Page 11 of His Relentless Angel

That’s when, two years ago, I found out Isaiah was living in Austin after Autumn ran into him leaving his new apartment shortly after she moved. Despite the knock-down, drag-out fights we used to get into as kids, Autumn is my best friend. She immediately called me right there in front of him, even though he asked her not to. Hearing his deep baritone voice in the background was like a knife through the gut, cutting me deep when he pleaded with her to stop as she gave me his address.

The old Bailey would have immediately driven straight to his apartment in Austin. But the new me…I ran outside to the thinly wooded area behind my five-story dorm building and threw my car keys as far as I could. I spent hours searching for them among the bushes and dead leaves, and by the time I found them, the desperate need to see Isaiah had mostly passed. The haze took care of the rest.

It took another few months after that before I was ready to go back home, and my parents thought that since I hadn’t gone after Isaiah, I was in a place, emotionally, to hear a devastatingly painful truth: the phone number I had been texting and calling as a teenager was an old one. He’d apparently gotten a new number but left the old one in service so as not to hurt my feelings. It explains why he never once returned my texts or calls—he never even saw them.

All this time, I thought he was at least reading my messages and just had his read receipts off. But it was worse than that. He didn’t see any of the family pictures or videos I sent of James and Shayla’s babies when they started walking or did something particularly cute.

He didn’t see the text I sent him after I hydroplaned into the oncoming lane the first time I drove in the rain by myself. How scared and shaken up I was after a truck narrowly avoided hitting me head-on, and all I wanted was for him to talk to me while I calmed down. I had imagined him saying a prayer for me all this time, which helped, even though he hadn’t responded. But he did nothing because he saw nothing.

As soon as I found out, I wanted to delete the message thread and block his number, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s like a digital diary of my teenage years, and I’m not ready to let it go, even though I haven’t sent a solitary message since the day I got his letter.

After that rocking revelation, as much as I love my family, I haven’t trusted a single person except for Autumn not to lie to me or withhold information. They think I moved back home with a completely different personality after graduating with my degree in applied arts, but in reality, I had just stopped forcing smiles onto my face all the time. I let my mask drop, and they saw the real me—and the real me had them all annoyingly and humiliatingly tiptoeing around me.

The only thing I’ve pretended to do is move on, even though making up stories of kissing and dating other guys makes me sick. It’s brought my family false peace of mind, and now they think I’m ready to see Isaiah at Autumn’s graduation without losing my mind and becoming disturbingly obsessed with him.

I’m not ready.

But I don’t tell them that.

And because I’m not, I refuse to lift my eyes to his when Isaiah meets our group at the Texas Memorial Stadium and says, “Hey, Fischers and Bartletts,” in his rich voice that sends a shock wave of longing through my body. He doesn’t hug me, kiss my cheek, or slap my back as he does everyone else, but I feel his eyes on me.

I hope he’s eating his fucking heart out.

I hope he’s remembering the dress I wore on my eighteenth birthday since the vampirish red dress I’m wearing now is so similar but even more revealing. Instead of the ruched bandeau-type top, I’ve sewn individual cups that hug my breasts with a thin drawstring that ties in the middle. It can be loosened to free my breasts or be drawn tighter to prop them up higher—the option I’ve gone with today. I’ve made the thin straps that much more delicate and tied them into large bows, the ends hanging long and loose down my arms, begging to be pulled. I also made a built-in corset that draws attention to my waist and is tight around my hips and lower belly before flaring out into a swingier skirt that swishes across my ass and thighs with every step I take. My sandals are similar as well, though black and with a higher heel.

In short, I look fucking stunning, at least in my estimation.

I drew concerned looks from my family, of course, when I knocked on the door of my parents’ hotel room before leaving for the stadium. Their room is on the floor above mine since we couldn’t get three rooms together with the hotel nearly fully booked due to the massive graduating class.

I acted like I didn’t notice when Dad tutted and asked Mom, “Can you find a sweater for Bailey? Think she might be cold in that get-up.”

When Mom handed me a scratchy brown cardigan, I told her, “It’s way too hot for that,” and fanned myself. It was an exceptionally convenient truth.

Mom and Dad had frowned, but neither pushed the issue. I bet Dad’s regretting that now as we make our way to our seats since I’m drawing more attention than usual. I hope Isaiah notices. I hope it rankles him as much as it does me.

My family has reverted back to treating me like a stupidly obsessed child when they maneuver between Isaiah and me so that we’re sitting at opposite ends of the row. I let them without uttering one word of protest, as I would have when I was younger, only because I know his scent will drive me mad if I sit too close to him. I could pick his oud and honey cologne out of a lineup with a blindfold tied around my eyes.

The only time my thoughts turn away from Isaiah is when I watch my sister walk across the stage to receive her degree in financial planning so she can start working with Dad at the small firm he co-founded with two other partners after she moves back home.

It’s when we all go out to dinner at a dimly lit semi-fine dining establishment—half of which is devoted to a massive cherry wood bar that serves the kind of costly alcohol I’ve never even heard of—that I really begin to struggle in Isaiah’s presence. It only takes one strong vodka cranberry, now that I’m almost twenty-two and legally able to drink, for me to lose my resolve and finally make eye contact with the love of my life who wants nothing to do with me.

I instantly regret it.

He does, too, I think, since he quickly looks away.

At least I can take my fill of him, seated on opposite ends of the long wood table, without him squirming uncomfortably. Isaiah is so heart-stoppingly handsome that I find it difficult to breathe, wearing royal blue-on-blue—a short sleeve, loose fitting button down that he’s left open over a pristine white T-shirt with fitted shorts that end just above his knees. Usually, he’s a starched jeans and T-shirt kind of man, so I wonder if he’s dressed up for me as much as I have for him. I also wonder if he’ll watch me when he thinks no one is looking if I stand and walk away from the table.

I decide to test it out.

Leaning over the table, I press my arms against the sides of my chest, hoping to draw Isaiah’s attention since he’s sitting catty-corner to Dad. Brightening my voice, I say, “Daddy?”

Both men snap their heads toward me, and Isaiah’s eyes immediately drop to my breasts. I barely resist smiling in victory. Dad doesn’t even question why I’ve suddenly started calling him Daddy again because he’s too busy grumbling, “Should have brought that sweater.”

Ignoring that, I tell him, “I’m going to pop into the ladies’ room. Will you order me another drink when the server comes back?”

Dad tuts at me, then again at Isaiah when he realizes what Isaiah is staring at—me.

Isaiah coughs, and I add a slight sway to my hips to make my skirt swish. I peek over my shoulder before I turn down the narrow hallway with faux gas lanterns that leads to the restrooms. Sure enough, his eyes are glued to my ass. Unfortunately, Shayla’s attention is fixed to his expression, and he must notice her frown since he clears his throat and looks away.

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