Life From Scratch by Melissa Ford Read Free Book Online

hair swinging in front of her shoulder. She has dressed up for the occasion in some Stella McCartney pants that she got as a gift in exchange for some work she did on her collection. They’re wide-legged trousers that almost drag on the floor behind her ballet flats. Despite the fact that at least Arianna is dressed fashionably; the woman at the end of the counter, speaking to a customer, glances over at us and flashes a tight smile that says, I know you won’t be purchasing anything today so I’ll take my time putting thin ankle over thin ankle to get over to you, gawkers .
    “Five figures. At least. I’m not going to get it,” I tell her, as if this were ever a possibility. “I’m just saying—that’s the type of ring I want to get.”
    We move from case to case, and I pause in front of the engagement rings and wedding bands.   I can’t help it; it’s like watching a car accident. There is a woman paused at the case, her sleek chestnut brown hair reflecting the store’s light. She smiles at me shyly.
    “I think I want to try on this one,” she tells the man behind the case. I lean in to examine a pink diamond ring flanked on either side by perfectly cut clear diamonds. The man takes out her ring and slips it onto her perfectly manicured hands.
    The woman makes me look down at my engagement ring for a final glance. I’m going to miss it—not the diamond or the metal, but how Adam put it on my hand, how it looked sitting next to the sink when I came out of the shower, how I noticed it and thought about Adam one million times each day. And how that will no longer be the case.
    “Are you looking for something?” the man asks, politely splitting his attention between the dazzling woman and my frumpy self.
    “A ring,” Arianna tells him as she flits past. She is in her element, surrounded by pretty things without any pressure to buy. Arianna is a serial looker.
    “Are you getting married?” the man asks, glancing down at the case between us. “If you give me a moment, I can help you find what you’re looking for.”
    The other shopper beams at me, a sister-in-arms, a fellow pre-wife. She gives me that look that expectant mothers exchange with one another, brides who bump into each other as they examine the same Vera Wang knock-offs at Filenes. We’re on this crazy ride together, and isn’t it better to finally be on this crazy ride than be one of those poor people still waiting outside the ride in line ?
    I mumble something about coming back after lunch and drag Arianna away from a case containing a Padparadscha sapphire-drop necklace. “I think I once saw that on Gwyneth Paltrow’s neck in People magazine,” she says as we spill out onto the street.
    “Harry Winston sucks,” I tell her as I start leading us to the subway so we can go south to more realistic jewelry environs. “Soon-to-be-engaged people suck and people who are happy suck the most.”
    “Agreed,” Arianna says simply. “Unless you get engaged one day. Or you’re me. We are the exception to the rule.”
    “Of course,” I tell her.
    We head straight to Me&Ro, simply because I’ve coveted their jewelry in the past. It seems like a good starting point and end point. It’s the type of store I’d always begged Adam to duck in just for a minute and peruse the cases on our way to somewhere else. He’d stand by the doorway, scarf in hand, letting me browse while he read messages on his blackberry. If Holly Golightly had her Tiffanys, I had my Me&Ro, the sort of store where peace reigned, yoga was probably performed in a back room, and workers greeted each other with an earnest “ Namaste .”
    And yet, I not only never had breakfast there (to be fair, since the store didn’t even open until
11 a
.m.
, it didn’t really seem like a breakfast-y sort of spot), but Adam had never bought me a piece of their jewelry as a gift. A thank-you-for-being-my-wife sort of gift. Or a birthday gift. Or an