Love Me for Me(32)
“I’m quite aware that you didn’t choose to come back.”
Libby sat down on the beach, the new tire swing suspended beside her. “Even though I didn’t choose to come back,” she swallowed, her gaze fixed on the sand by her feet, the tears clouding her eyes, “I’m glad I got to see you.” She looked up at him, her lips quivering. “I never meant that you were insignificant. You were anything but insignificant. I’m so sorry. I miss you and your mom and Pop and Nana. I miss everyone so much.”
Pete sat down beside her, his expression unreadable. He let out a huff of frustration as he looked out over the bay. The sound of wind was the only sound between them for a long while. Pete was clearly thinking. Then he looked over at her, the corners of his mouth turned up just enough to send her heart pattering. “What are you doing today?” he asked finally. “In that outfit, I’m guessing you aren’t working on the house.”
Libby huffed out a little chuckle through her tears.
“Want to take a boat ride? I need to go home and check on Pop.”
She wanted to take a boat ride, and she wanted to see Pop, but she knew that she probably shouldn’t. She needed to get out of the rut she was in and move herself forward. She could rattle off a list of things to do instead: the cottage, Trish’s wedding plans, job applications… Plus, there was no reason to get any closer to Pete. It was a ridiculous situation to put herself in.
“Okay,” she said anyway.
Chapter Eleven
There was something indescribable about being out on the water, the sun in her eyes, warm air pushing against her, the only noises being the growl of the engine and the sound of the waves against the boat. After a while, the engine slowed and Pete steered toward the shore in front of a secluded cottage, nestled among the pine trees in a clearing of emerald green grass. The cottage was a colonial with bright white clapboard siding, and black shutters. A pair of brick chimneys anchored each side, and the entire front of the house facing the water was screened in, a row of paddle fans whirling around inside. “How long have you lived here?” Libby asked.
Pete reached out and grabbed the dock, tugging the boat over and tying it up. “About eight years.” He hoisted himself out and extended a hand to Libby. “Pop’ll be happy to see you. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since we ran into you the other day. He keeps asking me to have you over.”
Libby took Pete’s hand and he pulled her up onto the dock. She didn’t want to let go, but she did. He led the way up the walk toward the porch steps, opening the door for Libby and gesturing for her to enter. “Pop?” he called from behind her.
She stepped into the house. The rustic interior made her smile; it was every bit Pete’s personality. The oak furniture, the mustard-colored walls, oversized windows that filled the room with natural light, the wood-burning fireplace—it all seemed so right for him. She imagined what it felt like to be curled up on the sofa under the plaid blanket that was thrown neatly across the arm of it.
“Pop?” he walked around her and headed into the next room. She followed. They entered the kitchen, a large, open space with maple cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. Pete dropped his boat keys onto the counter and headed down the hall.
“I’m in here,” she heard Pop’s voice.
A few steps away was a small room with a desk, a computer, a chair, and now—thanks to Pop—a bookcase. Hugh was busy piling books onto its shelves when he caught sight of Libby and stood up. “Libby! I’m so glad you dropped by! Pete,” he waggled a shaky finger in his direction, “get my girl something to drink. Show her you know your manners!”
Pete nodded, a smirk twitching at the edges of his lips. “What would you like to drink, Libby? I have the usual.”
“I’d love a water, thank you,” she said, and Pete left the room.
Hugh set a handful of books onto a shelf and turned toward Libby. He looked so different compared to how she’d seen him years ago, yet his eyes, the curve of his jaw line, the way he smiled at her—those were all reminders of the man he’d been then. “Tell me, dear, what do you think of our Pete all grown up?”
She had all kinds of feelings about Pete all grown up. But she couldn’t get herself organized enough to formulate a cohesive thought. It would be easy to say how much she loved the way he studied her face when she was talking or how sweet it was to see that little bit of humor behind his eyes just before he was about to say something or how she could tell by his gestures that he’d still take care of her. But the reality of the situation got in the way.