Page 50 of Songs for Libby

I just shook my head and smiled. “I’m glad someone is enjoying it.”

When I’d gone two full days without getting a Google alert about myself, I sat down across the counter from Jonas and admired him unabashedly. “Thanks for enduring the fishbowl with me.”

He let out a little laugh. “It was an experience.”

“People who want fifteen minutes of fame are crazy.”

He shrugged. “I guess it depends on your personality.”

The tattoo on his forearm caught my eye yet again, and so I decided to ask again. “Any chance you’ll finally show me that tattoo of yours?”

He raised what I could only describe as a challenging eyebrow, holding my gaze for long enough that my neck started to get hot. Then he gripped the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one smooth move.

Holy moly. I knew he was fit, but I didn’t realize he was that fit. I gawked as he walked around the counter, casual as can be, and showed me the one line of script that was tattooed vertically up his side.

Be at peace, dear boy. Nana’s got your back.

“It’s what my grandmother would say to me every time I left for a tour,” he explained.

I wanted to run my fingers over the words, but that felt more intimate than I was ready for. Don’t get me wrong; I was loving the half-naked man in my living room, but it was kind of a lot to take in. “That’s really sweet,” I said in a voice that sounded too tight.

“Thanks.” He stepped back with a grin that said he knew he had won some sort of battle, and put his shirt back on much more slowly than it had come off, all the while watching my reaction.

We both went back to eating, the silence a little more charged than it had been before. Still, I couldn’t help but grin. I had finally gotten that little piece of information out of him. A piece that he guarded. And it felt like I was the one who’d won the battle.

♪♫♪

A letter showed up in my mailbox. It was hand addressed to me, with no return address. I tore it open as I walked back up to my apartment, curious as to who might have sent me an actual letter.

I recognized his handwriting as soon as I unfolded the paper. I stopped to read it.

Dear Libby,

Part of my recovery is making amends with those I have hurt. I’ve mistreated more people than I can count, but out of everyone who suffered because of my choices, the one that looms the largest and hurts the most is you.

You, my sweet friend, deserved so much better than what I gave you. And once I was sober enough to think straight, I was so proud of you for walking away. I was too messed up to think of anyone but myself, and I’ll thank God every day that you didn’t let me drag you down with me.

No apology will ever make up for the way I treated you. I took advantage, over and over again. You loved me like no one else has, and in return I gave you nothing but grief.

Be happy, Libby, and know that I will always be rooting for you.

Sean

I clutched that page in my hand, staring at the words that Sean had written for me, and I latched on to all of it. It was something. Something tangible. He wasn’t angry. That was good. He seemed okay. That was a relief. It was as good an apology as I could have hoped for, and as I started moving again and went inside my apartment, I consciously tried to accept it and put the whole situation behind me just a little bit more.