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Of course Mark's tried it on, and it fits perfectly. He wonders how Eduardo knew his ring size, considering he doesn't know his ring size. “How do you think he did it?” he asks Dustin. “It's not like asking a roommate to look in a closet for a size tag or whatever.”
“I have no idea,” Dustin says.
So maybe Mark likes to wear it sometimes – the weight and feel of it are nice, yet it doesn't get in the way of coding or making sandwiches. He's curious what it's made of. “It's probably not silver,” he speculates. “Maybe white gold? Actually, platinum seems more Wardo, doesn't it?”
“Definitely," Dustin agrees.
Their initials are engraved on the inside. “So I can't tell which of our initials is supposed to be first. Do you think maybe it's alphabetical? Or maybe he put his first because he initiated this whole thing.”
“Neither of you are first,” Dustin says. “Because it's a circle.”
So maybe Mark wears the ring to a Giants game. He doesn't give a shit about baseball, but maybe someone will recognize him and a picture will end up online or in People Magazine, and there will be all kinds of gossip and speculation and stuff. When Eduardo hears about it, he'll intuitively know right away what it is and what it means.
Dustin, best-friend-cum-billionaire, has a moral problem paying stadium prices for beer but keeps them coming because he wants Mark to have fun. He doesn't ridicule him for doing things left-handed and flamboyantly to make his ring finger more visible, and later, he will try unsuccessfully to shield Mark from the fact that the only celebrity news borne of the game was that Zooey Deschanel tripped in the stands and sprained a wrist.
*
“Did you know about the ring? Before he threw it at me? And have you spoken to him since?”
“No, Mark. To all of those questions."
"Your patience is wearing thin and I get that, but seriously. It's so fucked up I have to talk about it. Like, why would anyone give a ring to somebody they hadn't even slept with? And me of all people? It makes no sense."
"Has it ever occurred to you that you should be talking to him about this stuff instead of me?”
Mark bites his lip and nods, because he thinks about it every day.
*
He starts wearing the ring all the time. It should act as a grim reminder of a bad time and his ridiculous mistakes, but it's comforting somehow, like an invisible thread connects them and maybe Eduardo's brought some small measure of peace because he wears it.
He thinks about it at work, zoned out with his elbows on the desk and chin in his hands. If Eduardo felt that way about him once, some shred of it must be left; he's just wounded and hiding and upset. So maybe Mark could stage a sloppy emotional gesture of his own, like clever rhyming instructions to meet him for a picnic. Or skywriting. It would be so insanely out of character for him it might actually work.
Dustin sneaks up on his left and takes a picture with his phone. “You look adorable right now.”
“Fuck off. And why are you taking my picture? Please don't send it to People Magazine. That was a dumb idea and I'm not proud of it.”
“I'm not sending it to People Magazine,” Dustin says, tap-tap-tapping.
“So who are you sending it to?”
Dustin smiles as only he can.
“No. You're not.”
Dustin laughs, turns, and runs.
*
So the picture bounces off a few satellites and presumably winds up in Singapore. Mark's harassment is immediate and lasts all day. “Have you heard back yet?”
“Not yet,” Dustin says.
“How about now?”
“He probably hasn't seen it yet 'cause of the time difference. Ask me tomorrow.”
“Would you mind checking anyway? Just in case?”
“Quit bothering me or I'm not gonna help you, okay? Fixate on something else.”
Mark fixates on lining up coffin nails for FBML; it distracts him for about a day, after which Dustin has actual news to report. “So I talked to Eduardo.”
“What did he say? Did he say anything about me?”
“It was sort of a difficult conversation.”
“Why?”
“He's not the same person. Well, okay, he warmed up and sounded more like himself after a while, but he's still pretty upset.”
“Tell me every word he said.”
“He talked about Singapore."
"What else?"
"He says he's happy but...I don't believe him."
"What else?"
"He's trying to figure out why he forms diabolically deep attachments to people who hurt him.”
Mark's first thought is diabolically attached sounds promising. His second thought is that he's a disgusting person for thinking that.
His third thought is that this is way more complicated than his original estimate.
*
Mark knows annoying Dustin to the breaking point won't help his cause, so he tries subterfuge. He creates a fake errand and casually strolls back into the office with a hot tip. “So there are two cute girls with a box of free kittens outside. You should go check 'em out.”
“Oooo! Don't mind if I dooo!” Dustin sings, and sails off as if he's on roller skates. Mark takes his phone off his desk and tries to file the hard edges out of his words so he doesn't sound like himself.
Eduardo answers on the fourth ring with a voice sexy and low, like he's in bed. “Hu-lo?”
“Hey, Wardo. I'm super sorry to bother you but Mark's a mess.”
“Huh. What's new.”
“He can't sleep. He's snapping at interns and I caught him crying in his car. I'm begging you to call him.”
“Dustin,” Eduardo groans. “It's like 4:00 AM.”
“Shit. I always forget about the time difference.”
“You didn't last time,” Eduardo says softly, then, “Jesus Christ. Mark, does Dustin know you have his phone?”
“This isn't Mark!” Mark insists, knowing just how stupid he probably sounds.
“I'm hanging up now.”
“Wait, no. Wait! I have to know! Why a ring and why me?”
“Don't ever call this number again,” Eduardo says, and hangs up.
*
Mark carefully calculates the time difference, waits for a reasonable hour (to Eduardo, not him) and tries again from his own phone, operating on the logic that not waking him up might render him less cranky.
But a recording informs him that the number has been disconnected.
*
He whines to Dustin – without confessing to the phone theft, of course. “I'm starting to second-guess my value as a person,” he says. “Like I'm gonna die crusty and alone, never loved by anyone.” He pauses for effect. “Do you think Eduardo loved me?”
“I know he did. He was so much in love with you he thought he'd never get out.”
“But he's out now.”
“Yeah,” Dustin shrugs sadly. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” Mark says. “I'm gonna try to drag him back in.”
“I really think you should leave him alone. He doesn't want to talk to you.”
“Tell him you're sick of being in the middle. Tell him...”
“Mark, he's gonna sue you,” Dustin says, looking pained. “Can you leave me out of this? Please?”
“Okay.” Mark says, and has to close his eyes for a second because it's like he has three gimbals in his head, spinning three different ways.
After the urge to puke passes, he starts making phone calls and raises his voice a handful of times to get what he wants. It's like he's in a movie, saying big stuff like, No, I will not hold, and I don't care. Just make it happen.
Then he takes the rest of the day off and goes to Papyrus, where he buys expensive stationery and a heavy pen. After worming his way into the shareholder mailing list from home, he addresses an envelope and starts to write.
Dear Eduardo,
I joined a fountain pen ink-of-the-month club in the vain hope it will somehow turn you on.
So I've repealed the dilution. It's funneled through your lawyers - I assume you
have a PoA in place so you shouldn't have to sign or see any of the papers if
you don't want to. I know we can't pretend it never happened, but this is the
best I can do right now. It's probably not nearly enough and I'm sorry.
M.
P.S. We should discuss why you threw a ring box at me.
P.P.S. They're calling this “Crisp Navy”
Eduardo's response takes five weeks. The envelope contains Mark's letter, cut into slivers by a cross-cut shredder, as well as a note of his own:
DON'T WRITE TO ME
Mark's devastated for a long thirty minutes, but then he painstakingly cuts out the letters with scissors, rearranges them, and pastes them to an index card to spell:
REMITTENT WOOD
Underneath, he adds:
This month's ink is called Soft Black.
Eduardo shreds and returns every letter, but Mark keeps writing...updates and cartoons and apologies. Sometimes he's even serious.
You've seen me at my worst. Wardo, I think you even loved me at my worst.
Give me the chance to be careful with you. Please. I don't care about the time difference. Just call.
This month's color is Claret.
Eduardo writes:
I'm still really sad, okay?
...and Mark's response is the first one not returned in tiny shreds.
I'll wait.
P.S. Fir Green
Eduardo probably won't notice, but Mark changes his relationship status to “Pining like a motherfucker.”
When sufficient epistolary groundwork is laid and they agree to speak on the phone, Eduardo's clearly reading from pre-written notes.
“I appreciate your undoing the dilution but this has never, ever been about money. You fucked up every corner of my life, you know. My relationship with my family will never be the same. My relationship with people hasn't even recovered, and sometimes I worry I'm turning into you. Pushing people away is a lot easier than getting close to anyone.”
“That's dumb, Wardo. I'm telling you, it doesn't work.”
“Thanks, asshole,” Eduardo says, deviating from his script.
“Well, it doesn't. And I'm sorry for interrupting.”
“Where'd you get that many spare shares, anyway? Are they yours?”
“It doesn't matter where they came from,” Mark says as his face warms. “And we didn't arrange this call to discuss administrative details. Please continue with what you were saying.”
“Okay,” Eduardo says, pausing to clear his throat. “So...I thought we'd be unstoppable together. Like I'd fit into all the holes around you, and the things I don't have you have. So I got the ring...” He's definitely reading again. “Because I thought we could take it really, really slow and everything would fall into place. I know you can't talk about how you feel and stuff, and the truth is I'm bad at it, too.”
“No way. You're great at it.”
“Next to you maybe, but I'm really not. That's why I reduced everything to an object. That I threw at you. On the worst day of my life.”
“I think we can fit back into...whatever that was before, and everything will be okay.” Mark knows this is ludicrous even as he says it. But it's better than not saying it.
Eduardo sighs and crumples up his notes, and they're both quiet for a long time. “Dustin says you wear it.”
“I do. Every day.”
“Was it hard to get used to?”
“Not at all.”
“Huh.”
Mark chews on a hoodie string and wonders what to say next. Maybe he should have gone into this with notes, too. “Is Singapore street food as good as everyone says?” he asks.
“Better.”
“Are you fat now?”
Eduardo's smile comes through in his voice. “No.”
There's a little bit of silence and both think how long it's been since they did this, smiling in-between volleys and trying to keep ahead of the other. It's like the comfort of a forgotten smell, the softness of favorite clothes.
Mark thinks about the curve of Eduardo's neck and that patent slow blink he does when he's tired. He really should've pulled his head out of Facebook's ass earlier and capitalized on Eduardo's feelings when they were hot. “You wanna get on Skype and jerk off with me?”
”No!” Eduardo laughs.
“Someday?”
“No!”
“Really?”
“Mark, what the hell?”
“Just cutting to the chase. Whatever.”
“God.”
Now that they're a little bit closer, Mark asks what he's wanted to know for months. “Um...so did you think we'd get...married? Or...”
“The ring was gonna mean whatever you'd let it mean. I've always been happy with friendship, but I thought it would've turned into more than that.” Mark's in complete agreement and can't believe how blind he'd been not to not pioneer that campaign himself. Eduardo adds, “I spent hours thinking about you. About us.”
“Like...even bedroom stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, you fucking me?” He shivers just imagining it. “Or me fucking you?”
“Both.”
Mark's hand has been in his pants for most of the conversation anyway – just as a security thing, but holy shit. “Dammit, Wardo, put on some Barry White and get on Skype. We're doing this.”
“No.”
“Then come see me.”
“I'm not ready. And it'll be a long time before I am.”
Fucking great. “Are you at least closer than you were a month ago?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine,” Mark says softly. “I'll wait.” There's nothing else to say; he listens to the breathing on the other side of the line for a few seconds and says, “Well...guess I'll go jerk off by my myself, then.”
Eduardo's pretty stoic and barely gives him the benefit of a laugh. “Good luck with that.”
“We'll talk again, right?”
“If that's your plan I guess it's inevitable.”
“You're correct. Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Mark's incredibly impatient about all of this, so he comes up with an idea. One that might bring it all full circle.
He polls the interns to determine who wouldn't mind doing some extended international business travel. After weeding out those with serious relationships and/or pets, he selects a willing candidate to fly to Singapore to stalk Eduardo and throw ring boxes at him.
He plants small objects in them: A peanut. Two pennies from the years they were born, sandwiched together. A bee made from chenille. A curl of dry macaroni. Dice. A platinum band with their initials inside, a half-size bigger than his.
Mark's instructions are explicit. “Throw one, wait a day. Throw the second, wait two days, and so on. He'll probably try to talk to you, but don't let him engage you. That's not a pun, it's an order. Don't even make eye contact with him, just walk up to him on the street, throw it, and run.”
*
Eduardo calls after the bee. “Mark, this is ridiculous.”
“It was ridiculous when you did it, too. Although it's good that we limit the ridiculousness to each other instead of dragging other people down with us.”
“You dragged Dustin into it. Not to mention the poor lackey you've got following me.”
“He's not a lackey, he's an intern.”
“What's his name, anyway?” Eduardo asks. “I'd like to be able to say hello when he ambushes me on the street with his little projectiles.”
“It doesn't matter what his name is. Just let him do his thing.”
Eduardo sighs, but Mark detects faint amusement. “How much longer are you gonna do this?”
“I dunno. A month. A year. Maybe forever.”
*
Mark has two weeks until the ring, so he immerses himself in work and is elbow deep in code when when Dustin (who wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important) pounds him on the back. “Fuck, Dust!" he snarls. "What are you, a monkey?”
“Eduardo's charm broke your intern.”
“I don't know what that means.”
“He talked to him and took him out to lunch.”
“Goddammit...”
“I know!” Dustin beams. “He's got all the boxes now and they're both on their way back.”
*
Mark arrives at the airport early, and it's a nice day – the sun's out and it's uncharacteristically warm. It couldn't be more different than that night in Palo Alto when he fucked it all up, hiding behind casualness and licorice while poor Eduardo dripped on the carpet, smelling like wet wool and defeat.
The heat's made his hands swell. He thought not wearing the ring would lessen the pressure of the whole encounter, but he can't even get it off with liquid soap. Keeping his left hand close is sort of a leftover fencing habit anyway so he'll hide it in a pocket. No big deal.
He stands on his toes as people file out of the gate. He strains and stretches and looks and...there's the intern. And there's Eduardo next to him in dark jeans and an oxford shirt that somehow manages to look pressed after an 18 hour flight. It looks like he's had a recent haircut, but there's a new casualness about him – the jeans are part of it, but his sleeves are rolled up two turns.
Mark almost folds at the knees, because Eduardo's wearing it. On his left hand.
He's wearing it.