Something in my chest loosened and tightened at the same time. She was actually thinking about this. About forgiving me. I’d hoped, but hoping and knowing are different things.
Are you?I wrote back, my throat tight even though I was just typing.Ready, I mean.
I think so. But forgiveness doesn’t mean going back to how things were. It means accepting what happened and choosing not to let it define my future.
I stared at those words for a long time. Forgiveness didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean. It didn’t mean she was coming back. It meant she was letting go of me in a different way—a healthier way, maybe, but still letting go.
My hands hovered over the keyboard. I typed and deleted four different responses before settling on the only question that mattered.
Does that future include me at all?
Three days passed before she answered. Three days of checking my phone constantly, of barely tasting food, of lying awake at night running through every possible response she might send. The waiting settled into my bones like an ache.
When her email finally came, I was in the garage, pretending to work on my bike while really just waiting. The notification sound made my whole body go still.
I don’t know yet. But I’m willing to keep talking and find out.
I read it twice. Then I set down my wrench and sat on the concrete floor, my back against the workbench, and let myself breathe for what felt like the first time in days.
?
Two weeks later, she surprised me.
Would you be interested in a phone call? I think I’m ready to hear your voice.
I stared at that email for ten minutes, afraid to believe what I was reading. A phone call. After weeks of careful, measured correspondence, she wanted to hear my voice.
Yes,I wrote back.Whenever you’re ready.
Sunday evening. Seven o’clock your time. I’ll call you.
Five days away. Five days of checking my phone like a nervous kid, of finding excuses to keep it charged and close, of catching myself smiling at nothing and having to school my face before my brothers noticed.
I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t focus on club business without my mind wandering. Caught myself doing things I hadn’t done in months—going to the gym twice a day, cleaning my already-clean house, reorganizing the garage just to have something to do with my hands.
Sleep was a joke. I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, running through what I might say to her. What she might say to me. Whether I’d be able to keep it together when I heard her voice for the first time in months.
I’d spent so long learning patience. Learning that I couldn’t force Indira to forgive me, couldn’t demand her trust, couldn’t charm my way back into her life. I’d written letters and answered questions and resisted the urge to spy on her when the silence got too heavy.
But this—a phone call, becauseshewanted to hearmyvoice—felt like the first real sign that maybe I hadn’t destroyed us completely.
Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.
Chapter 15
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— Indira —
Isat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, back against the bed, phone clutched in both hands. The apartment was quiet, just the distant hum of traffic on Broadway and the soft tick of rain against my window. I’d chosen the floor deliberately. Something about being small, grounded, felt safer for what I was about to do.
I’d been staring at his number for fifteen minutes, working up the courage to dial.
A phone call was different from emails. Emails gave me time to think, to craft my responses, to maintain emotional distance. A phone call was immediate, raw, vulnerable in ways I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
But I’d been thinking about his last email for days. The way he’d answered my questions about his childhood and his father’s influence, how he’d taken full responsibility without making excuses. The man who’d I’d caught with Crystal found ways to blame everyone else—his upbringing, the club culture, even me for not understanding.
This man owned his mistakes.
