So I walked. I walked until my newly widened hips ached. I walked until the deep-seated fatigue of pregnancy settled like a twenty-pound blanket on my shoulders.
Then I turned around and walked home. Though I’d been walking a long time, I had stayed close to home, roaming nearby streets over and over while avoiding my own street.
In five minutes I could see my house and the strange car still sitting in front of it.
Sean hadn’t left.
I wished I knew how that made me feel—how it should make me feel. What would a healthy reaction to this situation look like?
I reached for the door handle but stopped when I heard the music. Sean was playing his guitar, the acoustic that I loved. I leaned my head against the door and listened, determining that he was just playing whatever melody came to mind. It wasn’t anything I recognized.
I turned the knob quietly, managing to walk in without him noticing. He had his head bent and his eyes closed as he played, just like I knew he would. I gently closed the door and leaned my back against it as I continued to listen.
My heart was comforted by his music and his presence. It liked that he was here, and that bothered me, because wanting him here was dangerous. I was too fragile to survive a wave of Sean crashing through my life.
My feet hurt and I was tired of standing. I walked to the couch and sat down, pulling a pillow onto my lap to hide my belly. I watched him, knowing that he was aware of me. His music had changed as soon as I’d pushed away from the door. It was quieter, less defined, like a haze had fallen over the notes. After another minute, it faded completely and Sean raised his head to look at me. I waited for the words to come, for him to say something, anything. But his clear eyes just looked at me like he had all the time in the world.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and broke the silence. “Why are you still here?” Bewilderment made my voice quiet.
“Because you need someone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I wasn’t. Still. “And you think you can make it better?”
“I do,” he said with a nod and a steady gaze.
“How?”
“By being here.”
It sounded so simple. It wasn’t. I knew just how hard it was to be there. I knew the toll it took. The time and energy and emotional investment. From what I remembered of Sean, he didn’t have that kind of fortitude. Time had passed, certainly. He could be different, grown into something stronger. I hoped that was the case. But I wasn’t going to bet my emotional well-being on it.
Even as I sat there, trying to see the good intent, trying to believe him without getting my hopes up, the bitter resentment rose up, flushing my face and scorching my eyes. I remembered all the times he’d humiliated me. All the times I’d chosen him over everyone else. All the times he hadn’t chosen me.
“Will you talk to me?” he finally asked.
I looked away, shaking my head without meaning to. “What do you want me to talk about?”
“Tell me how you are.”
I turned back to him and gave him an angry shrug. “How am I supposed to be? You want me to feed you some line about how it’s hard but I’m at peace and I know I can get through this?”
“I want you to be honest.”
An impolite guffaw burst from my lips. “Oh, believe me, Sean, you do not want me to be honest.”
“Yes, I do.”
“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.