Page 159 of Reckless Vow

“Do you think you’d feel better after?” I ask. “Do you think destroying him would give us the years back? Would erase the hurt? Because after years of therapy, I can tell you the only way you can put this behind you is to forgive.”

He shakes his head. “Did you forgive him?”

“Oh, Baldo.” I take his hand in mine. “To forgive yourself. I forgave myself for all the guilt I had associated with that dreadful night. And you need to do the same, and if putting the monster behind bars is a part of that journey for you, then do what you need to do.”

He stares at me, a war brewing behind his eyes as he taps his fingers on the table.

“I don’t deserve you,” he croaks.

I sigh. “You certainly have a lot of room to improve your dating game. Food ten out of ten, conversation barely one.”

“I don’t know how to deal with all this anger and guilt.” His voice breaks, and the vulnerability of his admission hits me right in the chest.

“It takes time. And therapy. But you’re not alone, baby. I’m right here, so please talk to me next time. Don’t go rogue, paying Art Mathison and waging your own war. We’re a couple now—let’s share the burden.”

He sighs, leans in and cups my nape, pulling me into a bruising kiss. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You can keep saying that, but you’re stuck with me.” I smile. “Now, change the subject and tell me something nice, so I can finish the best burrito in town.”

He chuckles and pecks me on my forehead. “I went to see Mom.”

“You went home by yourself?” I halt the bite on the way to my mouth, the rice falling out.

“Yes.”

“This doesn’t sound like a conversation that would improve my appetite. Let’s not have dates anymore.”

He chuckles humorlessly. “I’ll get better at this, I promise.”

Sighing, I take a bite. “So, you saw Dad?”

“Yes.”

I drop the burrito again. Who cares. We can come here another time. I stare at him, curiosity and dread clawing at my insides.

“He apologized to me.”

“He did?”

Baldo nods. “Maybe Mom forced him, but I accepted his apology.”

A pent-up sigh escapes me from somewhere deep inside. “So, you forgave him?”

“Oh, baby, I wish it was that easy, but I’m trying. I don’t think I’m ready to cast forgiveness in every direction,” he says, alluding to our earlier conversation. “But with your dad, I’ll make the effort.”

And that’s all I can ask for. We can’t just switch our guilt, anger, forgiveness or acceptance on and off as convention demands, or others expect. There is no right way to cope with any of this.

But the fact that my beautiful man is slowly opening up is hope enough for me. For him. For us.

“I love you,” I say, and the words have so much meaning for me that I find it hard to breathe.

He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, and then frowns. “I wish I didn’t give you this ring.”

I pull my hand from him, cradling it to my chest. “Our ruby. But it means so much—”

“Exactly, and I gave it to you for a sham of a wedding. I think we need a re-do.”

“Are you proposing to me, Baldo Cassinetti?”

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