My mouth now hangs open, but I’m mute with shock. I can’t take my eyes off the brilliant square diamond resting elegantly on a thin wisp of platinum. Inside my head, pieces jangle loose and bat themselves around. My first coherent thought is that I’m ridiculously flattered. John wants to marry me?

John and I had spoken only briefly about marriage, and then only in the most general sense. He’d said that he wanted to be married eventually, but not yet, and I’d agreed, telling him that it wasn’t one of my main goals to wear the white, at least not until I’d established myself and proven that I could be completely independent. We never specifically included each other in that general talk. But now here he is, his face brimming with hope.

“John,” I say finally, wrenching myself back to the present, to the image of him offering up this olive branch in the form of a diamond on a bed of blue. “We have problems. I don’t know if this is the solution.”

The expectation in his eyes flickers and dims, but he pulls himself up straighter. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything. I’ll talk to you whenever you want. I’ll support you through your parents’ divorce. I want you to have all the time you need with your friends. I’ll go to counseling if you think we need that.”

“I don’t know—” I start to say, but he puts a finger to my lips, and pulls at my arms, turning me, until we’re both cross-legged, facing each other. It dawns on me that during the few times I did consider marriage, this is not how I thought I’d get engaged—sweating under the sun, wearing no makeup and sitting like kids at camp.

“I love you more than anything in the world,” John says, and he grips one of my hands tightly. “I’ve only truly realized that since you left. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy. I want you to be my wife.”

The words my wife send a shock through me. They sound possessive rather than comforting. Yet maybe this is the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for with him. Perhaps now his passion will fill in around his professional drive. Perhaps this commitment would mean warm, knowing looks and long talks late into the night. Maybe this was the solution. Maybe it did signal John’s ability to change.

“Try it,” he says, holding out the open blue box. He has a small smile on his face like a kid who knows he’s about to get that birthday present he’s waited for all year.

I pull the ring from its velvety perch, and it sparkles in the sun, reminding me of the way the sea glittered when I first saw it from the bus. I place it on the ring finger of my left hand. It fits perfectly. I hold it out, angling it this way and that, vaguely aware of John’s growing smile as he watches me. But suddenly I feel a constriction, as if the ring is growing tighter, and there’s a tightness in my chest as well.

I see myself then, in years to come, still unsatisfied, bitching and complaining to the friends I have left or to some strangers in an identity-free support group for co-dependents, whatever that means. I see that John is willing to give me everything—everything he can muster. The counseling, the time with friends, the talks. Yet John’s everything will never satisfy me. He is not the one that Jenny was talking about. I see that clearly now, where I’d only caught glimpses of it before.

I tug the ring off my hand and push it back into the box. “I can’t, John. It’s not right.”

I’m struck by the fact that this gesture might have done the trick only a short time ago. It could have been enough. But after the last few weeks, I find myself unable to settle. What’s the old adage? You don’t marry who’s right for you, you marry who’s right for you at the time. Well, I want the person who’s really right for me, even if I have to wait forever.

“Casey, please,” John says, the smile plummeting off his face, his eyes pained again.

I despise myself for causing that look, that pain, but I can’t do anything different.

“Please,” he says again. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

“I know you will, but…” I pause for a moment, searching for the proper words. Turning my head, I see a cruise ship leaving its mooring. “We’re not meant for each other,” I say at last. “I’m not the one for you.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “You’re the only one for me.”

“John, what about everything I said to you? I just told you that I was unfaithful.”

A spark of anger briefly interrupts the anguish in his face. “I’m willing to get past it.”

I’m not, I respond silently.

My eyes cloud with tears. How did it come to this? I wonder. How can I hurt him like this?

“Don’t do this, Casey,” he says. “Don’t do this. Just give it time.”

“Time won’t help.” Then finally I say it. “It’s over.”

“No, no,” he says, talking over my words. “We’ll go to counseling. I won’t bring up marriage again. I’ll give you all the time you want.”

The urge to accept this time is so strong. It would salve his hurt, which shines from his eyes, but I see with clarity that procrastination would only be prolonging the inevitable.

“I’m so sorry.” I pull him to me. His weight sags against my chest. He doesn’t return the embrace.

I watch helplessly as John packs T-shirts, a bathing suit and his white button-down in the stiff tan suitcase. Normally, he’s a meticulous packer, making small, wrinkle-free rolls of his T-shirts, separating his underwear from his toiletries. But now he throws in a pair of shorts with a haphazard arm, dumping running shoes and a can of shaving cream on top of that.

I panic momentarily, wanting to tell him to take the ring out and ask me again, but I can’t get my mouth open to say the words. I try to convince myself that leaving John will be something like graduating from college. I’d loved University of Michigan, but I’d outgrown it. As painful as it was to leave Ann Arbor, I knew it was time to move on. Logically, this analogy works, but it trivializes John, comparing him to a campus where I was personally responsible for increasing the sale of Budweiser.

“Can I help?” I ask as he stomps around the room, gathering his travel alarm clock off the nightstand, snatching a shirt from the chair.

He throws me a stony glance, but his look softens after a second, and he shakes his head. I wish I could do something to alter that wounded expression, but it’s time to face the music instead of ignoring the steady beat that’s been thumping in the background like a neighbor’s bass.

“Why don’t you just stay the night?” I ask.

“I can’t stay now. You don’t want me, and I have to go.”

“That’s not true.” And it isn’t. Because when John left, it would be official. Over.

“The boat to Athens leaves at ten tonight. I’ll just wait at the dock,” he says.

“It’s only seven o’clock. Let’s get something to eat first.” It’s all unraveling too rapidly. I’ve been on this lazy vacation, growing accustomed to island time, and now John is here, and within twenty-four hours a two-year relationship has crumbled.

“I can’t,” John says, zipping the suitcase. “I have to go.”

“I’ll walk you to the dock.” I move closer to him, desperate for a little more time.

“No…” He starts to say something else, but my shrill voice drowns out his words.

“I’m coming with you to the dock!” I say, snatching his bag off the bed and carrying it to the door, as if by doing this I can lessen his emotional load, as well.

John sighs and follows me.

The pier for the Athens liner is deserted. No noisy backpackers to divert our attention, no innkeepers hawking their establishments. It’s eerily quiet, but for the water slapping against the dock. A well of emotions rushes up inside me—fear of being alone, guilt for causing his pain, relief that there has been some conclusion, some decision. Most of all, I feel sadness at the loss of him because even though it’s the correct decision, he’ll leave a definite gap in my life.

“I’ll wait with you,” I tell John, gazing out at the water, clutching the handle of his bag to stop my hands from trembling.

“No.” He grabs his suitcase and drops it with a thud. “Just go.”

“I’ll wait,” I say, as if I hadn’t heard him.

“Casey. Leave,” he says in a harsh tone.

I flinch, then slowly I touch his arm, his elbow and finally his shoulder, until he turns toward me. When his head finally follows and he looks at me, his eyes are brimming with tears.

“I wish you understood,” he says.

“I do.” I pull him to me. “It’s just—”

“Don’t explain any more.” He leans his forehead against mine. “I can’t take it.”

At the sound of the tired resignation in his voice, my own tears rush out again. All I can do is hold him as tightly as possible. Seconds go by, then minutes.

At last, John pulls back, wiping at the tears with one swipe of his hand. “I’ll be okay, Case. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll call you when I get home. We’ll go to lunch, or dinner, or—”

“You’d better go now,” he interrupts, but he says this softly. When I hesitate, he whispers, “Please.”

“You’re sure?” I ask, wondering what else I can do to help him, help me. I feel completely out of control. This is it. This is it.

John nods, squeezing my hand.

“Okay,” I say.

I stand for one last moment gazing at the person who’d been a family member, a friend and a lover for most of my short adult life. And now he would be none of those things. Just like that.