It was the most honest answer I could give.
Three days later, Ryan knocked on Sloane’s door. I stayed in the car. This wasn’t my conversation.
It never had been.
From where I sat, I saw the door open. Then it stopped. Neither of them moved for a long moment. Twenty years of history lay between them.
Finally, Sloane stepped aside.
Ryan entered.
The conversation lasted almost two hours. When he returned, his eyes were red. I didn’t ask anything right away. We drove for almost ten minutes before he finally spoke.
I nodded.
“AND?”
Ryan stared out the window. Then he chuckled softly, a sound more of relief than humor.
“She forgave me.”
The words were left in the car. For some reason, they moved me.
Perhaps because forgiveness is rarer than people think.
Perhaps because I spent twelve years believing that the tattoo represented love, when at all times it represented regret.
Ryan smiled.
A real smile.
“First thing?”
I nodded.
Her smile widened slightly.
“She asked to see the tattoo.”
I blinked.
“AND?”
