An Apology Without a Deadline
Chapter 16 - An Apology Without a Deadline
Celeste sent a letter six months after the wedding. She had taken a different job, begun paying her debts, and spoken honestly through counsel about her role in the plan. She did not ask to become my friend again.
*I miss you,* she wrote. *But I understand why you may not want me back. You trusted me with your grief and your happiness, and I used that trust against you. I am trying to become someone who would never make that choice again.*
I read it twice and placed it in a drawer.
Mom asked whether I was going to answer.
"Not yet."
She nodded. "You don't owe anyone a deadline for forgiveness."
I had spent so much of my life trying to be agreeable that this small permission felt enormous. I could wish Celeste well without rebuilding a friendship. I could remember happy years without denying how they ended.
That afternoon, Jonah arrived carrying a box of new stage lights. We spent three hours installing them, arguing about angles, and laughing when one fixture illuminated a storage closet instead of the stage.
He climbed down from the ladder and studied my face.
"You seem lighter."
"Maybe I am."
He didn't ask why. He handed me the screwdriver and waited until I was ready to talk.
That evening, I called him after he'd gone home.
"Would you like to go to a concert with me?" I asked.
He sounded surprised. "As colleagues?"
May you like
I smiled. "As a date."
There was a pause, then a laugh. "I'd like that very much."
