Page 12 of Liberating Bells
Izabel rolls her eyes again and gives me an exasperated look. “I meanhere. I didn’t know you were coming home.”
“Why would you have?” I ask bluntly. Izabel rears back a bit at my hard tone. “We haven’t spoken in what? Two years?” Memories of how beautiful she looked at her sister’s wedding flash in the back of my mind, but I dampen them, focusing more on the present.
“I just thought I would have heard about you coming back through the grapevine. I mean—” She swallows. “It just took me by surprise. Seeing you. Then to find out you’ve been home for a while was an even bigger surprise.”
“Were you expecting me to call you personally to let you know?”
Izabel flinches and then balks. I feel a little bad. “No, of course not?—”
I stick my hands in my pockets and observe her. “It was a family matter that brought me home. Nothing to do with you, so if you were worried about that, don’t be.”
Izabel looks a little relieved, and I can’t deny that hurts. Even if I was back for her, would she even want me back? She and Mark seem to be doing just fine.
Izabel reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. A bright sparkle catches my eye, and I reach for her before I can stop myself, my heart sinking.
I grab her left hand and splay her fingers. Her fourth finger now adorns a giant diamond that wasn’t there two days ago. My blood boils, and I clench my jaw at the sight. Swallowing down my irritation, I force myself to keep it together. The timing isa little too convenient for me to ignore. Even though I have no proof, something tells me this has everything to do with me making an appearance.
“Well, looks like congratulations are in order,” I mutter as I twist her hand left and right, inspecting the gaudy ring.
She snatches her hand back and looks at the ground. “Thanks.”
I go back to my position against my desk and cross my arms again. “It’s a bit much, don’t you think? The ring?”
The rock is enormous. As if a beacon from her hand, letting every other man within a 50-mile radius know she’s spoken for.
Izabel’s eyes meet mine, and she stays silent for a moment too long, giving me my answer.
It is a bit much.
If I know anything about Izabel, it’s that less is more. She is more concerned with the intimacy of things rather than extravagance. When I planned to propose to her, I would’ve made it just the two of us—candles, champagne, soft music. In my mind, I picture the simple solitaire set ring sitting in my sock drawer. That was her ring, and it would’ve looked perfect sitting on her finger.
A wave of nostalgia and regret sweeps over me as I observe the beautiful woman in front of me. She could’ve been my wife. Weekend mornings, she would’ve been the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Weekday nights, getting home from work and having meals together before cuddling on the couch and watching our favorite shows. Proudly introducing her asIzabel Miller, mywife.
I shake my head, pulling myself out of the spiral I’m quickly falling into.
“How’d he do it?” I ask, torturing myself further.
Izabel shakes her head. “It wasn’t anything big. He just asked me over brunch yesterday.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Definitely. I mean, we’ve talked about it. And he alluded to something on Saturday. But I didn’t see it coming.” Her eyes grow wide, and she shakes her head again with a breathy laugh. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.”
I shrug as if I’m not dying on the inside. “’Cause I asked.”
When her eyes meet mine, they twinkle, gutting me. She reaches for the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “I almost forgot, I got you something.”
“Me?”
Izabel nods and then holds out a small gift bag. It’s blue with a silver ribbon tied around the handles. “Think of it as a welcome home gift slash office warming present.” When I don’t immediately grab for it, she urges forward. “Just take it already.”
I reach for the bag. It’s heavier than I anticipated, the weight sagging in the middle. My fingers nimbly untie the silver ribbon, letting the bag fall open. Inside, I see the present wrapped in blue tissue paper but surrounded by pieces of confetti.
My eyes narrow as I grab a piece of the confetti, realizing they’re actually small pieces of folded up paper.
I set the bag on my desk and unfold it. I’m surprised when I see Izabel’s own handwriting scrawled across the paper. Her penmanship looks the same as it did all those years ago—her hand’s gentle swirl, looping letters together in a neat half-cursive pattern. I’m sure I still have some of her handwritten letters stashed away somewhere.
I eye whatever she’s written curiously.
