“No,” I said with a darkness that surprised even me. “You don’t. Because I’m not going to start blubbering about missing my husband. If I’m going to start being honest with you, I won’t start with grief. If I’m going to speak truth while looking at you, then what you will get is anger. So. Much. Anger. All directed at you.” Tears of anger pooled in my eyes. “There are so many honest things I could tell you about exactly how I feel.”
“So, tell me.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because under any other circumstance I wouldn’t say it,” I said, my voice an awful combination of a cry and a scream. “The only reason I want to say it all right now is because I’m so full of”—my chest convulsed as I fought against a sob—”so full of missing Jonas that I can’t think clearly. I worked so hard to let it go, Sean. To forgive you and have empathy and understanding. But sitting here, with my husband in the ground and you on my couch, is making me want to throw away all of the work. It makes me want to be selfish and bitter and hateful.”
“Okay.”
His quiet answer made me crazy. “What does that mean?!”
“Be hateful. Be honest. Tell me how you feel.” It was a dare.
I stood up and walked away from him.
“Libby.”
I spun around, screaming, “WHAT?”
“I treated you like crap and now your husband is dead. You’ve earned the right to yell at me, to be mean, to say all the things you were kind enough not to say before. You can do that.”
“Why?” I challenged. “Because it will make you feel better?”
“I can guarantee it won’t.” A deep sadness flooded his eyes before clearing. “But I do think it will make you feel better.”
“How is yelling going to help?”
“You’re already yelling!” He paused, probably to make me realize he was right. “You’re already screaming at me, but you aren’t saying what you really want to say. Just say it, Libby.”
No. I stood there, my breathing strained, my eyes stinging from the tears I wouldn’t let out. I wasn’t going to let him therapy me. I didn’t want to take his advice or admit that he might have a point.
This man, this infuriating man, had walked into my house two months after my husband died and was trying to tell me how to feel and how to act.
He stood there, tall and sober and acting like he had a clue, and I hated him for it. Or at least, I wanted to hate him for it.
Despite all I’d done to forgive him and let him go, in this moment, with my husband dead and Sean standing in front of me, I decided I would lash out, but not with words. I wasn’t going to play by his rules.
So I crossed to my fridge and went up on my toes to open the cabinet above and pull out a bottle of coconut rum. I grabbed a glass and set in on the counter beside the bottle, my eyes on Sean and his reaction.
He eyed the bottle, his brow furrowing with a look of disapproval.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I sneered. “Does this bother you?” I unscrewed the cap and poured some into the glass.
“No,” he said calmly as he studied my face. “But I am concerned.”
I scoffed. “You’re probably wanting to rip it out of my hands,” I threw at him, wanting to hurt him, wanting him to have just a little taste of what I’d dealt with time after time.
A little smile curved his lips, confusing me. “I’ve been sober for quite a while. I can handle being around it without losing my head.”
“Okay.” My sarcasm was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.
“I don’t remember you ever using alcohol to cope, so I have to wonder why you’re pulling it out now.”
“Because I have a dead husband.”
“I know,” his words were simple and quiet.
“Are you the only one allowed to drink your sorrows away?”
“It doesn’t make them go away.”
“Oh, save it,” I sneered, annoyed that he would try to impart wisdom on me. “You are not allowed to lecture me about this.” I grabbed both the glass and the bottle and left the kitchen, heading to my room, where I slammed the door with my foot.
Why was he here? How could I have him in my house, in my space, in my life?