“You’re a serial proposer,” his brother accused, around the time he started thinking about married life—not with Christine, but with Marianne. By then Eric had already asked two women to marry him—the first time was in college, the second a confused, underemployed time just before he moved to New York. Both said no right away, though both times he’d been prepared, with romantic evenings out and specially selected engagement rings: a lumpy silver Claddagh for Denise, the shocked college girl, and a half-carat diamond in a white gold Tiffany setting for practical, pharmacy-school Julie, who forcefully told him that she needed to get her own career started before she settled down.

He’d kept Julie’s ring in its black velvet box at the back of his sock drawer. A few years later, it was perfect for Marianne—pretty and elegant, exactly what he would have chosen for her—and he didn’t see any reason to buy a new one. “Thrift,” said Mark, when Eric told him of his plans. “Probably a good habit in an artist.”

Looking back, Eric saw that the ring was part of the problem. If he hadn’t had a ring ready to go, he might have thought things through a little more. He remembered holding his breath after he asked her, in a dim corner of their favorite Brooklyn restaurant, the familiar, slightly terrified look on her face.

“Please,” he’d whispered, holding his breath. “Say yes.”

Marianne had not said yes but had nodded, laughing and even crying a little, and held out her hand—the wrong one, he remembered—and he’d gently taken the correct one and had slid the ring onto her finger, where it was a perfect fit, as if the ring as much as Eric had simply been looking for the right person. It was just like in the movies: fumbling and sudden and joyful, patrons around them breaking into cheers and applause. Their waiter brought them their favorite dessert, crème brûlée, and two spoons to crack the caramelized sugar.

Mark called him from work the next afternoon. “How’d it go? I was waiting for you to tell me.”

“She said yes,” Eric slurred, halfway through a fifth of whiskey. Marianne had left hours ago. “But then she changed her mind.”

His brother—the asshole—reminded him that at least he hadn’t bought a whole new ring. “You’re better off anyway,” he’d told Eric, before taking another call.