Chapter 40 Seamus
Chapter forty
Seamus
Rosanna is looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Or maybe I'm scared to read it. Because it looks like…trust.
She takes a breath, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.
"Why?" She leans forward, and I can see she's fighting tears. "If you figured out we were pen pals, why not just tell me? Why not say 'Anna, it's me, we've been writing to each other for years'? Why keep pretending to be someone else?"
This is the hard part.
My voice comes out rough. "I started thinking: if I tell her now, how will I know if her feelings are real? How will I know if she wants me—Seamus? How will I know if this marriage is becoming real or if I'm just convenient?"
"So you tested me." Her voice is flat. "You kept writing to me as Shay to see what I'd say. To monitor my feelings without having to actually be vulnerable yourself."
She swallows. "I did something similar, didn't I? With the advocacy retainer."
"Yes." The word feels like swallowing glass. "I guess we were both afraid."
I stand up and walk to the window, staring out at nothing.
I laugh, and it sounds hollow. “The only way I thought I could know your real feelings was to keep being Shay. Where you were just Anna. Honest. Unfiltered.”
"So you could evaluate me," Rosanna says slowly. "Could monitor whether I actually cared about you or if I was just performing for the billionaire husband."
"Yes. And I see how foolish that is now."
I move back toward her, but I don't sit. I'm too agitated, too full of shame and desperate hope.
"I'm sorry, Rosanna. I'm so sorry. You deserved honesty from the beginning. You deserved a husband who could trust you instead of testing you."
My voice drops to almost a whisper. "You deserved someone better than I knew how to be."
"Seamus…" She wipes at her face. "I wasn't exactly fearless either."
I want desperately to comfort her, but I don't know if I have the right to touch her.
I sink back into the chair, exhausted by the weight of my own confession.
I look at her and don’t look away.
"Can you ever forgive me?" The question comes out broken. "Can you ever trust me again?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize I'm holding my breath. Waiting for her to tell me this is unforgivable, that damage this deep can't be repaired, that I had my chance and I destroyed it through my own fear and need for control.
Or waiting for her to tell me that maybe broken things can be mended if both people are willing to do the hard work of healing.
I don't know which answer she'll give. But I'm finally brave enough to ask the question and accept whatever truth comes back.