Page 32

I watch her move around her loft, gathering clothes and mumbling about needing to buy flowers. The domesticity of the moment hits me hard—this is what I want. Mornings with her, sharing both the light moments and the heavy ones. Being part of her life, all of it, not just the easy parts.

The coffee maker beeps, and I pour two mugs, doctoring hers the way she likes it. Some things you don't forget, even after fifteen years. Like how she takes her coffee, how her eyes get distant when she thinks about her family, how my heart feels fuller just being in her space.

"Here." I hand her the mug, pulling her close with my free arm. "Whatever you need today, Red. I'm here."

She melts against me, taking a long sip before responding. "I know. That's what scares me most."

The honesty in her voice makes my chest ache. Because I understand—trusting someone again after they've hurt you? That's terrifying. But we're both here, both choosing this, choosing each other.

Some might say we're moving too fast. Hell, if this were anyone else, I might agree.

But with Red? We've already lost fifteen years—stolen time we can never get back.

And the way it feels when she's in my life.

.. it's like discovering a dimension of existence I'd forgotten was possible.

Colors seem sharper. Challenges feel more manageable.

Even the mundane parts of my day hold unexpected moments of joy when I know I can share them with her later.

It's not that I can't function without her—I've proven I can exist on my own.

It's that everything is better with her.

Conversations have more depth. Silences carry meaning instead of emptiness.

Problems that once seemed insurmountable now feel like puzzles we can solve together.

It's like I've spent years breathing just enough to survive, and now, with her, I'm finally filling my lungs completely—experiencing the full capacity of what life has to offer.

Nothing is enough. Not enough conversations over morning coffee, not enough shared laughter, not enough ambitious plans whispered in the dark to make up for everything we missed.

Every moment with her adds strength to my foundation rather than creating dependency.

She doesn't complete me—she amplifies me.

And today, I'll stand beside her as she takes me to visits her family. It's a small thing, maybe, but it feels monumental. Like another wall coming down, another step toward whatever we're building together.

The late summer air hangs thick with anticipation as I navigate through familiar streets, each turn bringing us closer to the cemetery.

Isabella's quiet directions are the only sounds breaking the silence.

My hand finds hers across the console, needing that connection, that anchor as we approach what feels like sacred ground.

My heart pounds against my ribs as we walk the winding path, early fallen leaves crunching beneath our feet.

The wind catches strands of her red hair, and I fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

My jaw clenches, muscles working beneath my skin as anxiety builds.

My hand is shoved so deep in my pocket the fabric strains, but I can't stop the fine tremors running through my frame.

"Are you sure about this?" Her voice is soft, concerned.

I manage a sharp nod, though my entire body feels like it might shatter. Memories flood back—Evelyn's kitchen, warm cookies, her gentle smile as she listened to my teenage problems. The weight of what I lost, what I let happen, threatens to crush me.

We round a bend, and a marble angel comes into view, her features worn smooth by time.

Behind her, two granite markers wait—one a double headstone for Isabella's parents, the other for Evelyn and her husband.

My steps falter as we near them, the reality of this moment hitting me like a physical blow.

The first stone bears both their names: "Alexander & Maria Jenkins—Beloved Parents." The dates beneath show how young they were, how much life they had ahead of them. Beside them, Evelyn and Joseph's headstone stands as a testament to a longer life lived, though still cut too short.

Late-blooming chrysanthemums form living borders around both plots—Isabella's monthly tribute to her family.

The familiar iron bench sits between them, dark metal catching glints of the August sun.

This is her sacred space, I realize. The place she comes to share her triumphs and sorrows, to maintain the connection with those she's lost.

Isabella moves forward with practiced grace, her fingers skimming the cool granite as she sweeps away scattered maple leaves. "Hi Mom, Dad. Hi Gran, Grandpa."

The simple greeting catches in my chest. I watch her trace the dates—twenty years since the accident that took her parents, over a decade since Evelyn joined them.

My breath comes sharp and fast as memories assault me: Evelyn teaching me to plant chrysanthemums, saving Sunday comics because she knew they made me smile, showing me what real love looked like while my own mother's affection came with conditions.

"Look who I brought with me today, Gran." Isabella's voice cracks, and the sound breaks something in me.

I move forward, each step feeling like I'm approaching judgment.

My knees crack as I kneel beside Evelyn's headstone, revealing the bouquet I've been clutching—chrysanthemums and lavender, her favorites.

The scent releases as I place them down, and suddenly I'm fifteen again, watching her arrange flowers in her tiny kitchen while humming old songs.

"Hello, Evelyn." My voice comes out rough, foreign to my own ears.

My fingers trace each letter of her name, carved into cold stone. This woman who showed me kindness without agenda, who created a safe haven in her little cottage, who loved her granddaughter with a fierceness I envied—and I failed her. Failed them both.

"I..." My throat closes around the words. "I'm so sorry. For everything." Each word feels inadequate, but they spill out anyway. "I didn't know—God, I didn't know what they'd done to you both. If I had..."

The memories overwhelm me—Sunday afternoons in her kitchen, the cookie tin with Scottish terriers that always held comics for me, her knowing smile when she caught me stealing extra cookies.

She'd write little notes in the margins of those comics, silly jokes and words of encouragement that meant more than she could have known.

"You were always kind to me." My spine curves under the weight of guilt and grief. "You showed me what real love looked like, what a real home felt like. And I failed you."

Isabella's voice comes soft behind me. "She never blamed you."

The words hit like a physical blow. Even now, even after everything, Evelyn's capacity for forgiveness reaches through time to touch me. I remember her kitchen—the heart of that cottage, where I learned more about love and family than I ever did in my parents' mansion.

Isabella continues, sharing memories. Each one is a reminder of what was lost, what was taken. My shoulders shake as emotions I've suppressed for fifteen years break free.

I push myself to my feet, legs unsteady. Three deliberate steps bring me to her parents' headstone. The fabric of my pants pulls taut as I drop to one knee.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins." The words come out soft, reverent. "It's... it's nice to finally meet you." My fingers trace the dates, following the path Isabella had taken moments before. "I wish it could have been different."

Looking at their names, I think of the daughter they left behind—this incredible woman who's carved her own path despite every obstacle. "You have an amazing daughter." My voice lifts with pride and awe. "She's become this force of nature—her art, it just... it takes your breath away."

My throat tightens as I continue, "She's pure talent. Pure heart. And she's strong, too. Stronger than anyone I've ever known." The words catch, rough like sandpaper. "The way she lights up a room with her smile..."

I straighten my shoulders, gathering courage for what needs to be said.

"I failed her once. Failed to protect her, to stand by her.

But I swear to you both, I'll spend every day trying to make that right.

" The vow falls from my lips with absolute certainty.

"She deserves someone who sees her, truly sees her.

Someone who understands the fire that burns inside her, the passion that drives her art, the strength that's carried her through everything life has thrown at her. "

A cardinal calls overhead—I remember Evelyn saying they were visitors from heaven. The thought brings both comfort and fresh pain. I return to Isabella's side, our fingers intertwining until I can't tell where my grip ends and hers begins.

"Thank you," I whisper, voice rough with emotion. "For sharing this with me."

She leans into me, and I breathe in her familiar scent. "She would have loved seeing you here."

"Red..." I turn to face her, needing her to understand. "What I said to your parents... I meant every word."

"I know."

Our foreheads press together, and for a moment, we just breathe. The late summer breeze carries the scent of fresh-cut grass and flowers, and I hold her closer, memorizing this moment.

"We should get back," she murmurs, though she doesn't move. "Those diaries aren't going to read themselves."

I brush my lips against hers, soft and sweet. "One more minute," I whisper. "Just... one more minute here."

And so we stand there a little longer, wrapped in each other and memories, while the August sun paints everything in gold. And for the first time in fifteen years, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I'm worthy of this second chance.