5. Pope
POPE
There's one more secret. The one that could make her hate me forever. The one Marco took to his grave—almost.
I've been pacing my living room for three hours, wearing a track in the hardwood, a glass of whiskey untouched on the table.
Every time I reach for it, my hands shake too badly to trust myself not to spill.
So I pace instead, running through the words I need to say and knowing none of them will come out right.
I'm not selling. Not yet. We need to talk. Really talk. Tonight.
Her text has been burning a hole in my phone since this afternoon. She knows there's more. She could feel it this morning—the weight of everything I couldn't say pressing down on both of us like a physical thing.
She deserves the truth. All of it. Even if it destroys whatever fragile thing we've started building.
The knock comes at exactly seven.
I open the door, and there she is. Mara. Dark hair loose around her shoulders instead of pinned up. A soft sweater that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and never let go. Eyes that see straight through me, the way they always have.
"You look like hell," she says.
"Feel like it too."
She steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and I close the door behind her, sealing us in together. Sealing my fate.
"Coffee?" I ask. "Or something stronger?"
"Neither." She turns to face me, arms crossed over her chest. Not angry—just braced. Like she's preparing herself for a blow. "I didn't come here to drink, Ryder. I came here for the truth. Whatever you've been holding back—I want all of it. No more half-confessions. No more deflecting."
"Mara—"
"You said you needed time this morning. I gave you time." Her chin lifts, that stubborn strength I've always admired blazing in her eyes. "Now I need answers. Marco's death wasn't the only thing you've been carrying. I could feel it. So tell me the rest."
I should sit down for this. We both should. But my legs won't cooperate, so I just stand there in the middle of my living room, looking at the woman I've loved for seven years, and prepare to lose her.
"I saw you first."
She blinks. "What?"
"Seven years ago. The night you met Marco.
" The words come out rough, scraped raw from the place I've kept them buried.
"It was a party at the clubhouse. You came with a friend—some girl who was dating one of the prospects.
You were wearing this blue dress, and you were laughing at something, and I just...
" I shake my head. "I couldn't look away.
You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "
Mara's expression shifts. Confusion giving way to something else—something I can't quite read.
"I wanted to talk to you," I continue. "Wanted to walk over there and introduce myself, ask your name, see if your laugh sounded as good up close as it did from across the room." A bitter sound escapes me. "But I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I was thirty-five years old with blood on my hands and a past that would make you run screaming.
" I force myself to meet her eyes. "And you were twenty-four.
Young and bright and good. I took one look at you and knew—you deserved better than anything I could offer. Better than this life. Better than me."
"Ryder—"
"So I stayed away. Told myself I was being noble. Protecting you from the disaster of getting involved with someone like me." The laugh that escapes me is hollow. "And while I was busy being noble, Marco walked right up to you and asked you to dance."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"Marco," she repeats slowly.
"He didn't hesitate. Didn't overthink it.
Just saw a beautiful woman and went after her, the way I should have.
" I turn away, unable to watch her face as I say the next part.
"I watched my best friend fall in love with you that night.
Watched him light up every time you laughed.
And I told myself it was fine. That I'd made the right choice.
That I could bury whatever I felt and be happy for him. "
"But you couldn't."
"No." The word comes out broken. "I couldn't. I tried, Mara. God, I tried so fucking hard. Every time you came to the clubhouse, every time I saw you together, every time Marco talked about how much he loved you—I smiled and nodded and pretended my chest wasn't caving in."
I hear her move behind me, feel the warmth of her presence at my back, but I can't turn around. Not yet.
"I've been in love with you for seven years," I say to the wall.
"Since before you even knew my name. Since before you were ever Marco's.
And I never said a word. Never acted on it.
Never let myself even hope—because you were his, and he was my brother, and some lines you don't cross. No matter how much it kills you."
"Ryder." Her hand touches my shoulder, gentle. "Look at me."
I turn.
She's crying. Silent tears tracking down her cheeks, her eyes wide with something that looks like wonder and heartbreak mixed together.
"Marco knew," I tell her, because I'm in this far—might as well finish the confession. "He figured it out about three years into your marriage. Said he caught me looking at you during Sunday dinner, and he just... knew."
"He confronted you?"
"Pulled me aside after church the next week.
" The memory surfaces, sharp and painful.
"Asked me straight out if I was in love with his wife.
And I couldn't lie to him. Not Marco. So I told him the truth—that I loved you.
That I always would. That I would never, under any circumstances, act on it, because you were his wife and he was my brother and I'd rather cut off my own arm than betray either of you. "
"What did he say?"
"Nothing at first. Just stood there looking at me with this expression I couldn't read." I swallow hard. "Then he nodded and said, 'I know you won't. That's why we're still brothers.' And we never talked about it again."
Mara's hand is still on my shoulder, her grip tightening.
"When he was dying," I continue, my voice cracking, "he told me to take care of you. But that wasn't all he said."
"Tell me."
"He said—" I have to stop, breathe, force the words past the tightness in my throat. "'I always knew. And I forgive you. She deserves someone who'll love her like that. Let yourself have something good.'"
The sound Mara makes is somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
"He gave me permission," I say. "With his dying breath, he gave me permission to love you. And I've spent two years feeling like I stole something anyway. Like accepting his blessing would be the ultimate betrayal. Like I don't deserve—"
"Stop."
She steps in front of me, cupping my face in both hands, forcing me to look at her.
"Stop," she says again, softer. "You've been carrying this for seven years.
Torturing yourself for feelings you couldn't control.
And Marco—" Her voice breaks. "Marco knew.
He knew and he forgave you and he wanted this for us.
Don't you see? You're not betraying him by loving me. You're honoring his last wish."
"Mara—"
"I felt it too."
The words stop me cold.
"The pull toward you," she continues, her thumbs stroking my cheekbones, wiping away tears I didn't realize I'd shed.
"Even when I loved Marco, even when I was happy with him, there was something about you that I couldn't explain.
Every time you walked into a room, I felt it.
This... gravity. Like you were the sun and I couldn't help but orbit. "
"You never said anything."
"Neither did you." A sad smile curves her lips. "I buried it so deep I almost convinced myself it wasn't real. Told myself I was imagining things. That I was a terrible person for feeling anything for my husband's best friend." She shakes her head. "But it was real. It's always been real."
"I don't deserve you," I whisper.
"Maybe not." She rises on her toes, bringing her face close to mine. "But I'm choosing you anyway. The way you should have chosen me seven years ago."
"I was too old for you then. I'm still too old for you now."
"Eleven years isn't—"
"It's a lifetime, Mara. I've got grey in my hair and scars older than your adult memories. I've done things that would give you nightmares. You could have anyone—someone younger, someone without all this baggage—"
"I don't want anyone else." She says it fiercely, her eyes blazing. "I want you. The grey hair and the scars and the baggage and all of it. I've spent seven years wanting you, Ryder. Don't you dare tell me I should want something else."
When she kisses me, it tastes like absolution.
We make it to the bedroom this time. Slowly. No desperate scramble, no clothes torn off in the hallway. Just her hand in mine, leading me down the hall like she's the one who lives here, like she belongs in this space I've kept empty for so long.
She stops at the foot of the bed and turns to face me.
"I want to see you," she says. "All of you. No rushing this time."
My hands tremble as I reach for the hem of my shirt. Forty-two years old, and I'm nervous like a teenager. She watches me strip it off, her eyes tracing the tattoos, the scars, the body that's seen too many fights and not enough softness.
"Your turn," I manage.
She pulls her sweater over her head slowly, revealing a simple black bra underneath. Then her jeans, sliding them down her hips until she's standing there in nothing but cotton and lace, and I forget how to breathe.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"I've been wanting to stare for seven years." I close the distance between us, running my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver under my touch. "You're so goddamn beautiful, Mara. Do you have any idea? Every curve, every inch of you—I've dreamed about this. About you."
I unclasp her bra, letting it fall away, and she doesn't try to cover herself. Just stands there, letting me look, letting me worship her with my eyes before I worship her with my hands.