Page 104 of Robbin’ the Rich

"You’re right about that."

For the first time all evening, frustration flashed across his face, but I could tell it was at himself, not me. "I should have told you."

"I know."

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he looked exhausted.

"It's complicated."

That did it. Of all the possible phrases he could have chosen, somehow those two words managed to irritate me most.

I stared at him. Then I laughed again. "Complicated?"

"It is."

"No."

I pointed at him. "You're the son of a megachurch pastor." Then I pointed at myself. "I'm stealing money from that church. Do you know for a moment I thought that maybe you told them. I came home and checked to make sure you didn’t.”

Micah froze. "What?"

His confusion lasted exactly one second. Then understanding dawned. The expression that crossed his face looked almost offended. "Robin, I would nev⁠—"

I held my ground. “And I’m just supposed to believe that now? Believe I can trust you to keep my secret when I couldn't even trust you to be honest about who you are!”

“I didn’t tell them.”

I searched his face. Instead, I found myself staring at the same man who had spent weeks showing up exactly as himself.

"I would never do that." His voice had gone quiet. "I'm glad you're doing it."

I believed him. I dropped onto the couch. I couldn’t do this anymore. Micah sat down but made sure to perch on the other end of the couch.

Sitting there with Micah in my living room, I was forced to confront a truth I hadn't wanted to examine. I no longer knew what part of this relationship had been a lie. Even though I believed him, I would have to look at our entire relationship through the lens of him being a Nottingham.

The apartment felt unnaturally quiet around us, the only sound was the occasional passing car outside. Micah sat there, while I sat curled into the far corner of the couch trying to hold on to my anger with both hands. The problem was that anger had always been easiest when the other person was clearly wrong. Life would be so much simpler if Micah had turned out to be exactly like his father. If he'd defended the church. If he'd dismissed the harm it caused. If he'd walked into my apartment demanding forgiveness instead of looking like someone who hadn't slept in days.

Eventually he said barely above a whisper, "I am sorry, Robin."

I stared at him, because if he was going to sit in my living room and apologize, then I wanted him to look at what he'd done. I wanted him to see exactly how badly he'd hurt me. The pressure behind my eyes had been building for hours, and I could feel tears threatening again. The effort of holding them back made my throat ache.

Absolutely not. I refused. I would not let him see me cry. I blinked hard and looked away before the tears could win.

When I finally glanced back, I froze. Micah was wiping at his own eyes.

The movement was quick, almost embarrassed, as though he hoped I hadn't noticed. Unfortunately for him, years of auditing had made me exceptionally good at spotting things people wanted hidden. He looked down at his hands afterward, but not before I caught the unmistakable shine of tears.

Seeing Micah cry just made everything sadder. Eventually he swallowed hard before finally looking up. "Can you forgive me?"

His voice shook.

The question settled between us.

I found myself genuinely considering it. A week ago, I would have laughed at the idea that Micah could ever do something requiring forgiveness in the first place, but here in the weight of everything I didn’t know what to say.

I sat across from him trying to imagine what forgiveness even looked like.

Did it mean pretending none of this happened?