Page 68 of Songs for Libby

He took a beseeching step in my direction. “I’m not asking for that, I—”

“You’re not my shrink. You’re not my brother. Stop trying to pretend you have some sage wisdom or some moral high ground. You don’t. My husband died, Sean! You can’t fix that!”

He rocked back a step, looking wounded. I suppose that was a point in my favor, since my words had been meant to wound.

I was punishing him. I knew that.

It felt necessary. Sometimes it even felt good as I was lashing out.

Sean huffed a pained breath through his nose, and my heart lurched. Then he turned and walked out of my house.

I stumbled back, sinking onto my couch, and sat stiff as I tried to hold on to my anger, but it was dissipating quickly and I was left with the familiar guilt, the uncomfortable remorse and the constant, throbbing grief. I lay down and cried into the cushions, cradling my belly as if my baby could somehow ground me. There were times that I had hated Sean, but there were also times that I hated myself. He’d been nothing but a loyal friend and a complete gentleman since he’d walked back into my life, but I just kept punishing him.

It had to stop. He may have deserved it. If I wanted to give an eye for an eye, I would have to keep going for a long time. But the longer he remained, the more I realized that there was no real satisfaction in flogging him for his mistakes. Even if he was willing to take it. Even if he felt like he’d earned it.

Even if he might earn it again.

And that was the problem. Part of the reason that I continued to take out my anger on him was because I’d been holding my breath since the moment he arrived, just waiting for him to fail me. I couldn’t let myself count on him. I was walking mechanically through my days, just trying to survive in a world that no longer had my husband in it. If I started to count on Sean and he left, I didn’t know if I could handle that on top of everything else. So I waited. Expected him to screw up. Because if he didn’t screw up, then I’d have to accept that he had changed, and if he had changed—if he was the man that I had wanted him to become so many years ago—the implications of that felt astronomical.

It would mean I could have my friend back. And that idea, that hope, was terrifying. Because when you hope for something, you can be let down.

♪♫♪

It took me a couple more days, but I finally made the decision to give him as much of my trust as I could muster. Yes, I was terrified. Yes, I was on my guard, fully prepared to be disappointed and hurt. Yes, I was wary of his fame and all the repercussions of being seen with him. But I couldn’t keep treading water like I’d been doing. I was exhausted from the effort of maintaining the status quo. I needed to move forward, to forge some kind of path. So with my heart in my throat and my palms slick with sweat, I did the terrifying thing. I decided to trust him.

I walked over to his front door and knocked, waiting patiently as he unlocked multiple locks and opened the door. His surprise and curiosity at seeing me on his doorstep were written clearly on his face, which was understandable. I hadn’t stepped foot in his home, or even onto his side of the lawn, since he’d moved in. “Hi,” he said.

There were several moments of silence as I gathered my courage. “Would you like to come eat dinner with me?” I finally asked.

He blinked in surprise. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

I threw my thumb in the direction of my door. “It’s nearly ready. Come over whenever you can.” I turned and stepped down off the porch.

There was a mad scrambling behind me and by the time I reached my door, Sean had caught up. I gave him a tentative smile as I opened the door for us.

“Mmm.” He inhaled deeply as we walked in. “Is that spaghetti?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I’d known earlier. I could have brought a salad or something.” He followed me to the kitchen, where I stirred the noodles again.

“I didn’t want to worry about it all afternoon. That’s why I invited you at the last minute.”

“What would you have worried about?”

I took a fortifying breath. “I don’t know.” I opened a cupboard and pulled out a colander. “About how I’ll act. About how I’ll feel.” He stayed quiet and I plunged ahead. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“That’s okay,” he said, like it was the easiest thing to forgive me. “Thank you for inviting me over.”

“You’re welcome.” I’d only glanced at him a few times. Having him in my space without my anger as a barrier was more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated.

“Can I help?”

“Sure. Um. Set the table?”

He did as I asked, and soon we were sitting down across from each other, ready to have a civil meal. I tried to dish some onto his plate but my hands shook. He carefully took the utensils from me. “Here. I can do that.”

I pulled my hands away and let him.