Ramsay(45)

It didn't seem like the laughter was hurting her side so I decided not  to bring it up. I didn't want to put a damper on this lighthearted night  by mentioning what had happened earlier today. I had to trust she'd  know her own physical limits. And watching her now was making me happy.

Lydia was always laughing when she was a teenager. I remembered her  flitting from one place to another like a brightly colored hummingbird,  full of life and laughter, flirting with everyone who crossed her path.  But looking back at it now, not through the eyes of a besotted  seventeen-year-old boy who thought he could never have her, I saw it was  harmless flirting, the kind that let everyone around her know she  enjoyed them. I also understood it better now because Fionn was the same  way. He charmed everyone he came into contact with, because he truly  enjoyed people and he couldn't help letting them know.

I smiled over at Lydia, overjoyed to see that carefree part of her  personality on display-even if only for a couple hours. After the day  we'd had-after all my doubts and fears over telling her the details of  my past-relaxing and watching a movie with Lydia felt like a small  miracle. It felt like she might be giving me a second chance, but I  didn't even dare ask her. Nor expect it.

I watched as she grinned at the screen, that wide smile that I hadn't  seen on her face since she was sixteen, the one she'd always seemed to  quickly amend when it slipped through, as if she didn't like something  about it. She wasn't hiding it now though, and I let my eyes linger on  her, soaking it in. Beautiful.

When the movie was over, I flicked it off, still chuckling. I lay back  on the pillows and Lydia turned toward me, smiling. "That was terrible,"  she said.                       
       
           



       

I laughed. "You seemed to be enjoying it."

"I did, but it was still terrible." She laughed, but then went quickly  serious, the wheels in her head obviously turning. We stared at each  other for a minute. I wanted her, but I was afraid to make a move after  she'd suffered an attack today, not to mention what happened the night  before. Plus, I'd revealed so much to her earlier. I still felt insecure  and unsure about what she thought of me, about where we stood. But  would she be in my bedroom if she wasn't interested in me physically  anymore? Was she thinking the same thing I was? That she wanted to make  love more than she wanted to breathe?

"Lydia-"

"Let's talk," she said.

"Talk?" I blinked.

"Yeah, like, let's have a sleepover and stay up talking."

"A sleepover? Stay up talking?"

She nodded. The sleepover part sounded promising, the talking, not so  much. "Yeah. Didn't you ever have sleepovers when you were a kid?"

I shook my head. "My mam was sick for a long time."

Her eyes widened and she frowned. "You were robbed of so many things,"  she said sadly. She took a deep breath. "Okay, well, it's never too  late. We can make up for the sleepovers you never had."

I wanted to tell her that the only sleepover I was interested in with  her was the one where we were both naked and her legs were spread open,  but I was pretty sure the sleepover she was talking about was of a  different nature.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.

"First," she said, "you need to get in your PJs and we need to get under the covers."

"My PJs?" I asked, confused.

"Yeah, your PJs. Your pajamas."

"Do men wear pajamas?"

"You don't?" She frowned.

I raised a brow. "I'd think you'd know that better than anyone considering you took inventory of my clothes."

She laughed softly. "Hmm. Now that I think about it, you're right. How about sweat pants?"

"Workout shorts?"

"There you go. Perfect. Go get changed and come back."

"Sleepovers seem to have a lot of rules," I grumbled, mostly due to  sexual frustration. Not only did this sleepover involve lots of talking,  but it also involved clothes. But I did as Lydia told me to and changed  into a pair of workout shorts and returned to bed. Lydia frowned.  "What?" I asked.

"No shirt?" She shook her head and licked her lips.

"I think it's a better idea if we both wear shirts." That buoyed my  spirits. She was still affected by me, too. Maybe this sleepover would  turn into something more than . . . talking. I grabbed a T-shirt and put  it on. Although, if I was really going to make an issue of it, I'd  mention that her tank top really didn't leave much to the imagination  and I was having a particularly difficult time not letting my eyes  wander down to her cream puffs.

Lydia turned the covers back and slipped under them. I joined her,  turning toward her on the pillow. She reached over her shoulder and  flicked off the lamp, casting the room in near darkness.

"I've never spent the night with another woman," I said.

She tilted her head on the pillow, blinking at me for a moment. "You  haven't? Never?" She paused. "Brogan, haven't you been with anyone other  than . . . those women." Those women. Funny, that's how I thought about  them, too.

"No."

"No," she whispered, sounding disbelieving. "Haven't you dated at all?"

"No. I mean, not unless it was for your benefit." I shot her a small  smirk, and she let out a breathy-sounding laugh, her forehead wrinkling  in confusion.

"Well, but . . . why?"

"I guess I've been so focused on accumulating wealth." Safety. "I  haven't really had time." I was quiet for a moment and Lydia waited,  watching me. "And I guess my past . . . maybe I just . . . wanted to  distance myself from it for a while . . ." That felt right although I  wasn't sure I wanted to delve into it too much-not right now at least.

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.