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By 10 o'clock each morning, upbeat music from the cafe next door had usually drifted through the half-open door of Harcourt & Finch Jewellers, along with the smell of burnt espresso and the optimistic chatter of the cafe’s patrons.
Graham Finch, the cynical individual that he was, objected to all of it.
At fifty-eight, broad as a wardrobe and looking as though he ought to be throwing troublesome men out of pubs rather than measuring ring sizes, designing and selling jewellery for the last three decades had taught Graham several things - that diamonds were overpriced, necklace clasps were designed by sadists, and most people wanted expensive trinkets to say the things they were too cowardly to say in words. Buyers walked into his little independent shop with stars in their eyes and hope in their wallets, ready to make a purchase in gold, silver or platinum: he’d sold ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it’ necklaces, ‘forgotten anniversary’ bracelets, ‘milestone birthday’ earrings. And, memorably, one eye-wateringly expensive sapphire pendant so obviously bought after infidelity, that Graham had just wrapped it in silence and handed it over with his best customer service smile. And, like with every sale he made, a little bit more cynicism settling into his once open heart.
But, mostly, Graham sold engagement rings. He watched young - and occasionally, not so young - people come in radiant and trembling, convinced they were the first people in history to ever fall in love. They spoke about love with the confidence of people who had never tried to assemble flat-pack furniture together. And those engagement rings were bought in their droves to declare to the world that they had found their forever.
Some of them even meant it.
Graham got their business again when they came back a few years down the line for ring resizing after babies. Some came back alone to sell their rings after divorce. A woman had once slapped a three-carat diamond onto the glass counter and asked, “How much for poor judgement?” Graham had liked her instantly, and given her a great price on the princess-cut platinum ring, which he resold less than two weeks later to a shiny eyed young man in a tweed jacket.
Love, Graham had decided somewhere around his fiftieth birthday, was real enough. It was simply accompanied by a great deal of nonsense, money and paperwork.
With his sales assistant Jessica busy speaking to a customer about a watch strap, he unlocked the front cabinet in the shop window to polish some fingerprints from the glass, straightening a dark green velvet tray of rings that individually cost more than his first car. Diamonds winked up at him innocently, with the sapphires sulking in blue rows, and the rubies radiating their cheery glow. Graham then turned his attention to a tangled silver necklace chain, glaring at it with the same expression he normally used for politicians. As his deft fingers worked the chain until it offended him less, he glanced - not for the first time that week - at the framed photo tucked discreetly behind the till.
He and Sandra on Brighton Pier twenty-five years ago, windblown and laughing while they squinted into the sun, both under the impression that being in love automatically meant ‘forever’.
It did not.
They had divorced eight years ago after what Graham considered an Olympic standard commitment to mutual stubbornness. And he still missed her. Increasingly more so over the last year, which was annoyingly inconvenient.
He missed her kindness, her brutal honesty, the way she stole chips from his plate while denying it, the fact she could lift even his worst moods with her ridiculous laugh. He missed the fact she was always right. He didn’t understand how two people could be happy in one decade and strangers in the next. He did not miss being told to communicate. Though, in fairness, she had been right about that, too.
The bell above the door chimed, simultaneously signalling a customer while interrupting his memories. Graham lifted his head from the jewellery tray, locking the cabinet as he looked towards the front of the shop, to see a broad-shouldered young man step inside, his hair damp from the rain and wearing both a rugby hoodie and a nervous expression.
A first-time buyer, Graham thought to himself.
“Morning, can I help you?”
“Yeah - hi. Sorry. Um.” The young man laughed at himself, pushing his blonde hair off his face. “I’m looking for an engagement ring. A custom one.”
And there it was. Another one for the love archives.
“For your girlfriend?” Graham asked, walking over to the ring counter.
The man blinked. “Um, no. Boyfriend, actually.”
Graham cleared his throat. “Quite right. My mistake, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No offence taken,” the man smiled lopsidedly. “I’m Nick.”
He held out a hand, which Graham took hold of as a greeting, noticing the warm grip and honest eyes and the sort of face people would trust immediately. “Graham.”
“Nice to meet you, Graham,” Nick said, before laughing sheepishly. “I’ve walked past your shop three times before I managed to come in.”
“Well, that usually means one of two things,” Graham replied. “Either you really are wanting an engagement ring, or you’re planning a robbery.”
“Definitely the first one,” Nick grinned.
“Excellent. Less paperwork.” Graham gestured towards the desk. “Sit down, please.”
Nick sat, then stood again immediately, then sat once more, before tapping his feet rhythmically on the oak flooring.
“Tea?” Graham asked.
“What?
“Look, lad, no offence, but you’re so anxious right now it’s like you’ve got a badger in your bum, you can’t sit still,” Graham said. “A tea might calm the nerves, no?”
“Oh,” Nick exhaled. “Yeah, I th-think tea would be great, actually. Please, Graham.”
“Builders, Earl Grey, or herbal nonsense?”
“Builders.”
“Excellent, a sensible man,” Graham smiled at him. “Won’t be a minute, and for heaven’s sake, stop tapping your feet, son. You’re going to wear a hole in my floor.”
Nick chuckled as Graham walked to the small side office, flipping the switch on the kettle while keeping one eye on both his shop and potential customer. Nick may look trustworthy and honest, but that didn’t mean Graham was going to turn his back on his livelihood. While the kettle boiled, he listened as Nick was once again out of his chair and pacing exactly three steps one way, and three steps back. Rinse and repeat. Nervousness was common but it still surprised Graham after all these years, at how much people trembled at happiness.
A few minutes later, carrying two large mugs of tea and a packet of custard creams, Graham plonked himself down in his leather office chair, setting the tea next to Nick’s chair and gesturing for him to sit, before getting his sketchbook and pencil from the desk drawer. Nick sat in the chair and lifted the tea gratefully, taking a long sip.
“Jess,” Graham called over to his employee. “I’m doing a ring consultation, keep an eye on the floor for me?” Jessica nodded, and Graham turned back to face Nick.
“Right, tell me about the lucky victim,” he said. This was Graham’s usual question, as it got the basics he needed to start thinking for a ring design: age, style, budget, guessed measurements.
“My boyfriend,” Nick said. “Charlie.”
And there it was again. That look.
Graham had seen it countless times over the years, yet it still caught him off guard - the way people looked when speaking about someone they adored. Granted, it was usually seen in various degrees of sincerity. People could fake excitement, confidence, certainty; however, they were dreadful at faking tenderness.
But Nick? Nick’s look was unlike anything Graham had ever witnessed. The man’s entire face transformed. Brightened, like it had been lit up by the sun. His nerves remained, but there was now joy. His face also softened, somehow making him look both younger and a man who had lived a thousand lives.
“Charlie’s…” Nick laughed softly, pausing as though there weren’t the right words for the task. “He’s - he’s the best person I know. He’s funny, and ridiculously stubborn. God, so stubborn. If he thinks something's right, he’ll fight for it even if it terrifies him. He’s smart, way smarter than me -”
“Not a difficult feat,” Graham jokingly interrupted, taking in the offensively fond look on Nick’s face.
“Rude,” Nick quipped back, smiling as he stared into his mug. “But very true.” He kept talking about Charlie, as if now he'd started he couldn’t stop.
"He remembers tiny details everyone else forgets. He makes lists for everything, proper colour-coded lists. He pretends he’s shy, but he’ll absolutely destroy you verbally in an argument if he thinks you’re wrong. He steals my hoodies, and then claims they’ve bonded with him emotionally so I can’t have them back.”
Graham laughed at this, noting down hoodie thief on his page. He was unsure why he noted down this little insignificant detail, but it had amused him.
“He cares about people so much,” Nick continued. “He cares about everyone, even when he’s exhausted. He notices when I’m quiet before I know I’m being quiet. He makes me feel… like I can be exactly who I am and that’s somehow enough.”
Something in Graham’s chest shifted irritably. Sentiment. Dangerous stuff. And yet, he found himself holding very still, listening to this young man’s declarations of affection.
“We’ve been through a lot, we’ve been together since we were at school, me and Charlie,” Nick explained, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Growing up stuff, family stuff, mental health stuff. Uni. Jobs. Real life. But every version of my life that’s felt right has had Charlie in it.”
There was no performance in it. No rehearsed romance or cliched words. Just certainty. Graham made a noncommittal grunt, because any clearer response might have sounded suspiciously like he was moved. Instead, he started sketching idly on the page in front of him. He had once spoken about Sandra like that, probably. Before years turned affection into silence.
“And why marry him?”
Nick blinked. “Because he’s Charlie.”
“Vague.”
Nick considered this for a few seconds. “Because…because I wish I’d known then, what I know now.”
Graham looked up from his sketching. “That sounds rehearsed.”
“It’s not,” Nick flushed. “I just mean…if younger me had known I’d get to love him, I think he’d have panicked less.”
Graham’s chest did that irritating shift at the sentimentality again. Christ, he really was getting soft in his old age. “Well, that’s just about the most sincere thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.;
Nick laughed. “And because, I dunno, every day is somehow…better, with him in it.”
“Well, for this amazing Charlie, what sort of ring do you think he’d like?” Graham asked.
“Oh, nothing flashy,” Nick said instantly. “He hates being the centre of attention. Something elegant though, for sure.”
Graham sketched for the next thirty minutes, taking Nick’s requests and turning them into a custom ring design that Charlie could comfortably wear everyday.
“A slim band, it’s more him,” Nick explained. “And no raised stones.”
Graham looked up from the page. “Reasons?”
“Charlie wears loads of woollen jumpers. He’ll hate the ring catching on them, and he’ll get annoyed with it every single day but pretend he isn’t.”
Graham paused, pencil hovering. That was a unique little architecture of love, knowing someone well enough to predict irritation over knitwear. “Low profile setting, then,” Graham said.
“Yes, please.”
“Stone preferences?
“Maybe something green?” Nick said. “He loves green.”
“Noted. Emerald maybe?”
“No,” Nick shook his head. “Too dark a green. Something lighter maybe?”
“Tourmaline is a bit more unique, we’ll go with that for now. Budget?”
Nick named a figure.
Graham snorted in response. “Love may be blind, but apparently it has disposable income.”
Nick also rejected anything oversized on Charlie’s behalf with startling confidence. “He’d hate that, too.”
“Why?” Graham asked.
“Because he talks with his hands. He’d knock himself unconscious. As well as catching it -”
“Yes, lad,” Graham sighed. “I know about the jumpers.”
They talked more while he sketched, with Nick explaining exactly how he planned to propose. Eventually, Graham set down his pencil, looking at what he’d sketched: A slim, yellow gold band with an emerald-cut green tourmaline stone, flanked by tiny diamonds set low into the shoulders.
“It looks like him,” Nick said softly when Graham turned the final sketch around.
“Well, I should hope so, or what have I been doing here for the last half hour?” Graham responded. “It’s practical enough for everyday wear, as well as delicate enough so your lad doesn’t destroy knitwear or himself.”
Nick laughed gently, his eyes still shining at the sketch. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly it.”
“Good. Means I’ve still got some talent left.” Graham shoved the paperwork across the desk. “Right then. Deposits, sizing estimates, signatures. All the exciting stuff.”
Nick exhaled hard through his nose before reaching into his bag and lifting out a fountain pen. But he didn’t sign; instead, the pen hovered over the page, Nick’s hands shaking ever so slightly.
“You alright there?” Graham asked dryly. “You look like you’re signing away a kidney.”
Nick grinned at him sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m just…really doing this, I guess.”
“Well, ideally yes,” Graham replied. “Otherwise this is an expensive hobby.”
Nick snorted quietly and bent over the paperwork again, before glancing back up. “Can I ask you something?”
“If you must, though I have a feeling you’re going to, whether I agree or not.”
“Are you married?”
The bluntness of the question caught Graham slightly off guard. “No,” he answered after a second. “Not anymore.”
Nick’s expression immediately softened. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Divorced eight years.” Graham leant back in his chair with a shrug. “Sandra.”
Nick waited quietly, which Graham took as a signal to continue.
“We were married twenty years,” Graham said gruffly. “Met young. Thought that automatically made us invincible.” He paused. “Turns out, stubbornness is a remarkably effective relationship killer.”
Nick nodded in response, watching Graham with interest.
“She used to steal chips off my plate while insisting she didn’t want any,” Graham muttered. “Drove me fucking mental.”
“But you miss her,” Nick said gently.
Graham narrowed his eyes immediately. “You lot are startlingly direct nowadays, aren’t you?”
Nick laughed quietly. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not,” Nick said. “But, I’m right, aren’t I? You miss her, I can tell.”
Graham sighed through his nose and glanced toward the framed photo tucked behind the till before he could stop himself. “Fine, if you must know she was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he admitted roughly. “Which unfortunately means losing her was also the worst.”
Nick was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “You should call her.”
Graham barked out a laugh. “Christ.”
“I’m serious.” Nick shrugged. “If you still love someone after eight years, that’s probably worth saying out loud.”
Graham stared at him for a long moment. “Young people,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Far too comfortable discussing feelings.”
Nick grinned. “That’s a very old man sentence.”
“I am an old man.” Graham pointed toward the door. “Right. You’ve got your ring design, I’ve got your money. Now get out of my shop.”
Nick burst out laughing. “Thanks, Graham,” he said sincerely as he stood.
“Mmm hmm. Off you fuck.”
Still smiling, Nick headed toward the door before pausing with one hand on the handle. “Oh, and for the record?”
“What now?” Graham exhaled.
“I think Sandra probably misses you too.”
Then he disappeared out into the rainy street before Graham could think of a response.
“Cheeky sod,” Graham said under his breath.
But for the rest of the day, he kept catching sight of that photograph behind the till - Sandra, laughing into the wind. Sandra, squinting into sunlight. Sandra, before silence and pride got in the way.
And each time he looked at the picture, he found himself thinking about what Nick had said.
If you still love someone after eight years, that’s probably worth saying out loud.
💍💍💍
Three weeks later, Graham was in his office losing a battle with a broken bracelet clasp, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he squinted at the jewellery, when the bell above the shop door chimed.
“Jess,” he barked out. “Can you get that? I’m in the middle of something here.”
There was no answer. “Jess!” he yelled again, sighing when he was met with silence. The daft girl had probably gone on her break again without telling him. “Coming now, won’t be a minute,” he called out, lifting his glasses off his face and setting them next to the tennis bracelet. “My sales assistant Jess has vanished, so you’re stuck instead with this grumpy bugger, I’m afraid.”
He heard the customer giggle softly, and carefully, in response, like they were trying not to disturb the room around them. Graham walked out into the shopfront, looking up to see a young man in his mid 20s - slim build, dark curly hair, a grey jumper with the sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, and a navy scarf looped twice around his neck despite the mild weather.
“You alright there, can I help you?”
“Um, hi. You make custom engagement rings, right?”
“No,” Graham said. “I only sell novelty hats.” The young man stared back at him, looking slightly confused at Graham’s attempt at sarcasm. “Christ, of course I do, it’s a jewellery shop," Graham sighed. "Sit down, lad.”
“Oh. Sorry,” the customer replied, sitting down in the offered chair.
“No sorries needed,” Graham said. “I’m just an old man attempting some ill-advised humour.”
The scarf wearer giggled again in that soft way he’d done before. Graham was about to launch into his typical questions, when he noticed the man bouncing in his chair, wringing his hands in his lap.
“Crikey, not another badger bum!” Graham muttered under his breath.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Graham said. “Just you look a bit anxious, and I was wondering if a cup of tea would help?”
The man smiled. “Oh, I’d love a tea, thank you!”
“Builders, Earl Grey or herbal nonsense?”
“Builders, definitely.”
“Excellent, another sensible one! Strong run on builders recently,” Graham said, walking towards his little back office. “Just sit there calmly, you’re planning a proposal, not being drafted to war, err, what’s your name, son?”
“Oh. Charlie, my name’s Charlie,” was the reply.
Graham stopped in his tracks ever so slightly. Granted, Charlie was not an uncommon name. Plenty of Charlies existed in the world - too many, quite frankly.
But still...
“Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m Graham.”
Once Graham had returned with the tea, he sat opposite Charlie - who had by now removed his scarf - and asked the first question he asked all potential proposers. “So, tell me about the lucky victim?”
Charlie smiled dreamily. “It’s my boyfriend, his name’s Nick.”
Graham nearly spat out the sip of tea he’d just taken. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Because unless the universe had suddenly decided to become hysterically ironic, this was Nick’s Charlie: The hoodie thief. The emotionally bonded knitwear menace. The person who made a large athletic man look at though he had swallowed sunshine. And, judging by the way he kept rubbing his palms against his ripped skinny jeans, Charlie was just as catastrophically in love with the giant golden retriever rugby player who’d sat in that exact chair three weeks earlier, rambling about colour-coded lists and jumpers.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. There was a particular pleasure in possessing information nobody else knew. Not malicious information, just delightful, harmless chaos.
These two idiots are planning to propose to each other. Separately. Without coordination. Maybe I should be charging for tickets to the show, I’d make a killing!
“What?” Charlie blinked.
“No, no, nothing,” he replied, keeping his face blank. “Just remembered I’d forgotten to send an email earlier to my supplier. Occupational muttering, that’s all. Tell me a little bit about Nick.”
And there it was - that look again. Not identical to Nick’s; it was softer, quieter and more subtle. But just as devastatingly sincere.
“Nick’s…sunshine, basically,” Charlie huffed a laugh. “Which is annoying, because no one should naturally be that nice. We’ve been together forever.”
“Oh yeah?” Graham asked, trying to sound casual, while internally he was vibrating with the effort of not screaming ‘I know you’ve been together forever, you two hopeless idiots are essentially sharing a brain cell at this point.’
“Since we were teenagers,” Charlie said softly. “Which is mental, in all honesty. We were babies.”
Graham made a thoughtful noise. “And you want to marry him, even after knowing him that long?”
Charlie snorted. “Unfortunately, yeah.”
“Well, other than being kind, what is it you love about him?” Graham asked, reaching for his sketchbook.
“He’s…he’s, god where do I even start?” Charlie said, smiling into his cup.
Graham already knew exactly where this was going; he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.
“He’s honestly ridiculous,” Charlie explained.
Accurate, Graham thought. “A poor start for matrimony.”
“No,” Charlie giggled, “ridiculous in a good way. Strangers tell him their life stories in queues. Children love him. Old ladies at bus stops love him. Dogs adore him.”
“What a trying burden.”
“It really is,” Charlie said, wrapping both hands around his mug. He frowned slightly, lost in thought. “I think it’s because he makes people feel safe without making a thing of it. He’ll drive two hours because someone mentioned they were sad.”
Sounds like him, Graham thought.
“And he’s patient. He never makes me feel like I’m too much.”
That sounds like him, too.
“He just makes everything feel easier,” Charlie admitted quietly. “Even when things are hard.”
Something warm and annoying settled in Graham’s chest again, just like three weeks earlier; he studiously stared at his page, writing classic band? on it, mostly to avoid looking directly at whatever this was doing to him. It struck him suddenly that Nick and Charlie fit together exactly the way certain pieces of jewellery did - different shapes entirely, but somehow balanced perfectly once joined. Both utterly gone for each other.
Annoying, really.
Charlie smiled again into his tea. “I think loving Nick is probably the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Right! That was enough of that, before Graham started believing in romance again. “What sort of ring?” he interrupted gruffly.
“Oh! Yeah, right, of course… I’m thinking simple, strong. Nothing flashy. He’d hate me spending loads.”
“Budget?”
Charlie named a number.
“That,” Graham said, looking up at him, “is, in fact, loads.”
“I know,” Charlie replied, looking guilty. “He might say he doesn’t care about expensive things, but it just means I have to ignore that, obviously.”
“Good man.”
They worked through designs together, and settled on a platinum classic band, weighty enough to feel substantial. Solid and understated. Charlie had also requested to have a small, secret sapphire hidden inside the band.
“For him,” Charlie said. “He’ll know it’s there.”
“Sentimental nonsense,” Graham muttered, writing it down. “Sounds about right.” Despite his protests, private symbols had always interested him more than large diamonds.
Charlie frowned slightly. “You seem weirdly unsurprised by all my choices.”
“I’m fifty-eight years old, son,” Graham replied instantly. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
Graham continued sketching while Charlie talked. He listened to stories about university, tiny flats, burnt dinners, stolen hoodies, panic attacks, rugby matches, and shared lives.
And the entire time, Graham kept his mouth shut. Giving away not one hint. Not one bloody clue.
Because somehow, impossibly, these two daft idiots had independently walked into the same tiny jewellery shop within weeks of one another, both planning to propose.
And Graham, cynical or not, would rather die before ruining it.
“So,” Graham said carefully, pretending to focus on his sketchbook instead of the ridiculous revelation unfolding in front of him. “You planning this whole thing properly? You know how you’re going to propose?”
Charlie immediately blushed. “Maybe,” he admitted.
“Ah. A planner,” Graham nodded sagely. Colour-coded lists, he thought to himself.
Graham tapped his pencil against the page. “Big proposal?”
“No!” Charlie looked horrified. “God, no. He’d hate that.”
Interesting. Because Nick said exactly the same thing about you.
“No crowds,” Charlie continued. “Nothing public. Just…us.”
“Mmm hmm.”
Then Charlie casually destroyed Graham’s remaining emotional stability.
“There’s this beach we used to go to when we were younger, back home in Kent,” he smiled softly.
Graham paused. Oh, for fuck’s sake...you've got to be joking...
“A beach,” Graham repeated slowly, not quite believing his ears.
“Yeah,” Charlie nodded, oblivious to the emotional crisis occurring opposite him. “It’s where we had our first proper date. When we’re home at the end of August, I plan to propose there at sunset.”
Graham stared at him in disbelief. Because three weeks earlier, while rambling helplessly about Charlie, Nick had mentioned wanting to propose somewhere meaningful.
Quiet.
Somewhere that was theirs.
And had mentioned a beach.
Their first date beach. At sunset. During the August bank holiday.
So, Graham realised, not only were these absolute fucking idiots planning to propose to each other, they were planning it for the same time and location. He had to cough suddenly into his hand to disguise the noise that escaped him. “Sorry, swallowed tea wrong,” he said, quickly returning to sketching before he accidentally burst into hysterical laughter.
By the end of the consultation, Charlie was smiling in that dazed, terrified way people did when they realised their version of forever was becoming real.
“You alright?” Graham asked.
Charlie exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Just…scared, I think.”
“Good,” Graham said bluntly. “Means it matters.”
Charlie laughed quietly at that, before squinting suspiciously at Graham. “You know,” he said, “you seem weirdly invested in this.”
Graham looked up from the paperwork he was getting ready. “I literally sell engagement rings for a living, mate, it’s part of the job description.”
“No, I know, but you’ve got this whole…” Charlie gestured vaguely with both hands. No raised stones, talks with his hands. “Gruff fairy godmother energy going on.”
Graham stared at him flatly. “Get out of my shop.”
Charlie laughed immediately. “See? There it is again.”
“Cheeky little bastard, aren’t you?” Graham muttered - though without much heat behind it - as he slid the signed paperwork towards Charlie, who grinned at him. Unlike Nick’s open, golden warmth, Charlie’s humour curled sharp at the edges. Dry and playful in a way Graham suspected kept people permanently on their toes.
Teenage Nick had never stood a chance.
Charlie lifted the paperwork, and there was a pause while he folded everything carefully into his tote bag, organising them into neat sections.
Right. Colour-coded lists. Of course.
Charlie traced one fingertip around the rim of his empty mug before speaking again. “You ever been married?”
Graham wanted to scream. What was it with these boys and unexpected emotional interrogation?
“Yes,” he answered cautiously. “Sandra. We were married for twenty years.”
Charlie’s expression softened immediately. “What happened?”
“Stubbornness. Timing. Pride.” Graham shrugged. “Take your pick.”
“You still love her, don’t you?”
The question landed squarely in Graham’s chest. Annoyingly perceptive little sod.
“There you all go again with the directness,” Graham grumbled.
Charlie pointed at him immediately. “See, that answer means yes.”
“I didn’t answer.”
“Exactly.” Charlie looked unbearably pleased with himself. “Classic avoidance.”
“Yes,” Graham admitted after a moment. “You happy? Yes. Which is inconvenient, seeing as we’ve been divorced eight years.”
Charlie was quiet for a second before saying gently, “Have you told her that?”
Graham groaned instantly. “Not you as well. That’s the second time I’ve been told that this month.”
“Well, maybe you should listen then. I think you should call her,” Charlie said, getting to his feet and slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Should I?”
“Yeah.” Charlie shrugged. “I mean…you only get so many chances with people.”
That sat heavily in the air between them.
Graham looked at the young man opposite him - nervous and hopeful and entirely unaware that his boyfriend was currently planning the exact same proposal with the exact same disastrously romantic intentions.
And, suddenly, Graham understood something with painful clarity: Love wasn’t the rare thing. Courage was. The courage to say it out loud before time got in the way.
Charlie slipped his scarf back round his neck, preparing to leave. “Thanks, Graham.”
“For what?”
Charlie smiled sheepishly. “I dunno. For listening, I guess.”
Graham grunted dismissively. “Part of the service. Now get out of my shop, go on, away with you.”
Charlie walked to the door, before turning to grin at Graham. “I still think you should call Sandra.”
“Christ alive, you’re like a dog with a bone.”
“I’m serious!” Charlie laughed, as he opened the door. “Look, worst-case scenario, she tells you to piss off. But best case?” He shrugged. “You get your person back.”
Graham stared at him for a long moment.
Then muttered, mostly to himself, “You really do think anything’s possible, don’t you?”
Charlie smiled softly at that. Softer than before. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I think maybe I do. So…call her!”
“Out!” Graham barked. He could still hear Charlie laughing halfway down the street. Graham remained standing there for a long while, staring at the closed door. Then Jessica appeared beside him again like an unwanted ghost. “Where have you been, Jess?” he demanded. “Have you been vaping in the bathroom again?”
She shushed him with her hands, the smell of artificial strawberry wafting from them. “Absolutely not,” she denied. “Anyway, never mind that. You’re doing the face, Graham.”
“What face?”
“The emotionally compromised one.”
“I have never once looked emotionally compromised in my life.”
Jessica snorted loudly. “Sure, Jan.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Wait. What do you know?”
Graham looked at her, before a grin spread across his face. “Oh, Jess,” he said, walking towards his workshop. “You have absolutely no idea.”
He sat down at his workstation to have another look at the broken tennis bracelet he’d been attempting to fix before Charlie had walked into his shop, but instead, found himself sitting in silence for a very long time. Until he opened a drawer, where Sandra’s old letters still sat in a stack, bound by an aged rubber band.
💍💍💍
The rings took months. Independent jewellers lived by the timings of suppliers, microscopes, polishing wheels and patience. Graham also, like with all his individually crafted pieces, inspected every stage himself.
The tourmaline arrived first, pale green with flashes of forest and bottle glass. The gold band was shaped by hand, softened and refined.
The platinum ring took longer. Hidden stone settings were fiddly work, and Graham redid the interior channel twice because secret details deserved precision, even if they were sentimental nonsense.
While he worked, he found himself thinking about the two young men with embarrassing frequency. It was the most invested he had felt in strangers for years, and how rare it was, perhaps, to meet people who spoke of love through attention rather than spectacle. He wondered what it must feel like to be looked at the way those two fools looked when talking about each other.
Then he stopped wondering because it was none of his business.
Irritatingly, he also thought about Sandra more than usual…all because those two lovestruck idiots had planted a seed in his brain.
Sandra rolling pastry with too much force when annoyed. Sandra on her 34th birthday attempting cartwheels in the park, refusing to admit defeat. Sandra jokingly sticking an ice cream cone into his face one hot July day. Sandra muttering “absolute prick” under her breath at terrible drivers while smiling pleasantly through the car window. Sandra talking to every dog she passed in the street before acknowledging their owner. Sandra painting her toenails bright pink, her tongue sticking out between her teeth in concentration. Sandra chasing him through IKEA with a lampshade. Sandra buying reduced flowers from supermarkets because she “felt bad for the ugly ones.” Sandra grinning at him from across crowded rooms like they shared a private joke nobody else understood.
Sandra looking at him and loving him like it had once been the simplest thing in the world.
He also wondered exactly when he and Sandra had stopped noticing each other in that way. And, not for the first time, he wondered whether regret was useful if left unused.
At the start of August, Nick was the first to collect.
He arrived twenty minutes early for his appointment, pretending not to be excited and failing. “Well?” he asked, as Graham brought out the box.
“Well, what?”
“Is it good?”
Graham barked with laughter. “It’s a ring, lad, not a GCSE result.”
When he opened the lid, the gold caught the light and the green stone glowed.
Nick was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Until he eventually exhaled a little shaky ‘Ohhh’. “That’s him,” he finally said.
“You’ve said that before,” Graham told him.
“Yeah, but now it’s real.”
Graham showed him the clasped box, care instructions, insurance valuation. Nick nodded to none of it.
“So,” Nick said, as they walked together to the door, “do people ever accidentally ruin proposals?”
“Constantly.”
Nick groaned quietly. “Brilliant.”
“I heard about one guy who fainted before he got the question out.”
“Oh God, that’s going to be me,” Nick wailed.
“No,” Graham said, patting Nick on the arm before he could stop himself. “I don’t think it will.”
Nick looked at him curiously as Graham sighed through his nose. Fuck. He really was getting way too emotionally invested now. Absolutely unacceptable behaviour.
“You know,” he said gruffly, leaning against the door frame, “I used to think all this was mostly nonsense.” He gestured vaguely toward the glittering displays around them. “Rings. Romance. Grand gestures. Expensive stones pretending to mean forever.”
Nick listened quietly.
“But then every so often,” Graham continued, “someone walks in here talking about a person like they hung the bloody moon. And it reminds me I might’ve been wrong."
Nick stared at him. “Wait… you still haven’t called her, have you?”
“No,” Graham admitted. “It’s complicated, it’s not that simple.”
“I understand,” Nick agreed. “But sometimes people use the word complicated because it feels safer than facing their truth.”
Graham frowned. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And already unbearable.”
“Charlie says that too,” Nick said, grinning as he walked out of the shop and down the street.
Charlie collected his ring design ten days later. He entered carrying a tote bag packed full of books and looked like someone who had not slept because of excitement.
“You look dreadful,” Graham told him.
“Thank you, how very kind of you to point it out, Graham,” Charlie laughed. He opened the ring box and immediately teared up.
“Oh no,” Graham said. “None of that.”
“You made me cry!”
“I made a ring. Your own face handled the crying.”
Charlie wiped his eyes. “He’s going to love it.”
“He’d better. I’m too old to redo this.”
“We leave for Kent tomorrow, it’s now scarily, scarily real,” Charlie said, after tucking the ring box into his coat pocket.
“I have no doubt it will go well, I just…have a feeling,” Graham said.
As they walked together to the door, Charlie hesitated. “Can I ask you something weird?”
“You can ask, but I might not answer.”
“After all these years doing, I dunno, this… ” Charlie gestured vaguely at the ring displays. “Do people actually stay happy?”
Graham looked at him for a long moment. Then he thought about Nick describing Charlie like he’d personally hung the moon; Charlie speaking about Nick like loving him was the easiest thing he’d ever done.
About two separate ring designs sitting hidden in the back office on a battered sketchbook, both made by people entirely certain of one another.
Both convinced that they were the lucky one.
Ridiculous, serendipitous fate.
“Some of them do,” Graham answered honestly. “The lucky bastards.”
Charlie smiled at him then. Bright and hopeful enough to make Graham feel about a hundred years old. “You called her yet?” he asked.
“No.”
“Coward,” Charlie smirked.
“OUT!” Graham yelled, smiling before he could stop himself.
Charlie walked out the door, his blue eyes twinkling happily, the bell chiming as he left.
Jessica immediately appeared beside Graham’s shoulder. “Why are you grinning like that?”
“I’m not grinning.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Because those two idiots haven’t got a clue what’s about to happen to them,” he said.
Jessica frowned. “What two idiots?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Graham tinkled happily, reaching for his coat from behind the till. “Lock up at six, would you? Thanks, Jess.”
💍💍💍
Early September brought warm evenings and tourists looking for silver trinkets. One evening just before closing, Graham checked his emails before heading home for the night.
There was a new email, received just after 3pm from [email protected]. The subject line was “WE ARE IDIOTS!!!”.
Grinning madly to himself, Graham opened it to read:
Graham,
You kept our secret twice, which deserves a medal. We both proposed, at the same time, at the same beach…but we suspect you already knew that. It was a total disaster logistically, but perfect emotionally.
Thank you for helping us both make something we’ll wear forever, as well as helping two idiots make it official.
Love doesn’t stay shiny by itself - we know that. But it’s still worth choosing, every day. Tell the people you love that you love them.
Nick and Charlie.
PS - Call Sandra. We mean it.
Graham stared at the screen for several seconds before opening the attachment.
And there they were.
Windblown on the beach at sunset, laughing so hard the photograph had clearly been taken mid-movement. One blonde, one dark-haired, both of them proudly holding up their left hands covered in sand while grinning like complete lunatics.
With the rings that Graham had designed glistening in the evening light.
Graham smiled as he stared at their happy faces, before closing the attachment and reading the email for a second time.
And then a third, because that postscript was outrageous.
Call Sandra.
He realised something had suddenly lodged itself painfully behind his ribs, something warm and human and hopeful.
Two young men. One impossible coincidence. And all this ridiculous, terrifying certainty that love was worth risking yourself for.
He looked again at the postscript.
Call Sandra.
He lifted the photograph of him and Sandra from behind the till, and everything suddenly became clear. A memory of Sandra leaving with two suitcases came to the forefront of his mind. He had spent years assuming there would be time later. Later to apologise properly. Later to be less proud.
Later to ask if later still existed.
Meanwhile, two lovestruck idiots in their twenties had tackled each other into the sand and asked for forever, rather than risk waiting.
Call Sandra.
He picked up the handset of the shop’s antique rotary phone before sense could interfere.
Her number still lived in his hands.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then - “Hello?”
The something painful that had lodged itself behind his ribs vanished on hearing her voice. He cleared his throat.
"Sandra?” he asked, feeling encouraged to continue when he heard her breath hitch. "Hi. It's me."