Chapter 18 Forgive But Never Forget
FORGIVE BUT NEVER FORGET
ENYA
Ikick off my shoes and sink onto the couch. My body is tired in that bone deep way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with emotion.
Nick sits across from me, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped.
“Daisy is leaving tomorrow,” I say almost mournfully.
“She is.”
“I’m going to miss her.”
Nick smiles. “She has that effect on people.”
We fall silent for a while, each of us waiting for the other to broach the uncomfortable subject of his colleague—his ex, or whatever she is.
I go first because I know he won’t, because he, I have learned, gives space—knows when to and how to.
“So…this Kiera person…she and you….”
“Yeah. It was…not a relationship. Not like us.”
I rest against the pillows and stroke my belly in small circles. “Is there no part of you that misses that life?”
“The secret agent life?” he asks, amused.
I nod.
“You know it’s not like I’m James Bond.”
I laugh. “You don’t say.”
“No, Enya, I don’t miss it.”
He comes closer, sits on the coffee table, and puts his hand on mine. “And it’s not just because of the baby. I…you know, when you were in that interview room talking to Ruiz—”
“You were on the other side of the mirror,” I finish for him.
“I was.”
“I know.”
He takes my hand in his. “I know you know.”
He kisses my belly. “I can’t wait to be a parent. But I don’t want to just co-parent. I want us to be a family.”
Many people have done me wrong in my life—but no one has apologized. No one has done what Nick is doing, showing up every day, being there, even when I try to kick him out.
“Nick, I need to be honest with you.”
He looks up.
I’ve always liked his eyes. Deep blue. He looks so different from Daisy, who has more of her mother’s Irish than Nick, who has his father’s Creole.
These past weeks have been eye-opening as I have learned about him and his family. This is a man who takes his personal relationships seriously. The way he talks about his nephew and to his parents, which I’ve heard over the phone.
He rests his hand on my belly and strokes gently. A faint flutter answers him from the inside. His expression stills, wonder softening his features. The baby has started quickening now. It’s like a quiet hello I’m just beginning to recognize.
“Enya, there’s only honesty between us now.” He holds my gaze. “So, say what you’re thinking.”
“I know what you did…you did for work.”
“Not all of it.” He chuckles as our child responds to his touch.
“I made love to you because I couldn’t help myself.
I stayed with you, spent time with you, because I couldn’t help myself.
I fell in love, baby, and…it took me a while to see that, but once I did, I knew I had to be with you.
” He kisses my lips. “Our baby is a bonus.”
He’s making it really hard for me to stay angry with him. But trust and anger are two separate things, as are trust and forgiveness.
“I can forgive you for what happened. Though, I confess, I don’t know if I’m forgiving you because I truly am…or because you’re the father of my child.”
The edges of his mouth tilt. “I don’t care why you do it as long as you do. I just need it to be real.”
I swallow. “And what if I forgive you for the wrong reasons?”
“I’ll still take it.” He looks at me like I’m all he needs. “Because forgiveness isn’t a prize. It’s a process. And I’m in it for the long haul.”
My heart kicks hard against bone. I take a long, deep breath to center myself.
“I hurt you,” he adds. “I know that. And I don’t expect you to forget it. I just want the chance to be better than the man who did it.”
There’s no demand in him, just patience, which is unglamorous.
It’s not the romantic poetry of Yeats and the laying down of cloths of heaven under my feet—it’s just him saying he’s here, he’s not going anywhere, and he wants to do and be better.
He doesn’t know how this will turn out, but he’s going to hold steady.
“I want to be brave like you,” I whisper, “but I’m so scared.”
He cups my cheek and looks at me with reverence. “You don’t have to stop being scared for us to move forward.”
I close my eyes and lean into his touch.
“Time for bed, baby. You’re tired.”
I open my eyes. “Yes.”
He rises immediately. “I’ll take the couch.”
I snort. “Have you ever actually slept on that thing?”
“Yes…on the day you fainted. Now, I sleep on the floor. That couch is a health hazard.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. After all, this is Nick.
My Nick.
“You can sleep in my bed.” I hope I sound casual. “It’s a King. Plenty of space. And only because the couch is uncomfortable.”
His lips twitch. “Only because of that.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, only.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me, which is fair because I am lying…big time.