On our tenth anniversary, my husband asked me to take off my wedding ring so his newly divorced best friend wouldn't feel alone. Across our candlelit table, Lauren sat with her freshly signed divorce papers beside her wineglass. Ethan had already pulled his own wedding band from his finger. He set it on the white tablecloth, then held his open hand out to me. "Just for tonight, Claire," he said. "Don't make her feel like she's the only one at this table whose marriage failed." My left hand stayed flat against the linen. The thin gold band on my finger had worn smooth over ten years. At twenty-two, Ethan had less than forty dollars left after rent, so he took three weeks of late shifts to buy our matching rings. Back then, he had slipped it onto my hand in a crowded campus dining hall because he wanted everyone in the room to know I belonged to him. Even after his career took off and we could afford diamonds, I never replaced it. Now he was looking at that ring as if wearing it were an act of cruelty. "It's our anniversary," I said. Lauren lowered her gaze. Her eyes were red from crying, though her makeup remained neat. "Please don't argue because of me," she said softly. "I shouldn't have come. I just signed the divorce papers an hour ago, and I couldn't bear to go back to an empty apartment." Two minutes earlier, while Ethan poured her wine, she had stared at my left hand. "I envy you, Claire," she had whispered. "Some people look like they never have to worry about losing anything." That single remark had been enough for Ethan to take off his ring. For the past three months, ever since Lauren's marriage began falling apart, I had told myself to be patient. When our dinner went cold on the counter because Ethan was helping her move boxes, I reheated my plate alone. When he stepped out of our movie date to take her call and didn't return until the credits rolled, I said nothing. Until last week, when he came home with his left hand bare. He admitted he had taken his ring off while helping Lauren tour apartments so the leasing agent wouldn't ask awkward questions. When he saw my face, he put it right back on and promised it wouldn't happen again. Tonight, before we left the house, he had held up his left hand in the hallway so I could see the gold band shining on his finger. "Tonight is just the two of us," he had said, kissing my temple. "No calls. No interruptions." I had wanted so badly to believe him that I dressed up, hid an anniversary card in my purse, and let myself look forward to the evening. Then Lauren called from the restaurant parking lot, and Ethan invited her to sit between us. "I'm not taking my ring off," I said. Ethan's hand remained extended across the table. "Claire, she just ended a seven-year marriage today," he said, lowering his voice. "Can't you show her even this much consideration?" "By pretending I'm not your wife?" "By not rubbing what you have in her face for one meal." "What I have is our marriage." "And it will still be there tomorrow," Ethan said, irritation edging his tone. "You have a home and a husband to go back to tonight. Lauren has nothing." Lauren reached into her bag and took out a small dark-blue velvet box. Inside lay her own wedding band, removed outside her lawyer's office that afternoon. "It's okay, Ethan," she said, her voice catching. "Claire doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to." Before I could respond, Lauren reached across the tablecloth and picked up Ethan's wedding ring. She placed it inside the velvet box, right beside her own. The slot was made for a single ring, so the two gold bands pressed tightly together against the dark velvet. Lauren closed the lid with a soft click. She looked up at my husband and gave him a small, tearful smile. "At least tonight," she said softly, "we're both free." The restaurant noise seemed to fade around us. I didn't look at Lauren. I kept my eyes on Ethan. The velvet box was still resting in her palm, less than a foot from his hand. All he had to do was reach out and open it. "Ethan," I said clearly. "Take your ring back." His gaze shifted from me to Lauren's damp eyes. For two seconds, neither of them moved. Then Ethan reached over and closed his fingers gently around Lauren's wrist, guiding the box back toward her purse. "Keep it for tonight," he told her. "Don't keep hurting yourself over this." Something cold settled in my chest. Lauren slipped the box containing both of their wedding rings into her coat pocket. She pushed her chair back and stood, her hand resting briefly on Ethan's arm. "I'm still shaking too much to drive. Could you take me home?" Ethan was already reaching for his keys. "Of course." He stood and buttoned his jacket, his bare left hand visible beneath the cuff. Only then did he look down at me. "Wait here," he said, as if we were merely pausing an ordinary dinner. "I'll get her settled at her apartment and come right back. Don't leave." Lauren offered me a quiet apology that didn't reach her eyes. Then my husband walked her toward the exit, his hand at the small of her back. I sat alone at the table with three water glasses, two untouched menus, and the anniversary card still sealed inside my purse. At twenty-two, Ethan had been afraid the world wouldn't know I belonged to him. At thirty-two, he had asked me to help him pretend we had never loved each other. The waiter approached with a notepad. "Should I have the kitchen start your entrées while you wait for your husband?" I looked toward the front doors. Ethan's car had already pulled away from the curb. "No," I said. "Please cancel the main courses and bring the check for the wine." I paid the bill, picked up my purse, and walked out into the cold night air. For the first time in ten years, I didn't wait where he told me to wait.