Pete took a step back to allow her to open the door. She got out, pushed the door shut, and stood across from him, still wanting to tell him everything she’d been thinking. Not knowing how to begin or what to say, she settled on simply an apology. “I’m sorry I said what I did before I left,” she said.
She looked up at him, the sun in her eyes, which was a good thing because she could blink away more tears and pretend it was due to the bright light. She looked again for friendliness in his face, but if he felt anything, he wasn’t allowing it to show.
“Pete,” she took a step closer to him. “I left this place more than I left you. I didn’t want to miss out on an opportunity for something bigger, something better. Our relationship was a casualty of that choice. I didn’t like leaving us any more than you did.”
Pete ran his fingers through his hair. “You still don’t get it.”
Libby caught herself looking around to be sure no one was staring at them. Luckily, they were alone. What didn’t she get? She waited for further explanation.
“You look down on where I live.” Her skin burned with unease at the sight of the irritation on his face. “You act like we’re all a bunch of idiots around here; no one’s as good, as smart, as you.”
She could feel the tears coming and the heat on her face from embarrassment and anxiety. She was so confused, so lost all of a sudden. She tried to formulate a solution, but her mind was empty. “You’re twisting my words.” Her voice broke.
“No I’m not.” He paused. “Growing up, you hated the way your mother was. It drove you crazy—but guess what, Libby? You’re just like her.”
How could she ever fix this? He was right. She wanted success and achievement—it made her feel like she’d done something in life—and he had a different perspective on both of those things. By putting down where he lived, she was putting him down as well. She’d never meant to make him feel that way.
What she’d wanted was to be with him. She’d asked him to apply to Columbia with her and he’d refused, saying he didn’t want to be that far from the people he loved. So, she was a casualty of his choices as well. How was he much different than her?
Against her will, a tear escaped and slid down her cheek, and his face softened considerably. He never did like to see her cry.
Libby wiped another tear away with the back of her hand. “Can you let me by? I just need to get my boxes.” The words came out all sputtery as the tears finally started to fall. She pushed past him and jogged across the parking lot, tears streaking her face. She caught a glimpse of him as she entered the post office, and he was already talking to a man she recognized from her childhood. She was a wreck after their confrontation. Had it not fazed him at all? She pushed the thoughts away as a sob swelled in her throat.
After a few minutes’ wait inside, she was able to hold in her tears once more, and a couple of the postal workers, clearly noticing her state, started carrying boxes out one by one until all Libby’s things were stacked like Legos in the hallway. She signed for them and opened the door with her foot. She leaned toward one of the stacks of boxes, scooting it along the floor toward her while she held the door open. She could feel the dust settling on the palms of her hands and between her fingers.
The door kept shutting on her as she struggled to move the heavy boxes. She could see the postal workers’ glances from around the corner as if they wanted to lend a hand, but the line was quite long and they were busy helping others with their packages. Leaving one box wedged in the door to keep it open, she hoisted another into her arms, the weight of it nearly causing her to drop it.
“Are you carrying boxes in that outfit?” Pete said from across the parking lot. “There’s no way you’ll get all those in your car.” He was leaning against the Bronco, his arms folded. He squinted toward the rental, and she noted how his vision seemed to have gotten worse since she’d seen him last. His chest rose with his breath and he blew it out—it was a giant, frustrated huff. He walked over to her. “I’ll put the big ones in my truck and we can squeeze what’s left into your car. Just stand over there,” he pointed, “and I’ll get the boxes.”
Libby moved over to her car, stopping at the back of it to open the trunk. Her phone buzzed in her handbag and she pulled it out. She didn’t want to take the call. If she had to speak at that moment, she was liable to have a full-on tear fest. But it was Wade. Since she’d already told Wade about the paperwork, her curiosity about the call got the better of her. The call could be about the cottage or something of hers she may have left behind, both of which were worthy of answering. At the very least, she could tell him she was busy and call him back.