Page 61 of Songs for Libby

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Pulling into the driveway that afternoon, I noticed the lack of a mystery car in front of my house. Sean had gone. That was good.

I ate something and then went to take a nap, arranging all my pillows to support my back and my belly. I could imagine Jonas calling it my nest. The fact that my four-month belly needed support was a testament to just how out of whack your lower back can get when it’s trying to expand.

I woke up to see the orange sunlight slanting through my windows. The sun was going down and I hadn’t eaten dinner. I should do that. I’d been functioning that way a lot over the past two months. I would remind myself that this was the time of day that I usually showered, or ate, or checked the mail. And then I would force myself to go through the motions of doing that thing.

So I got up and went out to the kitchen.

Sean was there—cooking.

I wasn’t sure how he had gotten in. Had I not locked the front door? And why was he here now? He’d been gone when I got home from work. I’d assumed he’d be gone for good after the way I’d welcomed him.

He glanced up and gave me a tentative smile, one I didn’t return because I was too busy trying to make sense of this situation.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asked.

I tilted my head, examining him for several seconds. “Why are you still here?”

“You didn’t tell me to go.”

“It was implied.”

He shrugged, and stirred. “I try not to rely on implication too much. Are you hungry?”

I didn’t answer.

“If you’re angry, you can just say so,” he said. And it was in that same clear tone he had used before. No sarcasm. No bite. Just matter-of-fact. Like confessing all your deep-rooted feelings was easy.

I didn’t answer.

He stirred a little more, looking up at me to see if I would say anything. I didn’t.

“Congratulations on the baby,” he said with a tentative smile.

“Thanks. I always wanted to have a fatherless child.” What was wrong with me? What was it about Sean’s presence that turned me into this nasty person?

He blinked. “I was a fatherless child.”

“And I was motherless. Neither of us stood a chance.”

He set the spoon down, carefully, deliberately, then turned to face me fully. “Stood a chance at what?”

I didn’t know. The truth was that I was just being belligerent. I was angry—so angry—for all the ways he’d hurt me.

But while that was true, I was also rational enough to consider that maybe it wasn’t all about the way he had hurt me. Maybe it was about Jonas dying. Probably. I didn’t know. I just knew that I hurt. Because of Sean. Because of Jonas. There was so much pain.

And pain.

And painpainpainpainpain.

And I couldn’t separate one pain from the other. I couldn’t dissect the pain of losing Jonas from the leftover pain from years of Sean using me. Not while I was busy drowning in it.

When I remained silent and stone-faced, he picked the spoon back up and pushed the scrambled eggs onto two plates. Each one already had cut-up avocado on them. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I don’t know how to make much, but hopefully you can stomach this.” He pushed a plate across the counter to me.

It smelled good, but I couldn’t seem to pick up the fork.

“Or I’m happy to go pick something up for you. Or order something,” he offered.