Just refined and matured and even more beautiful for the evidence of time and experience.
“Chris?” she said quietly, almost like a question. Like she wasn’t entirely sure I was real.
“Is that really you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was the only thing that made any sense.
The only thing that felt remotely adequate. “I should have come back years ago. I should have come back right away.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She set the dish towel down slowly on a small table in the hallway. Her eyes never leaving my face.
Like she was afraid I might disappear if she looked away.
“You read it,” she said.
It wasn’t a question. She knew.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to work properly.
Her eyes filled with tears. But she didn’t let them fall, not yet.
She crossed the space between us slowly, carefully. Like she was approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement.
“You didn’t read it back then,” she said softly. It wasn’t an accusation.
Just a statement of fact. Something she’d figured out long ago.
“I couldn’t,” I said, my voice cracking. “I thought if I opened it, I wouldn’t be able to get on that plane.”
“And I was terrified that if I stayed, I’d end up resenting you. For being the reason I gave up my dream.”
“Or resenting myself for not having the courage to pursue it.”
She swallowed hard. I watched a tear finally escape down her cheek.
“I wondered for years if you ever opened it. If you ever would.”
“Or if you’d just carried it around without ever knowing what it said.”
“I carried it everywhere,” I admitted. “It moved to Germany with me. Then to Boston.”
“I’ve had it for fourteen years. I just never let myself know what it said until last week.”
The Conversation We Should Have Had Years Ago
Her mother had quietly disappeared at some point. Giving us privacy.
Bella led me to the kitchen. We sat at the same table where we used to do homework together in high school.
Our knees almost touching underneath it.
She made coffee automatically, out of habit. Though neither of us ended up drinking it.
We just needed something to do with our hands.
“I stayed,” she said after a long silence. “I went to SUNY Albany for a teaching degree.”
“Taught middle school art for about five years. Then I opened a small art studio and gallery downtown about three years ago.”
I smiled despite the overwhelming emotions churning in my chest. “You always said you’d do that.”
“I remember you sketching floor plans for your dream studio. In the margins of your notebooks during history class
.”
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