"Not her," I supplied, grimacing slightly. It felt cruel and yet, I owed her the truth. I owed myself the truth.
She flinched, but nodded again. "She's branded on your heart."
"Yes," I said softly. She is my heart. Mo Chroí. And like my heart, to rid myself of her would kill me in the process. The truth of that thought hit me in the gut. All these months, that's how I'd felt . . . half alive, as if I were very slowly dying.
Courtney stared at me for a moment, exhaling a deep breath. "I lied to her," she finally said. "The day you shot her brother. I went to your apartment and she was there. I . . ." she let out another breath, "I told her I'd had a pregnancy scare. I made it sound as if we'd slept together recently and—"
"Jaysus, Courtney," I gritted out, shock and horror sliding down my spine.
"Some other terrible things, too." She paused. "She looked like I'd just killed her best friend. I was happy at the time," she said, looking off behind me. "I thought I'd won."
I exhaled a large breath, running my fingers through my hair. It's why she had left. That's. Why. She. Left. Feck! She’d thought I’d been lying to her about Courtney. Cheating on her.
I spun away from Courtney, my mind reeling with the truths slowly dawning on me, what Lydia must have gone through that day . . . the doubt, the pain.
I'd found the printed proof that I owned her old family estate sitting on my counter, too. I'd known it had come from Stuart by the doodles at the bottom of the page.
So that day, so many doubts had been planted in her mind . . . she'd left, needing space and who could blame her? And then she'd gotten the call that I'd killed her brother. And suddenly, I knew beyond any doubt, that Lydia hadn't taken my folder. Stuart had. How had he known? Because I had written all over the front in Gaelic. He'd seen it and he'd taken it. Oh my God. I'd already forgiven Lydia for giving the folder to Stuart, had understood the position she'd been in, and yet realizing that she hadn't taken it, that she hadn't betrayed me, still made me want to weep with relief. And somehow . . . somehow it helped me forgive myself. Lydia hadn't believed I deserved to be betrayed. I had been the one who thought that. Not her, me. And it was the reason I had been so unwilling to allow her to forgive me.
It doesn't matter if you allow it or not. I still forgive you all the same. I still . . . I still love you all the same.
Oh Lydia. Mo Chroí.
Despite all she'd dealt with that day, despite everything that had happened, she had still found it in her heart to forgive me. She'd still found the courage to come here tonight. She'd sat across from me and the woman she thought I was involved with, in at least some capacity, and she'd told me she forgave me, that she loved me. Oh God. The bravery that had taken, the goodness that had taken. And the faith—the faith in me. The realizations spun through me so powerfully, I almost felt dizzy. I turned back to Courtney.
"Go," she said, resignation in her voice, sorrow clouding her expression. "I'm thinking Fionn will be very pleased to drive me home."
I paused. "Security detail—"
"Bennett's no threat, Brogan.” She waved her hand and shook her head. “Yes, it's true he's paroled, but I lied about everything else. He wrote to me many times from prison asking for my forgiveness. Apparently he's found God. He's a changed man. And he's married to a woman he became pen pals with while he was locked up. It's very romantic. A book should be written."
Jaysus! I stared at her, releasing a pent-up breath, but suddenly feeling only pity for all her lies, suddenly seeing her not through the cloud of my own guilt, but as the lonely, troubled woman she was. I was more than angry with her. What a bitch. "Courtney—"
"Go," she said, harsher this time, waving her hand in the air again. "I need to hate you for a little while."
I nodded. "Aye," I said. I really wanted to hate her for more than a little while. I had yet to fully process all the implications of her revelations, but . . . she had been a large part of the reason Lydia left me that day. The reason why I'd been at the office that night. Fecking hell. I flung the door open and ran outside, headed for my car. The snow was already dwindling, the wind in the trees seeming to sing one word over and over again: Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.
God, I hoped she was still waiting for me.
Please be waiting for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lydia
Why had I come here? I wasn't exactly sure. It even seemed somewhat illogical and self-torturous to return to this specific place after being rejected by Brogan.
I sighed, leaning back against the wall of the small room in my stable, where I was sitting, blowing into my gloved hands for added warmth. This room. I kept returning, somehow hoping for a different outcome than the one that had first occurred. Somehow hoping to make it right. Only we couldn't get it right. I'd tried. I'd bared my heart, offered my soul, and Brogan had told me I should leave. I'd driven around aimlessly for a while and somehow ended up here without really planning to. So here I was—alone—and I certainly couldn't make it right all by myself. So again, why had I come here of all places while Brogan was across town with . . .? Pain made my stomach tighten as if bracing for a blow. I closed my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself.
I stayed that way for several more minutes. Then the squeaking of door hinges replaced the silence of the snow-filled night. Creasing my brow, I stood quickly.