Page 47 of Songs for Libby

“Fifteen.” I had deliberately chosen an old photo, one from before he was famous.

“Okay…” He paused, weighing his words. “My automatic reaction would be ‘Wow, that’s so cool!’ But I know how much you’ve struggled over this particular friend.”

I just nodded, wanting to give him a chance to process.

“So…you cut things off with him as he was going into rehab?” he asked.

A wave of guilt almost knocked me over and I swallowed, wondering if he would condemn me for that choice. “Yeah.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s really rough.”

My voice shook. “I’m sure it was terrible for him and I feel awful; I still feel awful, but—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said as he stopped my tirade by pulling me into a hug. “I was talking about you. It must have been really hard for you to make that decision. Especially since I can tell how much you care about him.”

My chin dug into his shoulder as I spoke. “But I abandoned him.”

“Hey. We already had this conversation. You had to take care of yourself. My opinion on that doesn’t change now that I know he’s a celebrity. In fact, if anything, I think it was even more important for you to get some space.”

“Okay.” I wanted to express so much more, but I couldn’t.

“Can I ask why you’re telling me now? Are you thinking of reaching out to him?”

“No!” I insisted as I pulled back, wiping at my eyes. “No. I can’t—I need the space still and I can’t—”

“I know.” He put his hands up—whether in surrender or an attempt to calm me, I wasn’t sure. “I know and I agree. I’m glad you’re not changing your mind. So then…why tell me?”

“The media finally put the pieces together. They’ve got photos of me with him in a bunch of different drinking establishments, and I’m sure they’ll know exactly who I am soon. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.” I pulled a pillow into my lap and wrapped my arms around it. “I probably should have told you before, but I was trying to respect his privacy and keep my anonymity and—”

“I get it. We’re still getting to know each other and you were protecting your friend.”

I nodded, wondering just how far his understanding would go.

“So,” he started, “does this mean I need to stop liking his music?”

I laughed at the suggestion. “No. We’re both still allowed to like the music.”

He reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, pushing it behind my shoulder. “I’m sorry your famous best friend disappointed you.”

“It’s my fault,” I whispered.

A deep sadness fell across his features. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m the one who pushed him into it.”

“Into what? The drinking?”

“No. The fame.”

He tilted his head. “You’re sad about making him famous?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what pushed him into this. The pressure and the constant need to put on a face. His sister died and no one gave him a minute to breathe. To mourn. It was just—Tour. Record. Write more. Give more. Do more.”

“And he could have said no.”