Page 4 of The Four Engagement Rings of Sybil Rain

That kind of freewheeling chaos was exactly what I needed at the time.

Before Seb, my last serious relationship had been with my high school boyfriend, Liam, the golden boy pastor’s son.

Liam was always on time. Always pressed and polished—and he expected the same perfection from his girlfriend.

After Liam, being with Seb felt like a breath of fresh air.

Like a judgment-free zone where I could let my wildest impulses run free.

I stare at the cute pic of me and Sebastian licking each other’s cotton candy at Coney Island, and casually tap over to Seb’s profile.

Now this , I really haven’t scanned in a while.

There are thousands of new pictures—so many you’d never be able to go back far enough to find any of us together.

Which isn’t surprising since Seb is a professional photographer.

I scroll through pictures of breathtaking landscapes and sun-kissed models, mixed alongside shots of political rallies and war-torn cities.

Without thinking much of it, I “like” one of his more recent shots of an erupting volcano.

Then I cross to the luggage rack and unzip my suitcase.

I’m fishing around for a bathing suit when my phone pings with an incoming DM.

Hey neighbor

It’s Seb. I freeze, instantly panicking. Why is he DMing the second I liked one of his pics? We haven’t talked in years ! Then again, maybe it’s also been that long since I liked one of his pics.

And come to think of it, why is he calling me “neighbor”? Last I knew, Seb was living in Tokyo.

As if intuiting my confusion, he adds: I’m wrapping up a shoot on The Big Island. You’re on Maui?

That’s when I spot the other phone notification, alerting me that Seb has liked the selfie I posted.

Yes! Just got here today. Staying @ Halia Falls Resort. You been? Seb’s been pretty much everywhere.

No! He types back. But always wanted to. That place is supposed to be incredible. My buddy Tim shot a spread there for AD. Who are you there with?

I freeze. We’ve never talked about it, but I’m sure Seb knows by now that my wedding to Jamie fell through.

Just me! Hanging on the beach solo. Unless you were planning to hop over on a puddle jumper lol

I have no idea why I hit send. I look pathetic, desperate. Am I really so incapable of being alone that I need to recruit an ex-turned-friend to come keep me company? I see that he’s typing something, but nothing appears. Then, a minute later: Sybil, Sybil, Sybil is all he writes.

What what what

Oh nothing. You just haven’t changed at all have you?

Lol , I text back stupidly, for what feels the millionth time. I can feel it—how I’m just trying to keep the conversation going because the attention feels good. But his question gnaws at me a little bit.

Haven’t I changed? I have a new job, a nice new place—my first time living alone, even—and my friends keep telling me how proud they are of me, of how far I’ve come in the past year since everything fell apart.

While I’m still scrambling to think of something else to say, he messages again: Listen, I gotta run but save me a spot on the sand ;)

I consider replying again, but he’s already logged off.

Quickly, I close the app and throw my phone on the bed.

My face is warm, my palms a little sweaty.

I decide to blame this on the open balcony door, letting the warm air in—and not on any physical reaction to that stupid flirty convo with Seb.

His banter means nothing, and I, better than anyone, should know this.

The man could hit on a rock and make it blush.

It’s funny—the men I’ve dated don’t fall into any one “type.” Where Sebastian was a natural-born flirt, Jamie was endearingly awkward.

And my high school boyfriend Liam—always-correct, always-in-charge—could not have been more different from the other two.

Yet, there seems to be a common denominator to all these past relationships: every single one ended disastrously.

I pull myself off the bed and return to my bag, riffling around for my bathing suit and cover-up.

I want to get out to the pool before the heat of the day really sets in.

But as I’m rummaging, my hands land on a small black velvet pouch.

At first, I’m confused. I packed my jewelry for the trip in a larger polka-dot travel case.

I lift the pouch from my suitcase with shaky hands as I realize what this is.

I’ve barely traveled in the last year, not since the wedding-that-wasn’t.

I haven’t gone anywhere long enough to warrant my full-size suitcase.

The last time I used it, the luggage was hastily packed by Nikki while Emma was dealing with all the cancellation logistics and Willow rubbed my back as I sobbed.

Nikki must have tossed the pouch into the suitcase that June day with everything else—my rehearsal dinner dress, the lingerie I was supposed to wear on my wedding night.

And I must have missed that it was still in here when I was packing to come to Hawaii.

I take a deep breath and pull the drawstring of the pouch, emptying its contents into my cupped hand. It’s like my entire past glares back at me: in the form of three little rings.

Engagement rings, to be precise. One’s a simple gold vintage band with a small citrine stone in a filigreed setting, then beside it there’s the delicate strand of kelp twined around itself into a makeshift ring, and finally, the third: a shiny new platinum band with a massive teardrop diamond. My three perfect messes, my almosts.

A voice in my head—one I’ve been working on ignoring—whispers softly: good enough to fall in love with, but never enough to last .

No. I’m not going there. Not right now, while I’m at one of the most beautiful resorts on the planet.

This is a time for sunbathing, not wallowing.

I pour the rings back into the pouch, pull the drawstring, and toss it unceremoniously back into my suitcase.

In the bathroom, I splash my face with cool water, pat it dry, spritz a little face mist, and dab some lip gloss.

Pull out the braid I wore for the flight and let my hair hang loose and wavy, not bothering to comb it.

Then I locate my tangled pile of swimsuits and yank out a casual, nautical-striped two-piece along with a white linen button-down, not minding if a few other items tip out of my bag in the process. I’ll deal with the cleanup later.

With my straw beach bag slung on my shoulder and my worn-in leather thong sandals on my feet, I retrace the path I took with Ash, back toward the infinity pool.

I’ve barely sat down on one of the lounge chairs when an attendant appears to hand me a fluffy white towel.

I thank him, then take a deep breath, letting the warm breeze drifting in off the ocean blow away the weird anxious energy I’d been feeling in my hotel room.

I allow my mind to go blissfully blank like Gwendolyn taught me to do when my feelings threaten to overwhelm me.

Breathe.

This is going to be a great week. I’ll enjoy the pool, maybe do some hiking, check out the eclipse, and try to get inspired for some fresh social campaigns for Flowies.

Who cares that this trip was once supposed to be a honeymoon?

I’m not going to let that pesky detail ruin what would otherwise be a phenomenal vacation.

Who knows, maybe I’ll even meet a guy here!

Once I’m settled, I snap a quick selfie for the girls with the pool and ocean in the background.

Nikki: looks amazing sybs! [heart-eye emoji]

Willow: gorgeous—you and the view!

Emma: don’t forget sunblock!!!

I grin down at my phone and dutifully start applying some SPF, though Emma is the one who burns just running outside to grab the mail. I’m a natural tanner, but she’s always telling me the damage is just as bad.

I’m just about to lean back in my chair and pull out my e-reader when something stops me.

A deep voice, coming from the near end of the pool. “You must be kidding me.”

A deep, familiar voice.

I pivot my body toward it.

It can’t be…

But it is. The dark hair, dripping wet as he emerges from the pool. The broad shoulders and rippling chest and slightly scruffy, day-after-a-shave shadow…

For a minute, I’m afraid my fantasy from the bedroom earlier has come to life, that I’m hallucinating.

My voice gets trapped halfway up my throat as I blurt out in surprise, “Jamie?”