I answer truthfully.
Barrett: I’ll be better when I see you.
Her response is instant.
Bella: I’m on my way.
I am too. I’m on my way to forgiveness and a path where I can cherish the woman that was meant for me if she’ll have me.
Sliding my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I take off on foot to make my way to the spot where my life changed forever.
***
I see her before she sees me. I take in how gorgeous she looks.
She’s dressed in faded jeans, an oversized white sweater, and black low-heeled boots. Her hair is loose and in waves. She looks freshly woken.
She rushed here.
She stops at the corner and twirls in a circle. I raise a hand hoping she’ll spot me, but her gaze darts past me.
I stand from where I’ve been resting my ass on a swing.
I’m in the playground of a public school. It’s the same playground where I first met Isabella Calvetti.
She stormed into my life that day as a wide-eyed, smart-as-a-whip five-year-old kid wearing a baseball cap backward on her head.
She didn’t care that I was older than her. She put me in my place. She urged me to do the right thing, and when she ran across the busy street right into the path of oncoming traffic, I tried my best to do right by her.
On her second spin, she notices me.
I hold up my hand to wave her over.
She points at the green light, silently telling me that she has to wait until the path is clear.
I’ll wait as long as it takes if it means she’s safe.
Chapter 56
Bella
I came because I want answers.
I was awake when he sent me a text message. I’d been up most of the night rehearsing what I wanted to say to him, but now that I’m looking at him, I only want to know why he’s made such drastic changes in his life.
r /> I walk slowly to where he’s standing next to the swings I used to play on.
They’ve been spruced up since I was a child. The chains have been replaced and covered with plastic tubing so small fingers won’t get pinched. The seats aren’t wooden like they were back when I came here after school. Now, they’re made from a pliable plastic, so they bend more easily to whoever is sitting on them.
I breeze past Barrett and take a seat on one, wrapping my fingers around the clear plastic tubing. “How are you?”
He answers quickly. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Isabella.”
“For?” I leave the question open-ended for a reason. I want to hear him tell me what he’s sorry for. I don’t want to feed him anything.
“Everything,” he spits out.
I finally gaze up into his face. His jaw is covered with a few days’ growth of beard. His hair is uncombed. The black T-shirt he’s wearing is wrinkled.