We were quiet for a moment before she said, "You have to find a way to release it, Brogan. The women, your choices, the shame, you have to find a way to let it go. Learn from your mistakes, but don't let them define you now. Find forgiveness, for them and for yourself."
I let out a breath. "I've tried. I just . . . I can't hold on to the emotion."
She shook her head. "Forgiveness isn't an emotion. Forgiveness is a choice. And sometimes it's one you have to choose again and again." She licked her lips. "For instance, take my stepmother, ex-stepmother that is. I wanted her to be a mother figure to me so badly, or at the very least an older sister figure, an aunt, something, anything." She paused. "I realize now she just wasn't capable. I've forgiven her for the things she wasn't able to give me, but if I see her at a party, I throw back a lot of alcohol and avoid her like the plague. And I have to choose again, in that moment, to forgive her for the ridiculousness that comes out of her mouth." I chuckled and she smiled. "I'm just saying, you don't have to be best friends just because you forgive a person. It's really about setting yourself free of the hold they have on you."
"And what about your brother? Isn't constantly forgiving him really just sending the message that you'll tolerate anything? His choices affect you. They have for a long time."
She looked at me thoughtfully, if not a little uncomfortably. "Yes, you're right. It's easier to forgive a person when their bad choices don't wreak havoc on your own life, when you can distance yourself." She sighed. "I guess, sometimes, you have to be the one to cut ties if you're truly going to forgive. And it's more complicated than it seems. I wasn't trying to make it seem overly simplistic."
She looked troubled and perhaps slightly lost, and so I reached over and took her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. "This sleepover has suddenly taken on a somber tone."
She laughed softly. "You're right. We'll save somber for when we have a bottle of wine open."
"I'd lay off the wine for a while, Mo Chroí. You're a dirty talking drunk." I raised a brow.
She laughed softly and then was quiet for a moment before she asked, "The other night in ah, bed . . . what did you say to me in Gaelic?"
I paused. "I believe it was something very complimentary about your cream puffs."
She laughed again and the mood lightened. We talked about less serious topics after that. She told me about going away to college, her roommate Beatrice who had snored like a trucker, listened to techno music constantly and lived, seemingly, on a diet of candy corn and Red Bull, about coming back home, about her life now. I listened to her talk, smiling and absorbing every word, and I had to admit, I liked my first sleepover, despite all the talking. Or maybe because of it. Or maybe I just really liked the girl I was having a sleepover with.
I told her about my childhood in Ireland, my mam, the cancer, and even a little bit about my dad before he'd been ruled by the bottle, and I found that it felt good to talk about them, even if only a little. Apart from Fionn, and Eileen of course, I hadn’t come across anyone who had lost both parents so young.
"I wanted this with you," she murmured. "When we were teenagers. I dreamed of this." I smiled softly at her. Funny, we'd both been dreaming of the same thing, yet we'd both been dreaming alone. I didn't want to dream alone anymore. I hoped to God she didn't either.
We'd slept together in the guest room in Greenwich, but having her in my bed brought an even deeper joy and satisfaction. I loved whispering with her in the near dark of my room, loved the look of her freshly scrubbed face right next to mine on the pillow, loved the soft sound of her voice, the way her words faded away as she started drifting off to sleep in the middle of a sentence.
I don't remember falling asleep, but at some point in the deep of the night, I came half awake, realizing Lydia and I were tangled together, her smooth thigh thrown over my leg and her breasts pressed against my chest, her breath warm on my throat. I pulled her closer, burrowing my nose into her sweetly fragrant hair, feeling a calm sense of happiness flow through me.
When I woke up next, it was morning and Lydia was gone, but when I got up and opened the door to my bedroom, I heard the water running across the hall in her bathroom and smiled. I brought my arm to my nose and inhaled. Lydia. Her scent lingered on my skin.
I brushed my teeth, shaved, and took a shower, and then dressed quickly in dress pants and a button-down shirt.
When I got downstairs and turned the corner into the kitchen, Lydia was sitting at the table dressed . . . as a man. "Em," I said, squinting my eyes at her.
She grinned. "Hi," she said, "I mean, hi," she said again, lowering her voice a few octaves.
"What exactly is . . .?" I used my finger to indicate her state of dress—a button-down shirt stolen from my closet it seemed, rolled up to her elbows, a pair of loose jeans—and her hair bundled into a baseball cap, and the small . . . I squinted again . . . drawn-in mustache?
"I'm coming to work with you today," she said. "I thought you'd feel safer about me accompanying you if I was in disguise."
"Disguise?" I walked closer, leaning my hands on a chair back. "Lydia, that's the worst disguise I've ever seen."
"Oh!" She held up her finger, grabbed a pair of sunglasses sitting next to the toast she was eating and put them on, smiling.