Page 23 of The Four Engagement Rings of Sybil Rain

THE SECOND RING

S EBASTIAN W ALLACE- C ONWAY IS THE REASON WHY I NEVER LEAVE HOME without my passport. He blew into my life on a sultry summer night six years ago, cajoled me onto a flight to South Africa a week later, and hasn’t ever fully exited my life since.

Then, while waiting in line for some supposedly life-changing doughnut, I met a woman named Amity Floyd, who complimented my outfit (specifically, my turquoise feather-bottomed pajama pants).

Turned out she was an ex–soap opera star, which of course I had a million questions about.

We ended up talking and sharing doughnuts for over an hour and somehow it came up that she needed a house-sitter for a week while she was out of the country.

She was worried about leaving her home unattended during high season, something about rowdy neighbors who wouldn’t stay out of her pool.

I jumped at the chance. Firstly, because who turns down a paid week in the Hamptons?

And secondly, because my mom’s words from a few days before were still ringing in my ear.

You lost another job? I’m giving you six more months in New York, then I’m pulling the plug.

But this job, house-sitting for Amity Floyd, was going to be a walk in the park.

I was going to Eat, Pray, Love my way through the week and get back to the city fully refreshed.

I was going to be a lady of leisure. If I ended up inviting a friend or twelve back to the house, I was sure I could have it cleaned up before I left.

And if I ended up with someone else in my bed for a night or two, that wouldn’t be the worst either.

It’d been years since I’d been in a serious relationship, not since my high school boyfriend, Liam.

I was enjoying being unattached in New York, letting myself fall into whatever romantic escapades the universe threw my way, but the truth was lately, nearly all the action in my love life came courtesy of the romance section at the Union Square Barnes & Noble and a vibrator Willow had mailed me because I “sounded stressed.” Maybe I just needed some new scenery.

To get away from the city and its teeming population of finance bros and skinny-mustached writers.

This trip to the Hamptons, I’d decided, was going to be the best week of my life.

Whatever troubles I had could wait until I was back in the city next Sunday.

I’d arrived at Penn Station with a whole three minutes to spare, and even managed to snag a seat on what I knew would be a full train.

Sure enough, as we traveled east, more and more people crowded into the car.

At Jamaica, the big transfer station in Queens, a gaggle of college girls clambered on, a cloud of spray-on sunscreen and Marc Jacobs Daisy in their wake.

Then, just as the doors were about to close, a man shot through them, nearly losing his balance before grabbing onto one of the handrails.

The commotion—along with the wave of giggles that spread through the girls—caught my attention.

The man who boarded the train was so gorgeous I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn’t imagining him.

Golden hair, a partially buttoned Oxford shirt, rumpled khaki shorts, and canvas shoes.

Blue, blue eyes. They met mine, and my whole body felt electrified.

More people crowded onto the train, and Hot Oxford kept getting pushed farther and farther away from me.

Wedged in between the window and a girl in a crop top starting her second bottle of rosé, there was no way I could casually start up a conversation with him.

He smiled at me, then motioned to the mob of people between us, shaking his head in regret.

For the rest of the ride, it was like my body was attuned to his, my eyes constantly drifting toward his end of the train car, watching as his hair ruffled under the AC vent, how the bright sun glinted off his blue eyes.

Finally, the train pulled into the Bridgehampton stop, and about half the passengers began to clear the train car.

This was my moment. He was walking my way.

I was going to talk to him. But then he shot me a smirk and a small salute before pulling a beat-up leather bag from the overhead bins and exiting the train car.

I seriously considered getting off too. But I had to make this job work.

I couldn’t jeopardize it for a pair of perfect blue eyes and tousled blond hair.

I watched through the window as he stood for a moment on the platform, as if he, too, was mourning the loss of what could have been.

And then, the train rumbled back to life, carrying me away with it.

Ten minutes later, I got off at the East Hampton stop, wrestling my luggage out of the train before calling a car to take me to the address Amity had sent last week.

After so long in the city, I’d forgotten how good air could smell when it wasn’t steeped in piles of garbage and pumped full of exhaust fumes.

The Lyft passed between a towering privet hedge and crunched over pea gravel before pulling to a stop in front of an enormous shingle-style house.

I couldn’t believe I was going to spend the next week here.

The inside was just as colorful and opulent as I would have expected of a former soap star.

In the entryway, whose walls were adorned in a vivid chartreuse wallpaper, a massive, curved staircase rose up to the higher floors.

I flicked on the modern chandeliers and passed poppy Ashley Longshore–esque paintings, as I walked from one vibrant yet tastefully decorated room to the next, finally ending up in a gigantic sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto an immaculately manicured lawn bordered with fluffy white hydrangeas.

Hanging above the massive fireplace was a portrait of Amity surrounded by four very short-legged corgis.

After settling into a black-and-white-film–inspired guest room with a view of the ocean, I took one of the bikes in the garage—which I could not picture Amity ever riding—to the closest grocery store and stocked up on cheese, crackers, sparkling water, and Honey Nut Cheerios.

While I was loading up my bike basket, I spotted a flash of golden hair across the street.

My heart started hammering wildly. It was the guy from the train.

There he was, across the street, coming out of a liquor store straining under two large boxes.

I threw my Brie into the basket and made to rush across the busy two-way road to—to what?

To say hi? To introduce myself? To ask if he felt the same strange, cosmic pull between us?

But by the time the light changed, he’d loaded the boxes into his car and merged into traffic.

I considered flagging him down, but as the thought occurred to me, I suddenly realized how insane that would be.

What if he didn’t even remember me from earlier this afternoon?

He was so gorgeous, I bet he made eyes at girls on every train ride.

Deciding I also needed some wine to make it through the next week, I crossed the street safely and ducked into the liquor store that Hot Oxford had just left.

Back at the house, I sent texts to everyone I knew was out east this weekend, but didn’t get any bites.

It looked like I was going to be riding solo tonight.

I poured myself another glass of wine and carefully made my way upstairs to watch the sunset from the terrace off the primary suite.

This is fine , I told myself. I could handle seven days of a solitary existence.

It might even be good for me. Zen, or something.

A chance to figure out what the hell I was doing with my life.

(And/or take a casual scroll through Hamptons Tinder.)

But as soon as I opened the balcony door, I was hit by the pounding thump of bass from what was apparently a pretty happening party next door.

Looking down over the hedges separating the properties, I could see a DJ was set up at the far end of the neighbor’s pool, and guests were moving between the cocktail tables set up outside and in the interior of a house even more enormous than Amity’s.

I leaned my arms over the railing, watching, feeling the energy, the life that was emanating from below.

Embrace the Zen , I told myself. You don’t need to go crash a party just because you’re bored and lonely…

Oh, who was I kidding? There’s no amount of inner peace that beats good music and an open bar.

I hadn’t brought anything cocktail attire–worthy, and I paused for a moment before remembering the huge walk-in closet in the primary suite. If I borrowed something, I could totally dry-clean it before I left, and she’d never know, right?

The closet was full of color and flamboyance, to be expected of someone like Amity.

To be honest, it was the closet of my dreams, if I had a couple more zeros to my name.

Skimming my hand along the dresses lining the far wall, my gaze caught on something sparkling in the far corner.

I pulled the hanger from the closet rod to get a better look.

It was a shell-pink slip with a shimmery mesh overlay.

It felt like something a mermaid might choose if she came ashore.

I slid on a pair of my own shoes since Amity’s were all three sizes too small, swiped on a magenta lip, and slipped out the front door before I could change my mind.

I crunched down the crushed-shell driveway and onto the sidewalk.

There was a line of cars waiting for the valet stand backed up all the way to Amity’s house.

A small group of arriving guests were walking toward an arched trellis that led around the house into the backyard, and I hustled up to walk close behind, like I belonged with them, then peeled off as soon as I was halfway across the lawn.