Page 56 of Songs for Libby

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It had been nine weeks. Nine weeks since the policemen had showed up at my door and toppled the tower of my life.

The sympathy cards had stopped. There were no more flowers or meals from coworkers or neighbors. I was on my own. My coworkers would assume that a friend or relative could look out for me from here on out.

But I didn’t have any relatives.

So it was just me, and my job, and the gaping hole where my Jonas used to be.

When I was ten weeks pregnant—just three weeks after Jonas died—I had gone to the obstetrician by myself. They asked about a father. I told them he had died and then cried into the arms of a nurse whose name I can’t remember.

On occasion, my coworkers, Gemma or Heidi, would stop by to visit or convince me to go with them to dinner after work. I would visit. I would go to dinner. It was probably better than being home by myself, but it didn’t feel better. It just felt…different.

So when someone knocked on my door nine weeks after my husband died, I breathed deep and did my best to put on a normal face. I would be gracious and do what I could to make whoever it was feel less awkward. That was one of the consequences of loss. Everyone feels awkward around you.

I ran my hand over the two framed photos that sat on the table of the entryway—one of my father, and one of Jonas—pulling strength from them before I opened the door, my I-appreciate-you-thinking-of-me expression fitted to my face, my mouth open to say hello.

But I didn’t say hello. I didn’t say anything. My polite expression dropped from my face and an elephant sat on my chest as I stared at Sean Amity—singer, songwriter, former best friend, addict—standing on my porch. He wore jeans and a henley. Sunglasses sat in his hair, which was significantly longer than the last press photos I’d seen. Why I noticed that was beyond me.

“Hi, Libby,” he said quietly, his face calm and concerned.

I sucked in a breath, shocked at the reality of hearing his voice in person, of having him stand in front of me. But there were no words to be said at that moment. My shock, joy, dismay, anger and grief all worked together to strangle my voice and leave my face numb. The hollow sound of my breathing seemed to echo in the space around me, but I couldn’t move.

Sean shifted from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

The question shook loose a little of my mental abilities, and I unlocked my legs and dropped my hand from the door before turning around and walking back into the house. I couldn’t invite him in. But I couldn’t shut the door on him either.

I crossed to the kitchen, looking for something to keep my hands busy. It was pristine—a side effect of only having to clean up after myself. The single plate and glass that I’d used for dinner were drying beside the sink. The stark reminder of Jonas’s absence was enough to pull me out of the shock of seeing Sean after five years.

Five years. My father’s death. My marriage. My husband’s death. Sean had been there for none of it. That was my doing, yes. Still, what made him think that he could show up at this moment?

The front door shut and heavy footsteps crossed the short distance between him and me. “Libby,” was all he said. It was a question and a sigh of relief all rolled into one.

I spun to face him, crossing my arms over my stomach, and waited. He could speak. He could say whatever it was he came here for, but I wasn’t going to make it easy.

He didn’t talk right away, and that gave me a chance to take him in. Unlike the last time I’d seen him in person, he looked healthy—more like he’d been in high school, but with the maturity that came with years. Energy rolled off of him as he clenched and unclenched his left hand—nervous. Nervous and so, so familiar. The kind of familiar that made my throat ache and my heart hurt.

“I wanted,” he started slowly and carefully, “I wanted to see how you were…”

I stayed silent. If he wanted to see how I was, all he had to do was look.

“My mom,” he started again with an awkward roll of his hand. “She told me…about Jonas.”

My mask of anger and stubbornness cracked at the mention of my husband. Cracked. Shattered. Splintered and cut into my skin. It wasn’t just the ever-present pain of losing Jonas that pressed in on me; it was the fact that Sean—my friend, my confidant, the boy I’d abandoned for my own good five years ago—was standing in my kitchen because he thought I might need him.

And though I still harbored a tremendous amount of anger and resentment toward him, in that moment, all I cared about was that he was there for me. He was there as my face tightened and my shoulders started to shake.

As I stood, alone in my kitchen, he took those few remaining steps and wrapped his arms around me as sobs shook my frame. He held me and stroked my hair, and after a few minutes and no end in sight, he awkwardly maneuvered me to the couch and stuck several tissues into my fists. Then he sat beside me, a hand pressed to my back as I leaned into my knees and cried into my hands.

Eventually I stopped, and as my crying quieted, the room filled with an undeniable awkwardness. He didn’t know what to do with me, and I couldn’t bring myself to even look at him because there was a great expanse of history that sat between us, murky and turbulent and ready to suck us both under if we made the wrong move. So I stared at the fireplace in front of me and said the only thing I could think of.

“My husband died, Sean.” I spoke with the numbness that had become so familiar to me.

“Yeah. I know.”

“And you’re here.” The numbness slipped out of place as I stated this new reality. “Why are you here?” Confusion pitched my voice higher.

“I just…I wasn’t sure that anyone was taking care of you.”