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Apparently, the answer is Camden’s cousin, Libby.
This is the part where I really want to tell you that I simply guessed who she was. And you’d believe that, right? Who else could this twentysomething in designer jeans be? Context clues, a safe assumption, et cetera.
But actually, I recognize her from her Instagram.
@LaLaLibby.
I’ve followed her for… ten years now? Right after Cam and I started dating. From her senior year of high school (the duck-face era) to college number one (Duke, lots of navy blue in the photos) to college number two (UNC, also blue, but cornflower) to, finally, number three, Western Carolina (purple, sadly theonecolor Libby did not look great in).
I saw a photo of her wedding to Clayton Jefferson Davis, taken right here on the back veranda of this house, and then, two years later, I saw another of her “Divorcemoon” in Cabo. Then one of the second marriage to some guy who called himself “Bodhi,” but whose Facebook friends kept calling “Kyle.”
That one hadn’t warranted many pictures, and had apparently been over within about six months. I also saw the rise and fall of her cupcake empire (RIP, Lil Lib Cakes), and the tentative push into interior design that mostly seemed geared toward selling three-hundred-dollar lamps with feathers on them.
And I know that right now, she’s probably coming back from the little boutique she just opened in downtown Tavistock, Lil Bit Libby! (She put the exclamation point there, not me, and maybe if I’m here long enough, I can talk to her about her overuse of “lil” as a marketing gimmick.)
Cam, of course, has no idea about any of this. Well, he probably knows about the failed businesses since he’s the one who had to sign off on her withdrawing money for them, but me following her? The throwaway account I made just for that purpose?
No, I haven’t told him about that.
I’ve thought about it. I mean, is it such a big deal? Lightlyinternet stalking your husband’s estranged family? I don’t think it is.
But I also don’t know if Cam would see it that way, and if I told him, he might ask other questions. Questions that have answers Iknowhe wouldn’t understand, and I’ve promised never to lie to him.
And I haven’t. Not ever.
Notreally.
Libby turns in a half circle to face us, cell phone in one hand, sunglasses covering half her face. “Did you close the fucking gate?” she asks Cam.
Like he’s been here this whole time. Like she sees him every day and the last dozen years haven’t gone by.
He had closed the gate, stopping once we were through and swinging it back into place despite its squealing protest, but he doesn’t tell her that. Instead, he lets his bag drop beside his feet, and he slides both hands into his back pockets, elbows sharp angles at his sides.
“Yes, Elizabeth, thank you, itwasa long drive, but we’re happy to finally be here. Good to see you, too!” he calls, and she scowls at him, whipping her sunglasses off.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, her Southern accent turning the words sweet even as her eyes glare holes into him. “I assumed you were going to be a grouchy asshole about being here, so we could maybe skip the part where we all pretend this is fun for any of us. But hey!”
She shrugs, her tanned shoulders moving up and down in an exaggerated motion. “Soglad you got here safely, darling cousin Cam, and I look forward to catching up and talking about old times with you.”
Coming around the car, she leans against the back door,crossing one ankle in front of the other, her face screwed up like she’s thinking hard about something. “Actually, that reminds me, I had a question about one of those old times. Let’s see, when was it?”
She taps her finger against her chin, head tilted to one side, and next to me, Cam holds himself very still, his expression blank.
“I guess it would’ve been, hmm… about ten minutes ago? Maybe five? If you can remember back that far, maybe you can tell me: Did you close the fucking gate?”
Cam’s mouth curls into a sardonic smile, lips pressed together so hard that a dimple I’ve never noticed dents one cheek. “I did, Libby, yeah,” he replies.
“Why?”
“Well, you see, thepurposeof gates––”
“Forget it,” she says, cutting him off and pushing herself away from the car. “I texted Ben to send me the code, but in the future, just leave it open. No one comes up here but us anyway.”
“Or you could take the five seconds to punch in a five-digit code andnotrun the risk of randoms showing up in the front yard.”
She marches up the steps, her boots loud on the stone, and stops just below where we stand, chin lifted. This close, I can see she’s not quite as put together and polished as her Instagram makes her look. The concealer under her eyes is maybe a shade too light, her mascara flaking. Bright pink lipstick covers her mouth, but some of it has bled into fine lines around her lips, and there’s the faintest brown splash on those white jeans, right on her thigh. Coffee, probably, and yes, now I can see the pink plastic lid of a reusable cup sticking out of her bag.
“The onlyrandomwho ever showed up here was you,” she tells him, and then her eyes flick to me.
