That tracks.
“But,” she adds, “he’s also loyal to a fault. When he loves someone, it terrifies him. Because he doesn’t know how to protect them without breaking them.”
I swallow. That also tracks.
She tilts her head. “What he did to you…is inexcusable. I won’t defend it. Men are idiots.”
“Are they?” I ask, amused.
“Oh, absolutely,” she says cheerfully. “My husband is worse than most.”
I laugh. This is the judge who wears boardshorts under his robes.
“Forest is brilliant,” she goes on. “Principled. Brave. And when he loves someone, he barrels straight through common sense. Restraint? Never heard of her. The man once flooded my house to make me move in with him. Ruined my priceless Bokhara rugs.”
My mouth falls open. “He what?”
“I know!” She chuckles. “I did move in with him. There was only one bedroom and…it was like a bad romcom with a one-bed trope.”
I settle, enjoying this woman more than I ever thought I would. She’s genuine, open, and, honestly, a total delight. “Sounds like one hell of a story.”
“It’s got a happy ending.” She sips her tea and grins. “The point is—men don’t think. They act. And the good ones act badly when they’re scared.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I murmur.
She softens. “No. It’s supposed to make you feel seen.”
I stare down at my mug. At the faint tremor in my hands.
“He hurt you,” Daisy says with empathy. “And you don’t owe him forgiveness. Or trust. Or anything beyond what you decide you want to give.”
I nod, throat tight.
“But,” her voice drops, and her tone becomes somber, “I have never seen my brother walk away from what matters to him without a mission forcing his hand. And he walked away from everything for you.”
I set my teacup on the coffee table and rest my hands on my belly, my gaze drifting to the wall behind Daisy where a print of one of my favorite paintings hangs. A Kandinsky—abstract, all color and movement and emotion without a single explicit instruction on how to feel. I’ve always loved his work because it doesn’t try to explain itself. It just is. Chaos and harmony share the same space; shapes collide, colors bleed into one another, creating beauty without ever asking for permission.
Grandma Lucille used to say it was art for people who felt too much and thought too little—and I suppose that’s why it feels like home to me.
“It was a job, Enya. You were collateral damage.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t change that it probably hurts like a mother.”
I laugh at that, agreeing, “No, it doesn’t.”
“Because you love him.”
I close my eyes and think about the life inside of me. I open my eyes after a moment and give her the truth. “I do.”
“Then what’s the problem?” she asks. “He’s not trying to win, Enya, I promise you that. He’s trying to stay. He took a corporate job so he could live in D.C. He quit the NSA. He…and it’s not that he’s making sacrifices, it’s just that you’re important?—”
“Important? Me or the baby?”
“He quit his job long before he knew you were pregnant,” she reminds me. “He was stalking you long after the op needed him to…you know he was, don’t you?”
I nod. Yeah, I do know.
