room’s spinning—”
“Happy people don’t fall,” he said, sweeping her up. “They fly.”
