Chapter 10 - CORMACK APOLOGIZED TO MY FATHER BEFORE HE EVER ASKED ME FOR FORGIVENESS
My father did not tell me about the apology for six months.
Benjamin did.
Accidentally.
We were at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner when Dad mentioned Cormack’s old consulting firm in conversation.
Benjamin said:
“Is that after he came by?”
Silence.
I looked between them.
“What?”
Benjamin froze.
Dad closed his eyes.
Mom left the room.
Coward.
“What came by?”
I asked.
Dad sighed.
“Cormack visited.”
“When?”
“January.”
“It is July.”
“Yes.”
“Why did no one tell me?”
“Because it was not about you.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
Dad sat.
“He asked to speak to me.”
“I agreed.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to hear him.”
My jaw tightened.
“He apologized.”
“For what?”
“Letting me walk you down an aisle he knew was built on information you didn’t have.”
My throat closed.
Dad continued.
“He said he realized later I would have been participating in deceiving my own daughter without knowing.”
I sat.
“I never thought about that.”
“I did.”
Of course.
Dad had rehearsed walking me down the aisle.
We had practiced once during venue setup because he was nervous about the floor transition.
He would have put my hand into Cormack’s.
Cormack knew.
Dad did not.
“That was the part he wanted to apologize for?”
“One part.”
“He apologized for using your company.”
“For making me think Foundry North discussions were approved.”
“For asking me once whether I thought you’d eventually work less after marriage.”
My face tightened.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
Dad looked ashamed.
“I said probably.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Because your mother worked less after we married.”
“Because we had children.”
“Yes.”
“I assumed.”
There it was.
Another assumption.
Not malicious.
Cultural.
Easy.
Dad continued:
“Cormack said he used comments like mine to justify plans you had never agreed to.”
“I wanted to tell you.”
“Then thought maybe the apology belonged between us.”
He looked at me.
“Was that wrong?”
I considered.
“No.”
“Thank you for telling me now.”
Benjamin stayed quiet.
Smart.
Later, while we washed dishes, I asked Dad:
“Did you forgive him?”
Dad thought.
“I don’t know.”
“What did you say?”
“That I believed he was sorry.”
“Different.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask you to talk to me?”
“No.”
Good.
That mattered.
The next month, Cormack sent one final message through Rebecca.
I am engaged. Before anything becomes public, I wanted Olivia to hear from someone other than gossip. No response needed.
I stared.
Engaged.
To someone named Hannah Mercer.
Not Delaney.
I felt…
Nothing at first.
Then something like sadness.
Then relief.
Then curiosity I did not indulge.
“Do you want to know who she is?”
Nessa asked.
“No.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Some.”
“We can Google.”
“No.”
“Growth is boring.”
“Yes.”
Two weeks later, Cincinnati society pages announced it.
Hannah Mercer.
Thirty-five.
Public-school administrator.
No business connection.
Cormack’s wedding would be small.
No investors.
I smiled when I read that despite myself.
Maybe he learned.
Maybe she would know all of it.
I hoped so.
Not because I forgave him enough to bless his life.
Because I did not want another woman arranged around his secrets.
Months later, I ran into Cormack at a restaurant.
First time without lawyers or work between us.
He was leaving.
I was arriving with Benjamin.
We stopped.
Cincinnati.
Of course.
Cormack looked at Benjamin.
Then me.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Benjamin extended his hand.
“Ben.”
“Cormack.”
Civilization.
Hannah stood beside Cormack.
Warm face.
Dark hair.
She knew.
I could tell from how she looked at me.
Not pity.
Awareness.
“Olivia.”
she said.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Cormack looked nervous.
That almost amused me.
Then Hannah said:
“He told me everything before our third date.”
I stared.
Cormack closed his eyes.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“She deserves to know that.”
Maybe.
I looked at him.
“Everything?”
Cormack nodded.
“Photo.”
“Delaney.”
“Signature.”
“Foundry.”
“Why I waited.”
Good.
Hannah added:
“I made him show me the legal settlement.”
I smiled.
“I like you.”
She laughed.
Cormack looked offended.
Benjamin said:
“That happens to me constantly.”
We all laughed.
Strange.
No reconciliation.
No friendship.
Just four adults standing inside a restaurant no one had planned as stage.
Cormack looked at me.
“I’m glad you’re doing well.”
“I am.”
Then I looked at Hannah.
“So am I.”
He understood.
I hoped she would be safe with him.
That was all.
Outside, Benjamin asked:
“Hard?”
“A little.”
“Want to talk?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Five minutes later:
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Okay.”
I told him sadness had appeared.
Not longing.
Grief for the version of my life that might have existed if Cormack had become honest sooner.
Benjamin did not make it about himself.
That mattered.
Then I asked:
“Do you ever worry I compare you?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you want me to stop mentioning Cormack?”
“No.”
“I want to be able to tell you when I feel insecure without making that insecurity a rule.”
My chest tightened.
There it was.
Emotion without instruction.
We stopped on sidewalk.
Cincinnati lights.
Summer night.
I kissed him.
Not because he passed a test.
Because I loved him.
The realization arrived quietly.
No chandelier.
No photographer.
No veil.
I loved Benjamin Cole.
Alive.
Present.
May you like
Different.
And I did not need to be less careful in order for that love to be real.
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