on past experiences with him. I’d been running through what had happened, through the what if’s and the why’s. So many questions for which I’d never demanded answers. One in particular had been eating away at me for years, and finally I had to ask. So I walked out my back door and crossed the lawn.
He saw me coming and smiled. “Good morning.”
“I need you to explain something to me,” I said without preamble, my arms folded tight across my chest, my legs stiff as I shifted from foot to foot.
His hand paused, no doubt surprised by the abrupt demand. Then he brushed his hands off and focused his attention on me. “Of course. Anything.”
“Why…” I breathed deep, digging for the courage to ask this question and listen to the answer. “Why did you do it?”
A soft, sad smile curved his mouth just a little. “I did a lot of things, Libby. Can you be more specific?”
“You were off the narcotics. I got you off of them.” I tried not to be accusatory, but one of my fingers shook at him, remembering how he had almost killed himself, and hating him for nearly throwing his life away when some people were stolen away without any warning at all. Like Jonas.
He nodded. “You did.”
“Then why?”
“That’s what addicts do. They find excuses,” he answered, his eyes clear and steady.
“So you’re an addict?”
“I am.”
How strange that those words would leave me relieved.
Still, I had more questions. “You told me, the day you showed up, that you had been sober for years. You said years.”
He nodded. “I did.”
“Why would you say that when it’s not true?”
“It is true.”
“I’ve seen you drinking. Photos in articles and magazines, of you at parties with a drink in your hand.” I held a clawed hand out in front of me, like I was holding my own invisible bottle. “So when you say you’ve been sober, do you mean you’re just sober from the narcotics? Because I thought sober meant sober.”
“It does. And I am. Those drinks never had alcohol in them.”
I breathed for a moment, trying to let that information settle into my new reality. “Okay,” I said, then turned around and went back into the house. I wanted to believe him. I didn’t know if I did.
♪♫♪
Two days later, I drove home in a haze. I was having a girl. My baby, the little it that was running around inside of me was a girl.
Parking my car in my driveway was mechanical. I looked up at my home—the house I would bring my baby home to. The house without a father. Jonas would have been elated at the news of a little girl. I wanted desperately to be elated. But it was just me and this empty house, and nothing was the way it was supposed to be.
I forced myself out of my car and found another bunch of flowers on my front step. An arrangement of autumn-colored blooms. Orange roses, yellow sunflowers, and red mums.
Tears stung my eyes and I blinked them back. Getting these flowers at this moment felt like a boon. I knew they were from Sean, and it was so sweet. It was also confusing. We’d had one conversation in the last two weeks and I hadn’t been particularly nice. He was here, trying to infiltrate my empty house and fill my lonely heart. But for how long?
I took the flowers inside and put them on my kitchen counter, then looked out the back windows.
He was in the backyard again, not working this time, but just sitting on his little back porch with his guitar. He seemed to spend a lot of time there, probably using the privacy wall to keep away from prying eyes.
I went and opened my back door, but then I got stuck. He saw me standing there and his hands stilled on the strings as he raised a brow in question. But the invitation wouldn’t push past my lips, so I just stood aside, waiting to see if he would come in.
He did, and he brought his guitar with him. That almost made me smile.
I closed the door and turned to see him watching me as he leaned his guitar up against the back of the couch. “You invited me in.” He looked a little stunned.
“I just need to know. Why are you really here?”
His smile was the epitome of patience. “I’m here for you, Libby. I’m trying to be here for you, just like you were there for