Page 59 of Songs for Libby

I stood up and walked away from him.

“Libby.”

I spun around, screaming, “WHAT?”

“I treated you like crap and now your husband is dead. You’ve earned the right to yell at me, to be mean, to say all the things you were kind enough not to say before. You can do that.”

“Why?” I challenged. “Because it will make you feel better?”

“I can guarantee it won’t.” A deep sadness flooded his eyes before clearing. “But I do think it will make you feel better.”

“How is yelling going to help?”

“You’re already yelling!” He paused, probably to make me realize he was right. “You’re already screaming at me, but you aren’t saying what you really want to say. Just say it, Libby.”

No. I stood there, my breathing strained, my eyes stinging from the tears I wouldn’t let out. I wasn’t going to let him therapy me. I didn’t want to take his advice or admit that he might have a point.

This man, this infuriating man, had walked into my house two months after my husband died and was trying to tell me how to feel and how to act.

He stood there, tall and sober and acting like he had a clue, and I hated him for it. Or at least, I wanted to hate him for it.

Despite all I’d done to forgive him and let him go, in this moment, with my husband dead and Sean standing in front of me, I decided I would lash out, but not with words. I wasn’t going to play by his rules.

So I crossed to my fridge and went up on my toes to open the cabinet above and pull out a bottle of coconut rum. I grabbed a glass and set in on the counter beside the bottle, my eyes on Sean and his reaction.

He eyed the bottle, his brow furrowing with a look of disapproval.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I sneered. “Does this bother you?” I unscrewed the cap and poured some into the glass.

“No,” he said calmly as he studied my face. “But I am concerned.”

I scoffed. “You’re probably wanting to rip it out of my hands,” I threw at him, wanting to hurt him, wanting him to have just a little taste of what I’d dealt with time after time.

A little smile curved his lips, confusing me. “I’ve been sober for quite a while. I can handle being around it without losing my head.”

“Okay.” My sarcasm was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

“I don’t remember you ever using alcohol to cope, so I have to wonder why you’re pulling it out now.”

“Because I have a dead husband.”

“I know,” his words were simple and quiet.

“Are you the only one allowed to drink your sorrows away?”

“It doesn’t make them go away.”

“Oh, save it,” I sneered, annoyed that he would try to impart wisdom on me. “You are not allowed to lecture me about this.” I grabbed both the glass and the bottle and left the kitchen, heading to my room, where I slammed the door with my foot.

Why was he here? How could I have him in my house, in my space, in my life?

I crossed to the bathroom and dumped the contents of the glass down the sink, then left it and the bottle on the counter.

I had never had any intention of drinking it, because he was right. I didn’t use alcohol to cope, mostly because of him and all the crap he’d put me through.

There was also the fact that I was pregnant and that the little drinking I used to do had stopped altogether as soon as Jonas and I had started trying for a baby.

But Sean didn’t know about the baby. He would figure it out eventually if he stuck around like he had threatened to do, but for now I had no intention of telling him. Sean didn’t have any claim on that part of me. My hands went to my stomach. I was wearing a stretchy t-shirt, so my tiny baby bump was obvious, at least to me, but I doubted Sean would have noticed. He probably just thought I’d gotten a little chubbier over the years, and that’s the way I wanted it to stay. This part of me belonged to Jonas.