The ring box makes a soft snap when Roland closes it. He's been fidgeting with it for the last ten minutes, opening and closing the velvet lid while I pretend to read my book.
I'm not actually reading. Haven't turned a page in ages. But watching him out of the corner of my eye is making my chest tight, and I need something to do with my hands that isn't grabbing the wine bottle.
"Cam?" His voice has that careful quality it gets when he's about to suggest something I might not like. Like Thai food or watching football.
"Mm?" I don't look up from my book. Page forty seven has some very interesting information about tax deductions for home offices, apparently.
The couch dips as he shifts closer. The box snaps shut again.
"Can you put the book down for a minute?"
This is it. I know it's coming, have known for weeks, really. The way he's been acting all twitchy around jewellery shops. How he suddenly developed an interest in my ring size. His mum asking pointed questions about when we're going to "make it official" while she thinks I'm in the loo.
I set the book aside and turn to face him properly. He's gone pale, which is saying something for a man who spends half his life in the sun.
"Right." He clears his throat. "So."
"So."
"This is harder than I thought it would be."
I want to make a joke, something about how he builds houses for a living and surely a marriage proposal can't be more complicated than plumbing. But his hands are actually shaking, and suddenly I can't breathe properly.
"Roland."
He slides off the couch and onto one knee, right there in my sitting room between the coffee table and the telly. The ring box opens with that soft velvet whisper.
It's beautiful. Of course it's beautiful. A simple solitaire, probably more than he should have spent.
My mouth goes dry.
"Camille Rose Hartwell," he says, and his voice cracks a bit on my middle name. "Will you marry me?"
I should say yes. This is the moment I'm supposed to cry happy tears and throw myself into his arms and call my sister to shriek about wedding dresses.
Instead, my brain goes straight into accountant mode.
Joint bank accounts. Shared assets. What happens to my business if things go south?
"Yes," I hear myself say. "But we'll need a prenup."
The words are out before I can stop them. Roland's face cycles through confusion, then hurt, then something harder, then just blank.
"A what?"
"A prenuptial agreement. To protect both our assets. It's just sensible, really."
"Camille." His voice is very quiet. "I just proposed to you."
"I know. And I said yes. I just think we should be practical about..."
He closes the ring box. Doesn't put it away, just sits there on his knee holding it like he's forgotten what it's for.
"You're thinking about our divorce," he says. It's not a question.
"I'm thinking about protecting both of us."
"Before you've even said yes properly."
The sitting room feels too small suddenly. Too warm. I can hear Mrs Chen next door running her washing machine, the low hum of the refrigerator, a dog barking three streets over.
"I did say yes."
"No, you said yes but." He gets up from the floor, joints creaking slightly. He's only thirty four but all those years crawling around construction sites have left their mark. "That's not the same thing."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Because he's right, isn't he? Yes but isn't yes.
Roland sits back down on the couch, but further away now. The ring box disappears into his pocket.
"How long have you been planning this?" he asks.
"Planning what?"
"Our exit strategy."
The question lands hard. "That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?" He's looking at me the way he looks at blueprints when the measurements don't add up. "Because it sounds like you've got our entire relationship dissolution worked out in your head."
"I'm being realistic, Roland. Half of marriages end in divorce."
"Jesus Christ, Camille. Half of marriages also work out fine."
"And if we're in the half that doesn't?"
"Then we'll deal with it then."
I stare at him. He cannot be serious. "Just wing it? Hope for the best?"
"Trust each other."
Trust. There's that word. Might as well ask me to juggle fire while riding a unicycle.
"Trust doesn't pay legal fees," I say.
His face changes. Hardens. "Right. Of course. Everything comes back to money with you."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He pulls the ring box back out, turns it over in his hands. "I've been carrying this thing around for three weeks, trying to find the perfect moment. Wrote a speech and everything. Practiced it in the mirror like a bloody teenager."
"Roland..."
"Do you know what I was going to say?"
I shake my head.
"I was going to tell you that you're the first person who's ever made me want to build something permanent. Not a house, not a deck extension. A life."
His laugh sounds bitter. "Turns out you were busy drawing up the demolition plans."
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
I open my mouth. Close it again. What did I mean? That I love him but don't trust him? That I want to marry him but only if I can control exactly how it falls apart?
"I meant we should be prepared," I say weakly.
"For what? For me to turn into David?"
"No."
"Then what?"
I can't answer that. Can't explain that it's not him I don't trust, it's me. I'm terrified I'll get comfortable and forget to keep watching the exits. I'll wake up one day and realize I've handed over all my power again, piece by piece, until there's nothing left.
Roland stands up. "I need some air."
"Don't leave. Please. Let's talk about this."
"What's to talk about? You've made your position pretty clear."
He's halfway to the door when I find my voice again. "So that's it? You're just going to walk away because I want some legal protections?"
He stops, hand on the door handle. "I'm walking away because you want to marry me and divorce me in the same conversation."
"That's not..."
"Do you love me, Camille?"
The question catches me off guard. "Of course I do."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then why does it feel like you're negotiating a business contract?"
I don't have an answer for that either. Or maybe I do, and it's too ugly to say out loud.
The front door closes behind him with a soft click. Not a slam, which somehow makes it worse.
I sit there for a long time, listening to his truck start up in the drive.
My phone buzzes. Text from Sophie.
How did it go? Did he do it? Are you ENGAGED?
I stare at the message for ages before typing back.
It's complicated.
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then appear again.
What happened?
I asked for a prenup.
Oh, Cam.
Don't.
Don't what?
Don't give me a lecture about how I've cocked it up.
My phone rings. Sophie, of course.
"I wasn't going to lecture you," she says without preamble. "I was going to ask if you're okay."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?"
I look around my sitting room. The book I wasn't really reading is still open to page forty seven. There's a wine glass on the coffee table with lipstick marks around the rim.
"He walked out," I say.
"Good."
"Good?"
"You just told the man you want to marry him and divorce him in the same breath, Cam. Of course he walked out. I would have thrown something."
I sink deeper into the couch cushions. "I was being practical."
"You were being mental."
"Thanks for the support."
Sophie goes quiet for a moment. I can picture her pacing around her kitchen, probably gesturing wildly at her husband.
"Can I say something?" she asks. "And you have to promise not to hang up."
"That's a terrible start."
"Promise me."
"Fine. I promise."
"I'm not saying this right. Hang on." A pause. I hear her telling Mark to go watch telly. "Okay. So you know how David was with money. Obviously. But Cam, you're doing the same thing now. Just backwards."
"I'm nothing like David."
"I know. I know. But it's like..." She trails off. "You remember when I got that dog bite as a kid? And for years after I'd cross the street whenever I saw any dog, even the little fluffy ones that couldn't hurt a fly?"
"What's your point?"
"The point is I was so scared of getting hurt again that I made my whole life smaller. And you're doing that with money. With Roland. You're crossing the street before you even know if there's a dog."
I don't say anything.
"Cam?"
"I have to go."
"Camille..."
"I'll call you tomorrow."
I hang up before she can say anything else. The flat feels too quiet now. Too empty. I can still smell Roland's cologne on the couch cushions.
My laptop is open on the kitchen counter. I could run some numbers, work out exactly how a prenup would protect us both. Show him the spreadsheets.
Instead, I find myself scrolling through my contacts until I find Dr. Reeves' number. My therapist. The one I stopped seeing six months ago because I thought I was all sorted.
Her voicemail picks up after four rings.
"Hi, it's Camille Hartwell. I know it's late, but I was wondering if you have any appointments available this week. Tomorrow, if possible. I think I've made rather a mess of things."
I hang up and lean against the kitchen counter. Through the window, I can see the space where Roland's truck was parked. Just an empty bit of driveway now.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Sophie.
For what it's worth, I think he'll wait for you to figure it out. But not forever.
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.
I leave the wine glass on the counter and head upstairs. My tongue feels thick in my mouth and I can't remember if I ate anything at dinner or just pushed food around my plate.
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