"The only one who had plans at that point regardin' marriage was Courtney herself. She lied to ya, Lydia. I don't know the particulars of Brogan and Courtney's relationship, but I do know he doesn't love her, and he never has. Her ex-husband's been released from prison and she's playin' the safety card as a way of stayin' close to Brogan. She has some strange hold on him, aye, but if he marries her, he will spend the rest of his days miserable, which is about what he's aimin' for, I do believe."
I wasn't sure if that was any of my business. I wasn't even sure I shouldn't hope for just that. And yet, the thought of it made me feel sick and desperate all the same. "But Eileen, he doesn't love me either. I'm nothing but a princess in his eyes," I said. "A mo chree, that's what he calls me. And maybe he's only ever wanted to knock me off my imagined throne." I stared unseeing behind Eileen, then moved my eyes back to her worried expression. "I saw him a couple weeks ago at a restaurant. Did Fionn tell you? That night, he looked at me as if I was nothing to him, as if he'd never known me at all."
"Aye, he's scared of ya. He's scared he's gona beg ya to forgive him, and that ya might. And he's scared that ya might not. He's all knotted up, and he bloody hates himself. I've seen it before, Lydia. He was only seventeen then, but I remember it well." She eyed me with meaning, reaching across the table and laying her small hand on top of mine, giving it a squeeze. "I'm havin' Brogan to dinner at my place on Saturday. Please come, Lydia. Please. Just think on it. I won't lie to ya. He won't make it easy for ya. But I'm askin' ya, no I'm beggin' ya to try. Even if ya decide ya don't want to be with him again, if ya can only find it in your heart to forgive him and to help him forgive himself. Please."
I shook my head. "Dinner? Oh no, no, I can't, Eileen."
She gave my hand another squeeze before she pulled away. "Please," she repeated as she stood up. "Seven o'clock. And Lydia, mo chroí doesn't mean princess. It means my heart. When he's callin' ya mo chroí, he's callin' ya his beloved, the very thing that keeps him alive."
I sucked in a sudden, sharp breath as she smiled gently at me and walked toward the door. "Eileen," I called out and she paused. "What does, iss bra lum too mean?" I'd spoken the sounds slowly, hoping she'd understand.
Eileen tilted her head, pausing for a moment. "It means I love you," she said. She gave me one small, fleeting smile before she left, closing the door of the coffee shop behind her.
Please. I love you. Please. I love you. That's what he'd said that night in the police station, the day I'd screamed at him and told him I'd never forgive him. Please, he'd begged me. I love you. And I'd turned away. Again.
Mo chroí. My heart.
I sat there for a long time, not drinking my tea, a lump clogging my throat as I simply stared at the wall.
**********
"What are you going to do?" Daisy asked, her eyes wide.
"I don't know, Daisy," I said, pacing across the plush carpet of her bedroom. She'd been getting ready for bed when I'd gotten home and I'd come straight to her room, needing to talk. "And anyway, why did you give Eileen the name of the shop I work at?"
She poured lotion from a small bottle on her bedside table and began rubbing it into one elbow. The soothing scent of lavender met my nose. "She seemed so distraught, Lydia."
I stopped pacing momentarily. "And I'm not distraught? I haven't been distraught for three months now?"
She changed elbows. "I thought maybe . . . well, perhaps you could help each other with your . . . distraughtedness."
"That's not a word," I snapped.
"Distraughtegy?"
I thinned my lips, noting her teasing expression.
"Distress. And this isn't funny. Not in the least." I folded my arms and continued pacing.
Daisy capped the lotion bottle, stood, and came over to me, halting my pacing by putting her hands on my upper arms. "Lydia," she said, "in these last three months, you've become like a sister to me. I like to think we've helped each other through our distress. But . . . I'm getting better, and you're . . . not. And I think it's because in my case, there are no loose ends, nothing to work through, but with Brogan, well, I think there might be. And I think you know that, too. I think it's eating you alive. And until you at least figure out how you feel about him and talk to him, it's going to continue to eat you alive."
I stared at her, wanting to reject her words, but knowing I couldn't. And now tonight, after talking to Eileen, I had so many doubts, so many unanswered questions I'd thought needed no explanation, could have no explanation. But what if . . . what if they could? I'd seen him in that restaurant and despite everything, my heart had still called out to him. My instinct had been to run into his arms and heal the terrible, heart-wrenching ache inside me—not grief over my brother's death, for that was healing on its own. The ache I still felt inside was the loss of . . . him. Either I was a complete and utter idiot, an explanation that wasn't completely off the table, or . . . or I still loved him, because my heart knew he was a good man who had made some bad choices, even if those bad choices had led at least partially to this terrible situation we were in now.
And yet, I didn't absolve myself of my own misguided actions. Perhaps I could have done more to help Stuart. He'd come to me first that day, and I'd known how messed up he'd been. I'd seen his desperation and his paranoia, and yet I'd let him walk right out the door, even giving him money, a measly fifty bucks, but still.
And before that, I'd made excuses for Stuart, worked double time to cover up his mistakes, which only allowed him to keep making them, leading eventually to him threatening Brogan with a gun. I wrapped my arms around myself, a shiver moving down my spine. I was far from blameless myself. "You're right," I whispered. "God, you're right."
Daisy let go of my arms and looked at me sympathetically. "Talk to him," she repeated.
I bit at my lip. "Eileen says he won't make it easy on me. She says he'll try not to let me forgive him, that he wants the punishment."
"Well," Daisy said, stepping back, "I guess you have to decide if you still believe he deserves it, and if not . . . what you're going to do about that."
"Yes.” I hugged her tightly, holding on for a moment, wishing I could verbalize my love for her, too, but I was spent. Emotionally exhausted. I dragged myself to my room and quickly changed and brushed my teeth, falling into bed. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but surprisingly, once my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light almost immediately.
I was in a large room, open at the top. I craned my neck back, gazing at the bright blue sky, billowy white clouds floating lazily by. When I looked back down, I realized the walls around me were filled with artwork, swirls and splashes of color decorating every square inch.
Walking closer, I saw there were pictures woven into the splashes of color. One in particular caught my eye: it was a picture of our family home, the lush grounds beyond, horses in the distance. It was the one Stuart had drawn when he was young. I marveled at the beauty, the talent of which it spoke.
I felt a presence behind me and turned. Stuart was standing beside one of the walls, a brush in his hand. I took a disbelieving step toward him. "Stu?" I whispered? He smiled broadly.
"Simply wonderful, isn't it?" a voice asked from the other direction. I let out a small whimper, turning. It was my dad's voice. He was looking around at the walls, a proud smile on his face. And my mom stood next to him, as beautiful as I remembered her.
"Dad? Mom?" I breathed, holding out my hand as my heart leapt with joy. "Stuart?" They all smiled and I ran to them, Stuart joining us, as they wrapped their arms around me, forming a sort of huddle.
Tears ran down my cheeks as I caught Stuart's eye. He smiled softly and said, "Forgive me."
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes."
We held each other this way for a long time until I finally pulled back slightly, wanting to soak them in with my eyes, overwhelmed and filled with happiness. My dad smiled, taking my hand in his and placing something in my palm and closing it. I looked down, opening
my hand slowly to reveal . . . a clover. I raised my eyes to my dad's and he nodded, his eyes warm with love, glancing at my mom who wore a soft smile on her lips.
I woke up sobbing. I clutched my pillow to my chest, as the last of my tears dried. I'd been crying—I missed them so much—and yet I felt . . . a deep peace settle over me.
A clover . . . they'd given me a clover. Brogan.
Yesterday, today and . . . tomorrow. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment.
Am I the villain? Brogan had asked. I keep losing track.
And I had lost track, too. Again and again. Even now, I wasn't exactly sure. Or maybe we were all villains sometimes, each one of us. Maybe the thing that determined how quickly we became heroes was the grace we were extended, not only by others, but by ourselves.
I had spoken to Brogan of forgiveness once, and yet I'd been unwilling to forgive, unwilling to extend him the very grace I'd suggested he needed in order to find peace. Forgiveness is a choice, I'd said. And yet I hadn't even given him the chance to explain, hadn't trusted him enough to even allow him that.
"I'll never forgive you," I'd screamed at him that night. I'd done the same thing to him that he had done to me, both of us caught in a vicious cycle of hurt and mistrust and revenge. I'd had good reasons, I could argue, but so had he. And frankly, I was done arguing, done justifying, done putting my pride and my hurt ahead of everything else, done speaking anything except the truth in my heart. Mo chroí.
My heart knew.
Brogan hadn't wanted to kill Stuart. Stuart had blamed Brogan for driving him to the edge, but in fact, Brogan had tried his damnedest to help him, paying off his debt and saving his life. Ironically, Brogan, who set out to ruin our lives had been the only one in a position to make them better. And that's just what he had attempted to do in the end.
If he had simply left us alone—if he had never set out to exact revenge—chances were that eventually, Stuart would've gotten himself killed by the mob, and perhaps me as well.
It was Stuart who had been so filled with resentment and self-pity and envy that he couldn't help himself, much less allow Brogan to. If he had, things could have been so different. I'd tried so hard to honor my mother's wish that I take care of Stuart. And yet, what I'd really done was enable his behavior by excusing him again and again. Brogan had been right about that. And so it had become a burden, not the act of love my mother had intended. I'd carried the guilt of that knowledge for so long, and it had kept me trapped, right along with Stuart.
My father had bestowed on Brogan the approval and affirmation that Stuart believed should have been his, and he’d always hated Brogan for it. It was the reason he'd kicked Brogan in the face all those years ago, it was the reason he'd left Brogan in the mold-infested slum later, and it was the reason he'd eventually shown up at Brogan's office with a gun.
Forgive me. Yes.
Sometimes forgiveness meant letting go.
The dream. Whether my parents and Stuart had really come to me or whether I'd known these truths in my heart all along and conjured my family up in my head to deliver the message, I didn't know. But it was clear to me now—I forgave Brogan, and he deserved my forgiveness.
Sometimes forgiveness meant holding on.
I loved him. Oh God, I did, I loved him. I always had. But love was not separate from trust—it couldn't be. And yet, I'd denied him just that. Guilt stabbed at me more harshly than the knife I'd felt in my side all those months ago.
Brogan was good and generous and moral, and he'd acted against himself as much as anyone else when he'd set out to exact revenge. But then he'd tried so hard to make it right.
I had thought all hope was lost, that there was no fixing the situation we'd found ourselves in. But maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe with love . . . with truth . . . with forgiveness, anything was possible. Please help me make it possible, Brogan.
I was going to go to him and offer my forgiveness and hope to God he'd forgive me, too. He might fight me, but I was going to fight back. I might fail, but this time, the cause finally felt entirely worthy.
**********
I took a deep breath, gathering every ounce of courage I possessed as I knocked on Eileen's door. I heard footsteps coming toward me and resisted the urge to flee. The door flew open, and Eileen stood there. Her face broke into a huge grin. "Oh, thank ya, Jaysus," she said, hugging me tightly. I let out a small, surprised laugh. "Come in, come in." She ushered me inside, out of the cold.
My head moved around, hardly seeing the décor of her home, my eyes only set on finding one person.
"He's not here yet," she said. "He's drivin' in from the city." Footsteps sounded from the room beyond where we were standing in the living room and a second later, Fionn appeared in the doorway.
"Lydia," he said, happiness and surprise mixed together in his tone.
I smiled. "Hi, Fionn." He practically ran over to me, sweeping me up into a hug. I laughed again.
"We've missed the hell outta ya, Lydia," he said.
"I've missed you, too," I said honestly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you when I saw you in New York—"
"Nah, I never would have expected to run into ya. Brogan not sayin' a thing was a load of rubbish. I told him so afterward."
"I suspect he didn't know what to say," I mumbled. "I didn't either."
"Courtney bein' there was my own bloody fault," Fionn said. "I told Brogan bringin' a woman would balance the mood in a way that would work to our benefit for that particular meetin'. I was tryin' to give him an excuse to contact ya and wanted to throw up on me shoes when Courtney the scanger showed up."
I gave him a wan smile. "It wasn't your fault, Fionn. Brogan makes his own choices." I wasn't sure whether Fionn's explanation should give me some hope or not. There was still so much I didn't know. Deep breath. Forgiveness. Faith.
"Well, let’s hope he makes some good ones tonight." He winked.
Eileen took my coat and purse, and I walked farther into her living room, admiring the beautifully decorated yet comfortable space, noticing the same touches here that were in Brogan's house as well. "Something smells good, " I said. "Can I help?"
"Oh, no, no,” Eileen said, walking toward the kitchen. “It just needs a bit longer in the oven. Do you want some wine?"
"Yes, that'd be great." I rubbed my palms on my dark jeans. God, the longer I had to prepare for this, the more nervous I was going to become. I just wanted him to get here already.
"I'm hopin' for the best," Fionn said. "But I fear he's not gona make this easy on ya. Are ya prepared?"
I looked at him, his expression worried, which in turn made my own nervousness notch up a few levels. "That's what Eileen said. And I . . . I think so. I'm going to try my best anyway."
"I'm just bloody thankful you're willin' to." I nodded, suddenly unsure about this plan. What were my reasons again? I couldn't remember why this had seemed a good idea two nights ago. "He's convinced himself he doesn't want ya to forgive him, and that he's doin' right by ya to stay away." He paused. "Bloody caveman," he muttered just as a loud knock sounded at the door. I jumped, my pulse skyrocketing. Fionn squeezed my shoulder gently and gave me a wink. I stood frozen.
Fionn opened the door and Brogan came in, wiping snowflakes off his hair. It had started snowing? In October? Snow always made me think of my mother and for the whisper of a moment, strength—hope—surged through me. "Mo chara," Fionn said. That's when I saw Courtney behind Brogan. My stomach dropped into my feet and the hope I'd felt a second ago fled. Oh God. I couldn’t do this, not with her here. I wanted to sink into the floor, to run, to disappear. Instead, I continued to stand frozen, staring at them as they started to remove their coats.
Fionn appeared to have stilled, too, when Courtney had appeared. It was obvious he hadn't known she'd be with Brogan. "Jaysus fecking Christ," I thought I heard Fionn mutter under his breath.
That's when Brogan noticed me, his body going rigid as his face drained of color. He stared at me for the space of t
wo heartbeats and then looked to Fionn, his lips thinning. "Don't do this, Fionn," he said stiffly. I felt my face warm, feeling embarrassed and lost.
Fionn smiled innocently, ignoring his words. "Of course, ya know Lydia," he said. Brogan's eyes met mine and then he looked away, down to the floor for a moment as his jaw ticked.
Courtney stepped forward. "Are you kidding me?" she looked at Brogan. "Did you know she'd be here?"
"She's me guest." Eileen said, coming from the kitchen, handing me a glass of white wine. I gripped it gratefully. "I didn't realize you'd be here tonight, Courtney," Eileen said.
Courtney smiled placidly, shrugging one shoulder. "Hopefully not for long." She put her arm through Brogan's. "I prefer to be home in bed in front of a warm fire on nights like this." She smiled meaningfully up at Brogan who was as still as a statue except for that same tick in his jaw.
Eileen's eyes darted to me and then to Fionn. "Well then, time to get good and plastered. What can I get ya to drink?" he asked Brogan and Courtney. Courtney asked for wine and Brogan said he didn't want anything. Fionn headed for the kitchen, shaking his head.
As he passed by me, he leaned toward my ear and whispered, "You're stronger. Ya can do this. Unbalance him."
My heart was pounding as Eileen led us to sit down in the living room. I sat down next to her on the couch and Brogan and Courtney sat down across from us on a loveseat, Courtney scooting as close to Brogan as she possibly could.
Brogan looked to be made of stone, his expression tense and completely unreadable. There was a moment of strained silence, and I noted that Brogan was leaned slightly away from Courtney. One of his tells. It gave me the courage to stay seated, not to run for the door.
I took a long drink of wine, setting it down on the coffee table in front of me and rubbing my shaky hands on my thighs. "I received the package you sent," I said to Brogan, hating myself for the way my voice trembled. His eyes met mine, and I swore for a moment, grief passed over his expression. But then it was gone, and I wondered if I was seeing my own emotions reflected in him, because despite this terrible, awkward situation, I wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and ask him to comfort me. His cold demeanor—not to mention that awful woman—was the cause of the intense pain resting heavily on my chest. And yet, seeing him made me realize the depth to which I’d missed him.