He held the smoothie up a little higher, reminding me that I hadn’t taken it from him.
“Thanks.” I took the offered drink and stepped aside so he could enter.
“You let me come in again.” He wasn’t gloating, just…stating the obvious? Acknowledging that this was significant?
I didn’t know, so I decided to make light of it. “Well, I couldn’t have you standing out there, drawing a hoard of raving fans to my door.”
He gave an easy smile when I looked at him for a reaction.
“Really, though,” I continued. “If you’re serious about living here for any amount of time, how are you going to function without paparazzi camping out on your lawn?”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled his photo smile and slipped his sunglasses over his eyes even though we were inside. “I have a plan.”
My reaction was instinctive and visceral. I reached up and yanked the glasses off his face as my chest and my eyes burned with anger.
“Libby! What the—”
“No.” I pointed a finger at him. “You are not allowed to do that with me. If you don’t want to answer the question truthfully, that’s fine, but you will not give me some smarmy look and hide behind your shades. That’s not how we work. Even back when I was kicking your butt out of bars, that’s not how we worked.”
He blinked in shock for two heavy beats, then let out a puff of air. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Force of habit.”
“You don’t have to tell me how you plan to deal with the press, but don’t treat me like some reporter you can brush off.” I threw the sunglasses at his chest and he managed to catch them.
“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t get used to his apologies. They sounded so…genuine. I studied his face, looking for further clues to his thoughts, something to make the puzzle pieces fit together, even just a little. “And what’s with the scruff?” Yes, brilliant detail to latch on to. “You’ve always been freakish about keeping yourself clean shaven.”
He held out his arms, presenting himself with a little grin. “That’s part of my plan.”
I stared harder, trying to imagine him with a beard.
“I always shave because if I let it go at all, it gets out of control fast. So I figured, why not use that to my advantage? I’m also going to start putting my hair into a man bun as soon as it’s long enough.” He pumped his eyebrows at me, his eyes excited.
My staring continued and I narrowed my eyes, examining his thick, wavy hair, trying to imagine it all. Then I snorted.
“Aw, come on,” he whined in protest. “It might look good!”
I just shook my head and chuckled, then turned toward the couch. “It will be an interesting experiment, that’s for sure.” I sat down and sipped on the smoothie, appreciating the sweet flavors of peach and kiwi—my favorite. I was glad my tastebuds hadn’t decided to rebel against these particular flavors. I couldn’t stand potato chips anymore, even though I used to love them in all their varieties.
He sank down into the chair across from me, looking tentative. A heavy awkwardness settled between us. I didn’t really know what to do at this point. I had let him come in. I’d accepted the smoothie. But now what? Now that he was in my house, did I want him here?
I didn’t know, and because I didn’t know, I decided to put it back on him. “Was there a reason for your visit, Sean?”
He pointed his chin at the cup in my hand. “I brought you a smoothie.”
“That didn’t require you to come in.”
“You invited me in.”
“And now we have nothing to say.”
“I can think of plenty to say,” he muttered.
“Well”—I leaned back into the couch—”have at it.”
He leaned his elbows onto his knees and fixed his eyes to mine. His gaze was so steady, it was almost unnerving. “I came to your dad’s funeral.”
My body went unnaturally still as a cold chill washed over me.
“Libby?” Sean said after several fat moments of silence.
“You did what?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“I came to your dad’s funeral.”
“I didn’t see you.” It was an inane response, but they were the only words I could think of.
“No one saw me.” He lifted his hands in a small shrug and then let them fall back together. “But I wanted to be there. You know how much your dad—” He looked away, swallowing.
I blinked furiously, setting my smoothie on the coffee table. “Wow.” I chewed on my lip, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “The first time I let you come in and sit down since you moved in, and this is the topic you choose?”
Disappointment blanketed his face, and then his jaw clenched and he shook his head a little. “I figured I might as well tell you something I thought was important. Even if you bite my head off.”
“Really, Sean?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Really? Of all the important things to say, you decided to go with my dead father? Did you think that would be a safe topic? Nice and easy?”
He took a deep breath, keeping his temper in check. “I know this isn’t going to be nice and easy. Convincing you that I am no longer who I was is not going to be easy, but I figured it would at least go faster if I skip the small talk and try to be honest.”
“Honest?”
“Yes. Honest.” His voice finally rose. “Maybe you should try it.”
His challenge broke something loose inside me. “You want honest? Fine! You made me hate you!” The words came out in a scream that surprised even me, and then they sat, ringing in the space between us. “Is that the honesty you want to hear?”
He swallowed twice. “I hated myself for a long time too.”
I punched my fists into the cushions beside me and got to my feet. “Stop doing that! Stop taking responsibility! Stop letting me be awful to you! Is that the person you want me to be?”
“I want you to be the kind of person who feels whatever it is you need to feel. And I want you to be able to tell me about it.”
I shook my head, pinching my lips together.
His expression hardened and he got to his feet. “Your husband is dead.”
“Stop,” I begged.
“Your dad is dead.”
“Stop!”
“And I made it all worse.”
“Why are you doing this? This is making it worse, not better.” I didn’t want to hear the ways he’d hurt me. I wanted him to tell me why. I wanted him to have a good reason why. Something that would excuse—in some small measure—the hurt that he had caused.
“I’m trying to give you a chance to see the situation as it really is so that maybe you’ll start dealing with it.”
“I am dealing with it. Every day I deal with it.” I looked him over with disdain. “Don’t you walk in here with your swagger and your thousand-dollar pair of sunglasses and try to teach me something about real life. I’ve been dealing with it! And despite what you might think, it hasn’t all been about you. You’re not that special.”
“Libby—”