Page 67 of Songs for Libby

“I can think of plenty to say,” he muttered.

“Well”—I leaned back into the couch—”have at it.”

He leaned his elbows onto his knees and fixed his eyes to mine. His gaze was so steady, it was almost unnerving. “I came to your dad’s funeral.”

My body went unnaturally still as a cold chill washed over me.

“Libby?” Sean said after several fat moments of silence.

“You did what?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“I came to your dad’s funeral.”

“I didn’t see you.” It was an inane response, but they were the only words I could think of.

“No one saw me.” He lifted his hands in a small shrug and then let them fall back together. “But I wanted to be there. You know how much your dad—” He looked away, swallowing.

I blinked furiously, setting my smoothie on the coffee table. “Wow.” I chewed on my lip, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “The first time I let you come in and sit down since you moved in, and this is the topic you choose?”

Disappointment blanketed his face, and then his jaw clenched and he shook his head a little. “I figured I might as well tell you something I thought was important. Even if you bite my head off.”

“Really, Sean?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Really? Of all the important things to say, you decided to go with my dead father? Did you think that would be a safe topic? Nice and easy?”

He took a deep breath, keeping his temper in check. “I know this isn’t going to be nice and easy. Convincing you that I am no longer who I was is not going to be easy, but I figured it would at least go faster if I skip the small talk and try to be honest.”

“Honest?”

“Yes. Honest.” His voice finally rose. “Maybe you should try it.”

His challenge broke something loose inside me. “You want honest? Fine! You made me hate you!” The words came out in a scream that surprised even me, and then they sat, ringing in the space between us. “Is that the honesty you want to hear?”

He swallowed twice. “I hated myself for a long time too.”

I punched my fists into the cushions beside me and got to my feet. “Stop doing that! Stop taking responsibility! Stop letting me be awful to you! Is that the person you want me to be?”

“I want you to be the kind of person who feels whatever it is you need to feel. And I want you to be able to tell me about it.”

I shook my head, pinching my lips together.

His expression hardened and he got to his feet. “Your husband is dead.”

“Stop,” I begged.

“Your dad is dead.”

“Stop!”

“And I made it all worse.”

“Why are you doing this? This is making it worse, not better.” I didn’t want to hear the ways he’d hurt me. I wanted him to tell me why. I wanted him to have a good reason why. Something that would excuse—in some small measure—the hurt that he had caused.

“I’m trying to give you a chance to see the situation as it really is so that maybe you’ll start dealing with it.”

“I am dealing with it. Every day I deal with it.” I looked him over with disdain. “Don’t you walk in here with your swagger and your thousand-dollar pair of sunglasses and try to teach me something about real life. I’ve been dealing with it! And despite what you might think, it hasn’t all been about you. You’re not that special.”

“Libby—”

“No, just get out.” I got to my feet and turned my back on him before spinning around to yell at him more. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you provoke me into yelling at you so that you can be absolved of all your guilt. You want forgiveness? Well, I’m sorry. I haven’t got any to give right now.”