“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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I told you I’d be better
Now I have to write this letter
Tell you how I earned this fetter
With a life that’s bruised and torn
That paper left me crying
For my shame and for my lying
I was so concerned with flying
That I left you there to mourn
No one could love so sweetly
Filling up my soul completely
With the fragrance that you neatly
Use to turn my stubborn head
I’ll be forever grieving
Knowing I just did the leaving
With my pride and my deceiving
When I left myself for dead
—Sean Amity
PART TWO
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’d learned a few years ago that if I was going to cook, I had to have music on. Sure, it might have distracted me enough that things had burned a time or two, but it also gave me patience. If I could dance around the kitchen while I cooked, the work didn’t seem nearly as mundane.
I stirred the sauce that was simmering, shaking my head back and forth as I sang along to my music. I danced over to the pantry and when I came out, I noticed my husband leaning against the counter, watching me with a grin.
I shook my head, smiling and wondering how long he’d been watching me. Then I waved him over and it was his turn to roll his eyes, but he obeyed my summons and came to dance with me. His kitchen-dancing moves could kindly be described as “dad moves,” and he embraced that fact, hamming it up and pulling ridiculous faces.
“Welcome home, Dr. Caster,” I said as I shimmied back to the stove.
“Mm,” he murmured in my ear as he peered over my shoulder to see what I was cooking. “Thank you, Mrs. Caster.” He dropped a kiss on my neck. “This smells good.”
“That is always the right answer.”
He chuckled. “It also has the benefit of being true.”
♪♫♪
Jonas had proposed two years after we’d met. We had been married on his parents’ ranch in Vermont under a pergola dripping in grapevines. My dress was covered in lace. My auburn hair was curled and gathered to one side, hanging over my shoulder. Naomi did my makeup and stood beside me.
The only damper on the day was remembering how I’d joked for years about having Sean as my man of honor when I got married. Instead, he wasn’t even there.
My father walked me down the grassy aisle while one of Jonas’s nieces carried my train. In honor of our evenings dancing at Roy’s, we hired a live country band to play at our reception. The groom’s cake was decorated with fuchsia and gray cowboy hats on top, a joke that only we appreciated.
We spent our honeymoon in the Mexican Riviera. We swam in the ocean, went zip-lining and four-wheeling, and watched the sun set on the water each evening.
The way Jonas loved me was all-encompassing. His love language was words, and he was so good at using them. He spoke compliments when they came into his head; he encouraged me as a natural course of life instead of something he had to remember to do. He taught me through example that saying “thank you” means something, and it should be said often. In turn, I taught him that sometimes words aren’t enough, and action is required.
He received his master’s almost a year after we were married. We worked together setting up a little practice that he ran out of a treatment room he rented in a chiropractic office. We relied on my income and our savings to help us stay afloat. We had struggled, but it had made us stronger.
Jonas had that effect on me. He’d made me stronger. Or maybe it was that he’d helped me realize my own strength.
A strength that had been tested less than two years after we got married.
♪♫♪
Jonas and I had been traveling, taking a long weekend in Boston when I got the phone call.
My dad was gone. Dead. A massive heart attack. The crushing pain that filled my chest made me wonder if I was going to follow in his footsteps.
As I swooped down into the all-consuming grief, Jonas held me up, calling me back from the darkness.
I remember sitting across from the funeral home director, feeling empty and detached. I recognized that the director was good at her job. She was sympathetic without involving herself in my emotions. She laid out my options and walked us through every decision step by step, then she assured us that everything would be taken care of and sent us on our way.
I walked out with Jonas’s hand holding mine. He opened the car door for me and reminded me to buckle my seatbelt.
Lying in bed, trying to sleep, three days after the funeral, I thought of all that I’d lost. My mother, my father, Serena, Sean. A small epiphany hit me. If I had stood by Sean, if I had prioritized him and let Jonas go, there would have been no one to hold me up in these moments. Sean would have tried, but deep down I knew that he wouldn’t have been strong enough.