Page 38

"It is not nothing, then," Theodore said. "You love her."

Oliver dared not deny it. He did love her. That seemed to him the most important truth in his life, at present.

"It is the most bewildering, impossible thing I have ever known. I find myself thinking of her at all hours. Wondering if she has eaten, if she is lonely, if she thinks of me in turn." He swallowed. "And yet…even in the same breath, I am afraid that I will only fail her."

"You have not failed her," Theodore said firmly. "You have only failed to be honest with yourself."

Oliver let his eyes fall shut. It was easier than bearing the clarity in his brother's face.

"I told her I could not give her children. That it was something I would never want."

"And do you truly never want it?" Theodore questioned. "Because that comes to me as a surprise, knowing how good you are with them. A natural, if you will."

His throat worked around the ache. It was a topic that Oliver found most difficult to discuss.

"I do not know," he admitted hoarsely. "I once believed it would be cruel to bring a child into the world only to have a father so ill-equipped to guide them. But lately…" He hesitated, the confession lodging in his chest. "Lately, I have wondered if it was simply cowardice disguised as caution."

"You, a coward?" Theodore regarded him steadily. "Absolutely not. That is the furthest thing from the truth. You have spent your entire life protecting everyone around you. But you never once thought to protect yourself."

"No," A faint humorless smile touched Oliver's mouth. "I have never considered that a priority. It is simply not so important when you have other more pressing responsibilities."

"But you will find that," Theodore said gently, "if you never allow yourself the smallest measure of faith, you will spend your life alone, regretting every moment you refused to claim."

Oliver could not quite summon a reply. The truth of it rang too plainly.

"Do you love her?" Theodore posed it as a question this time, leaving Oliver no choice but to give him a confirmation.

"I believe I do. Though I have never been certain of what love truly is. Only that she makes the notion seem less impossible."

"That is more than most men ever find," Theodore replied at once.

"I am not sure if it is enough," he replied, hanging his head now.

"It might be," Theodore corrected, "if you allow it to be."

He took his hand away then and moved around the desk, his gaze never leaving his brother's.

"I am grateful, you know. For everything you have done and everything you have sacrificed," he went on. "I know that I do not admit this often, but I wish to tell you that it has not gone unnoticed."

Oliver's eyes lifted, startled.

"You should never have had to be father and brother all at once," Theodore continued. "You should have been free to live as other young men did. But you never complained."

"That was my duty."

"No," Theodore said gently. "That was your love. And it has made you the man you are, however much you doubt it. You have done far better than you believe. And if Father were here to see it, he would have been proud."

Oliver pressed a hand over his mouth, fighting the burn behind his eyes. He had not wept in years, and he would not start now. But the ache in his chest was nearly too much to bear.

"You make it sound easy," he said roughly. He stared down at the edge of the desk, focusing on the scratches in the varnish. "As if all I must do is decide to stop being afraid, and the rest will follow."

Theodore didn't answer right away.

"It isn't easy," Oliver went on, feeling something tight working free in his chest. "I keep thinking, if I had been better, more prepared, perhaps it wouldn't have come to this. Perhaps she'd still be here."

"You are better."

"You didn't see me after they died," Oliver let out a quiet, shaky laugh. "I used to sit in this very chair and think, over and over, that I would never be enough. That I was only ever pretending to be the man you and the girls needed."

His throat felt raw. He tried to swallow, but it did nothing to steady him.

"And now…God help me, I have gone and done it again," he said. "Told her that I could never be a father, never be what she deserved. Because I am still that same boy, sitting here at nineteen, thinking he will ruin everything he touches."

He finally lifted his head, and for once, he did not bother to hide the ache on his face.

"I don't know how to stop it," he said quietly. "How to stop believing that if I let myself hope, I will only make a mess of it."

Theodore's expression softened, and he pulled in a breath as though searching for the right words.

"I think…" He paused. "I think everyone feels like that, in some way or another. But not everyone admits it."

"That is hardly comforting."

"Maybe not," Theodore allowed. "But it's the truth. And if you ask me, it means you care enough to be afraid."

Oliver rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to steady himself. "I don't want to fail her," he said after a moment, "I don't want her to look at me one day and wonder why she ever said yes."

"Have you met her?" Theodore gave a quiet huff. "She doesn't strike me as the sort who wonders whether she's made a mistake."

That startled a laugh out of Oliver, though it was a thin, tired sound.

"I can't…God, Theo." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I can't even tell if I'm doing this because I love her, or because I'm too afraid to let her go."

"Does it matter?" Theodore asked simply.

Oliver looked up, frowning.

"I mean," Theodore went on, "you love her. You're terrified. You'd rather spend the rest of your life alone than risk disappointing her. All of that sounds a lot like love to me."

Oliver exhaled, and for a moment, he simply sat there, trying to gather the tangle of his thoughts into something he could name.

"I don't know how to be the kind of man who doesn't question everything," he admitted.

"You don't have to be," Theodore said quietly. "You just have to try."

Oliver let his gaze drift back to the portrait on the wall.

"They made it look easy," he murmured.

"No, they didn't," Theodore countered. "You were too young to see it. But they argued, and doubted, and made mistakes. The only difference is they did it together."

"I told her I couldn't give her children," he repeated himself, as though this has been his greatest sin, "And maybe I thought, f I said it firmly enough, it would stop her from hoping for it. Or from hoping for more of me than I knew how to give."

"You need to learn to let someone else take care of you for a change, brother."

"I don't know if I'd know how to begin," Oliver's mouth twisted.

"Start by telling her the truth," Theodore said. "Tell her you're scared and that you don't have all the answers."

"And what if it's not enough?" Oliver looked up at him, suddenly exhausted.

"Then at least you'll know you didn't run away," Theodore said softly. "At least you'll know you tried."

"You think she'd forgive me?"

"I think," Theodore said, his voice steady, "that she already has. And she's waiting for you to catch up."

Oliver swallowed hard. For a moment, he looked every bit as young as he had been at nineteen, when the weight of everything had fallen onto his shoulders.

"I am so damn tired," he whispered.

"I know," Theodore said. He squeezed his shoulder once more. "But you don't have to keep carrying it all alone. Go to her before you think of a thousand reasons not to."

Oliver lifted his gaze, meeting his brother's with a look that was searching. And then, very slowly, he nodded.

Theodore didn't say anything else. He simply inclined his head and left the study, the door closing softly behind him.

Oliver sat for a moment longer, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, gathering what strength he had left. And then he stood.

It was time to stop hiding. Time to bring her home.