Eight Years Too Late For Regret

The Callahan family was set to announce my departure in exactly one week.

This concert, and specifically the fan-request segment, was the final chance I was giving us. My hand was shoved deep into my pocket, fingers white-knuckled around a velvet ring box. It was a pre-arranged signal with the event organizers: as soon as the song request ended, the lights would stay on us, and I would ask her to marry me.

The spotlight danced across the crowd, flickering between me and Lauren before finally locking onto us.

In my earpiece, my best friend Mikes voice crackled with frantic excitement. "The light stopped! Go, man! This is it!"

My face flushed as I turned toward Lauren. I reached for the microphone being handed to us by a stagehand, my heart hammering against my ribs.

But Lauren didn't even look at me. With a practiced, dismissive grace, she reached out and intercepted the mic before my fingers could touch it.

She didn't use it. Instead, she turned and handed it to Parker, her junior associate, who was sitting on her other side.

"The light hit him first, really," she said, her voice smooth and airy. "Its Parkers first time at a show like this. Let him have his moment."

She reached over and patted my cheek, her touch light and infuriatingly maternal. "Don't be a sourpuss, honey."

Parker beamed, taking the mic with a triumphant grin, and immediately requested a saccharine pop ballad. Lauren started the applause, her eyes fixed on the stage.

In my ear, Mikes voice went up an octave. "Are you kidding me? Parker again? What is wrong with her?"

I could only manage a hollow, jagged smile. Lauren would never understand that it wasn't just a microphone she had taken.

...

On stage, the singer hesitated for a heartbeat, cleared his throat awkwardly, and began to play.

Mike was losing it in my ear. "What is Laurens deal? New Years fireworks? She brings Parker. Your birthday dinner? Parkers there. Now this? Is she dating him or adopting him?"

He paused, his voice softening. "Tom... Im sorry. I didnt mean... dont let it get to you."

I stared at the stage, the music a dull roar in my ears. "Its fine, Mike. Youre not saying anything I haven't thought."

Laurens excuse was always the same: efficiency. Parker was her right hand; he kept her schedule tight, handled the "overflow." He was the buffer between her and the world, and apparently, the buffer between her and me.

"The restaurant is ready," Mike whispered, his frustration bleeding back in. "The balloons are up, the banner is hangingCongratulations Thomas and Laureneveryone is just waiting for the signal. What do we do? Do we still wait?"

I felt the sharp edge of the ring box biting into my palm.

"Don't wait, Mike," I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. "Send everyone home."

What was there to wait for? I didn't even have the mic.

I pulled the earpiece out and shoved it into my pocket.

One carat. I had spent months agonizing over the cut. I remembered creeping into our bedroom while Lauren napped, using a piece of embroidery thread to measure her ring fingerthree loops, held steady with a trembling hand.

Id spent two months coordinating with the tour's production team. Id recorded a three-minute videoeight years of our lives distilled into flickering frames. Messages from our friends, ending with a shot of me looking directly into the lens. Id recorded that final sentence seventeen times just to make sure my voice didn't crack.

On stage, the song ended. The crowd erupted into whistles and cheers. To anyone watching, Lauren and Parker looked like the golden couple of the night.

Lauren finally glanced at me, noticing my folded arms. "Whats wrong?"

"Nothing," I said.

As the crowd surged toward the exits, she tucked her arm through mine, shielding me from the crush of people with her usual protective instinct.

"Are you pouting? Over a song request?" She was already scrolling through her phone, her thumb flying across the screen. "Honestly, Tom. Ill buy out a private venue for you next week. You can sing until your voice goes hoarse."

Next week.

Next time.

Later.

The three pillars of our relationship.

"Lauren," I said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

She kept walking for two paces before realizing I wasn't with her. She turned, looking at me with a mix of confusion and mounting boredom.

"We had a deal," I said. "Eight years. You told me that after eight years, wed settle it. Its been eight years."

She tucked her phone into her blazer pocket and laughed. It was that laughthe one that suggested I was being adorable and exhausting all at once.

"Whats the rush? Ive got three acquisitions closing by December. Once the dust settles in the New Year, well sit down and plan the wedding. Properly."

The New Year.

The goalposts moved again. Just like they had three years ago when I tried to take her home to meet my parents in Boston. The flights were booked, the bags packed. Then her secretary called about an emergency bid. She cancelled.

"What's the rush?" shed said back then. "My in-laws aren't going anywhere."

I had flown home alone with two sets of gifts. When my mother asked where she was, I lied and said it was a last-minute board meeting.

We reached the car. As I climbed into the passenger seat, she reached over, her thumb tracing my jawline.

"Ill buy you that watch you were looking at," she murmured. "Consider it a peace offering. Okay?"

I pulled away, my head hitting the headrest.

She froze.

"Lauren, stop. Don't try to manage me."

"I don't need a watch."

Lauren raised an eyebrow, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Fine. Youre in a mood. Go to sleep, youll feel better in the morning."

She glanced at her phone. "Parker just texted. He left his tablet at the venue. Im going to run back and help him find it."

I nodded slowly. "Right. Of course."

I got out. I didn't wait for her to say goodbye. She watched me from the driver's seat for a second, sensing something was off, but then her taillights flickered, and she pulled away into the night.

I walked up to our penthouse alone.

In the living room, her coat was draped over the sofa, smelling faintly of her signature rose perfume. I walked out onto the balcony. The sliding door creaked. On the railing, there was a faint, jagged inscription.

She had carved it with her keys the day we moved in. Shed been so proud, even though shed chipped the paint.

Thomas Callahan, one day Im going to marry you and never let you go.

That was the year she got her first round of venture capital. She had been radiant, spinning me around in the empty living room. "Once the business is solid, Tom, Im giving you the wedding of the century."

I believed her.

I waited one year. She said the company was too fragile.

I waited three years. She said they were expanding.

I waited five years. She said "next year, for sure."

Eight years.

I ran my finger over the rusted carving. The metal was cold and pitted.

The ring box in my pocket felt like a lead weight. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The diamond caught the light from the living room, mocking me with its brilliance.

I thought if she wouldn't ask, I would. I spent three months preparing. The venue, the video, the ring, Mikes help.

And all I got was a front-row seat to her handing the mic to someone else.

The front door clicked. I snapped the box shut and shoved it into a drawer.

Lauren walked in, tossing her keys onto the marble console. She saw me staring out at the city and sighed.

"Still on about that? Come on, Tom. Its late. Lets go to bed."

I didn't move. "Did Parker find his tablet?"

"Yeah."

She walked past me, unfastening her watch.

"Lauren," I called out.

"Were done. I want to break up."

She stopped mid-stride. A short, sharp huff of a laugh escaped her.

"Because of a song request? Are you serious right now?"

"Hes a kid, Tom. It was his first big show. Why are you being so territorial?"

"Am I not allowed to have people in my life besides you?"

Her voice took on that weary, 'dealing-with-a-child' tone. "Look, I said Id buy out a venue for you. Just drop it. I have to meet with investors tomorrow."

She started toward the master suite. I looked at her back and spoke clearly.

"The Callahan family is hosting a gala in a week. Theyre going to make an announcement."

"After that, you and I are finished."

Lauren stopped. She turned slowly, leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

"Lets get one thing straight, Tom." Her voice had dropped the sweetness. Now, it was cold. Corporate. "If youre trying to use your family to pressure me into a wedding, its not going to work."

"Is that what this is? You're so desperate for a title that you're threatening me? This 'hard to get' act doesn't suit you."

I didn't answer.

She had no idea. The gala had nothing to do with her.

The Callahan family was announcing that I was renouncing my inheritance to join an eight-year, classified government research initiative. A "black site" project. I would be off the grid, my identity scrubbed from public records for nearly a decade.

The gala was my familys way of saying goodbye. A formal notice to the world that Thomas Callahan was no longer a person of interest.

But Lauren, in her infinite arrogance, thought the world revolved around her timeline.

"What did those deadbeat friends of yours tell you?" she snapped. "That this was a good idea? Do you have any idea how busy I am?"

Busy.

She was busy. Busy enough to spend forty minutes on "work calls" with Parker at midnight. Busy enough to remember exactly how Parker liked his lattes, but forgetting that I was allergic to shellfish.

She was busy enough to organize a surprise balloon wall for Parkers birthday and post it on Instagram with the caption: So proud of my team.

Her time, her attention, her detailsthey all went somewhere. It just wasn't to me.

"Im in the middle of a sprint. I have three sets of investors to see before New Years. Every move I make has to be perfect," she said, rubbing her temples.

"And you choose now to pull this? Think about what you're doing, Tom. Get some sleep and act like an adult."

She turned to leave.

"Lauren."

She paused.

"Youre right," I said to her back. "I'm playing a game."

"So... will you marry me?"

Lauren didn't turn around. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

"Go to sleep, Tom," she said quietly.

She walked into her study and closed the door.

A wave of bitterness washed over me. I knew the answer, yet I had still asked. Maybe after eight years, I just needed to hear the silence one last time.

Late that night, I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was a stack of printed A4 papers, the edges yellowed and curled. Two years ago, Id spent weeks curating wedding inspirationvenues, floral arrangements, invitation fonts.

I remember bringing them to her, glowing with excitement. Shed been on a call. Shed covered the mouthpiece and whispered, "Later, honey," while waving me away.

Two years. "Later" never came.

My phone buzzed. It was Mike.

"The restaurant is cleared out. Tom, Im still fuming. You spent three months on this and she just..."

"Its okay, Mike. Im leaving anyway."

The other end of the line went silent for a long time.

"You're sure? Eight years here, and then eight years away. When you get back... everything will be different."

"I know."

"You aren't even going to tell her the truth?"

"There's nothing left to say, Mike."

Mike didn't speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was thick. "Ill keep the banner for a while. Just in case..."

"Mike."

"Yeah?"

"Throw it away."

Day four of the cold war.

Lauren was out before I woke and back long after Id retreated to the guest room. On the rare occasion we crossed paths in the living room, she was on her phone, and I was staring at the TV. We were like two ghosts haunting the same hallways.

Mike, sensing my downward spiral, dragged me out for dinner.

"Don't just rot in that apartment," he said. "I booked a private room. You can vent, scream, whatever you need."

We got to the restaurant, but before the appetizers arrived, I heard a burst of familiar laughter from the suite next door.

My blood turned to ice.

Mikes face paled. "We can leave. Let's go somewhere else"

I shook my head. "No. Stay."

Parkers voice carried clearly through the wall. "Lauren, I still feel bad about the concert. That mic was meant for Tom. I was so out of line. Maybe I should call him and apologize?"

"It has nothing to do with you," Laurens voice was cool, effortless. "I gave it to you. You took it. End of story."

She was protecting him. Shielding him in front of their colleagues. Whenever I went to her office, she made me keep my distance, citing "professional boundaries."

A mutual friends voice chimed in. "But Lauren, I heard Tom had something big planned that night? Like, a whole thing?"

There was a brief silence.

"I knew he was going to propose," Lauren said, her tone horrifyingly casual. "Someone tipped me off a month ago."

Mike looked at me, his eyes wide. I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles ached.

"You knew? And you still gave the mic to Parker?" the friend asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

"Obviously. He wanted to use a public spectacle to back me into a corner. I won't be manipulated like that."

"When he throws a tantrum, I usually humor him. But marriage? I need him to understand that he doesn't get what he wants just by making a scene."

The friend sighed. "I mean, it has been eight years, Lauren. Can you blame the guy for wanting a commitment?"

Lauren was silent for a beat. "Ill marry him. Eventually. But on my terms. Not because Im being pressured."

Another voiceone of her sycophantslowered their tone. "Honestly, Tom is so dramatic. Always looking for the grand gesture. Its exhausting."

"Exactly," someone else added. "Parker is so much easier. He never makes things difficult for you."

Parker chuckled. "Hey, don't be mean to Tom. Hes just... really invested. Its been a long time, and hes not getting any younger."

The "not getting any younger" part was delivered with a perfect, slimy edge of pity.

Lauren said nothing.

A round of knowing laughter followed.

Mike reached over and squeezed my shoulder. His hand was shaking with rage. I patted his hand, grabbed my coat, and stood up.

"Let's go, Mike."

As we walked past their door, I heard the clink of glasses and Parkers bright, carefree laugh.

Outside, a light rain was falling. The streetlights reflected off the wet pavement in long, blurred streaks. I walked forward into the dark. I didn't look back.

The invitation to the Callahan gala arrived on Laurens desk two days later.

It was heavy vellum, embossed in gold. The Callahan Family cordially invites you to a formal evening to announce a significant private matter.

She flipped the card over, a smirk playing on her lips.

"A significant private matter."

She figured it out instantlyor thought she had. The Callahans had clout. They were going to announce the engagement publicly to force her hand in front of the city's elite.

Tom wouldn't do it, but his meddling friends and his parents certainly would, she thought.

She tossed the invite aside and checked her phone. It had been five days. Tom hadn't sent a single text.

Usually, by day three of a fight, hed find an excuse to reach out. Did you eat? Did you pick up the dry cleaning?

Nothing.

A twinge of anxiety flickered in her chest, but she smothered it. She wasn't worried. He was throwing a fit. Hed be the one to cave; he always was.

Her group chat was buzzing. "Lauren, are you going to the Callahan thing? Everyone got an invite. It looks huge."

She smiled and typed back: "I'll be there. A little late, though. Let him sweat it out for a bit."

She imagined Tom standing at the entrance, checking his watch, trying to look composed in front of his relatives while his heart raced. There was a secret, dark thrill in the thought.

He needed a lesson. He needed to know that she was the one who decided when the story ended.

On the night of the gala, she took her time. She got her hair done, a sleek, sharp blowout, and put on a cocktail dressnot a gown. She wanted it to look like she had "stopped by," not like she was the guest of honor.

The texts from her friends started getting frantic.

"Lauren, this is insane. There are two rows of black SUVs outside. The flower arrangements are the size of cars."

"Tom looks incredible tonight. Like, movie star status. You better get here before someone else grabs him."

Lauren checked her reflection one last time. She felt a surge of confidence. Let him have his big night. Shed walk in, give him a kiss, and let him think hed wonjust for a little while.

She started her car and checked the chat one last time.

"Lauren, are you coming? Its starting! Toms parents are on stage!"

She recorded a voice note, her voice light and teasing. "Relax. It doesn't start until I get there."

As she pulled out of the parking garage, another friend called. Her voice sounded strangeconfused.

"Lauren... I don't think this is an engagement party. There's a banner behind the podium. It says 'Godspeed'."