I pointed at him, beer in hand. “Don’t look at me like that, Peter. I’m not still butthurt about it. I just think you’re an asshole for breaking my heart to make your father happy.”

“I know. And I promised you that would never happen. But if you’re not still angry, then why can’t you forgive me?”

“Forgiveness is overrated,” I said, taking a sip to hide my frustration.

“Let us forgive each other, only then will we live in peace,” Peter quoted.

“Tolstoy is full of shit!” I slammed my beer on the table. “I haven’t forgiven you for years, and I feel just fine about it! Nothing changes when you forgive someone. You don’t feel better. It doesn’t erase what they did, and that fake high road is someone else’s standards, not mine. I don’t forgive you, I don’t forgive the bastard haji who threw the grenade that killed my husband, and I don’t forgive whoever created Pumpkin Spice Lattes. You can all go fuck yourselves.”

“Naomi,” Peter scolded.

“Explain to me how forgiving someone benefits the forgiver.”

“You feel better,” Peter said, stumbling over his words.

“Wrong.”

“You find a sense of freedom.”

“Wrong.”

“You can let go of your anger and hurt.”

“Wrong. See, I felt hurt for about a year after your engagement, then I got over it. I didn’t need to forgive you to do it; I just forgot you. Forgetting you is where the real peace comes. Most people don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“Do you forgive Matt for falling on that grenade?”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll throat punch you if you say his name again.”

“Pretty sure that threat is an instant felony.” He waited. “Do you?”

I spoke through my teeth. “No.”

“Maybe that’s why you haven’t moved on.”

“Fine,” I said. I held up my hands and looked to the ceiling. “I forgive you, Matt! I forgive you for saving your friends and leaving me. For choosing your friends over ever seeing me again, for leaving me alone in a big, heaping, PTSD clusterfuck!” I looked back at Peter and shrugged. “Still pissed.”

He sighed.

Someone knocked, and we both turned our heads to see Zeke standing in the threshold, a six pack of beer in one loose fist, his other still touching the open front door. “Is this a bad time?”

My mouth fell open, and my gaze danced from Zeke to Peter and back again. I stood. “No. Nope, not a bad time.”

Peter frowned, confused.

“We still on for movie night?” Zeke asked.

I pulled him in by the hand and closed the door behind him. “Zeke, this is Peter. We grew up together. Peter, this is Zeke. He’s a hotshot out of Estes Park.”