She’d had just enough time to freshen up when she heard the grumble of Pete’s Bronco outside. She opened the door. “Hey there!” he said with a grin that told her he’d left all of his worries at home tonight.
“Hi,” she smiled back, genuinely happy to see him. “Do you mind coming inside for a second?” she asked. “I just need to put on my jewelry.”
He followed her into the cottage. It took a minute before she realized that she was still walking toward her room but he wasn’t. He was stopped in the entryway, looking around. His head turned toward the kitchen door, and he was still for longer than he should have been. His face showed no emotion, but she could see something in his eyes. He was definitely processing something. He’d seen Wade’s roses. She was ready to discuss it, to explain them. She wanted to tell him how they didn’t mean anything, how they weren’t from anyone special. She wanted to let him know that phone-order red roses from someone who didn’t care about her enough to stick by her weren’t her thing. She wanted something better than that, something meaningful. But Pete didn’t ask, he didn’t say a word. He just turned and met her in the short hallway leading to her room.
It seemed like such a long time since he’d helped her move her boxes to the house. The old memories had been painted over, remodeled, made into something different. She took a hoop earring off the bedside table and put it on.
Pete stepped toward her dresser and flashed that crooked grin of his. He slid her memory box toward him. “You still have this?”
“Yes.” His question had made her feel a little sad. Why wouldn’t I? she wanted to say. Would he expect her to just leave her memories behind once she’d gone to New York? As she gave the question more thought, she realized that it probably was what he thought. She’d left everything else behind, why not her memories too?
He opened the lid and peered inside. It didn’t bother her. Her memory box wasn’t like a top-secret diary that needed a lock to keep her most inner thoughts hidden. They were already hidden because no one but her knew the true meaning of the items inside. It didn’t matter if he saw a piece of paper or a pebble or a twig. The significance of them was lost on him.
He unfolded the pink flier and read the words. Then he creased the paper and put it back. He picked up the white shell she’d gotten on their walk and traced it in his hand. He sat there for what seemed like ages, staring at it, and she could feel the heat under her skin as she thought of that day. She knew he recognized it, and it worried her. In truth, she’d kept the shell because it reminded her of who she was, but it had come from the day of Helen’s party, the day he’d jumped and she hadn’t. Why did he think she’d saved it? Did he think that she wanted a reminder of how she had refused to be the kind of person he was? She didn’t want the shell to ruin his mood. Before she could say anything, he put it back.
“I think I recognize some of the things in this box,” he said closing the lid. “Is it still full of your memories?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a few new ones in there. Anything interesting?” he smiled.
“If there is, I’m not telling. They’re my memories.”
“You’re just as tight-lipped about them as ever.”
“Yep,” she grinned back at him.
“Well.” He walked over to the door of the bedroom. “Ready?”
She followed him out, walking toward his truck and hopping in on her side. “Where’s Pop?” She didn’t really want to bring it up, afraid she’d bring him back down to reality, but she was genuinely curious and wondered how Pete had been able to slip away without him.
“He’s with Mom. She thought I needed a night out.”
“Smart woman,” she smiled.
“If he feels like coming, she said she’d bring him.”
Pete pulled down the drive toward the road, a gust of warm wind blowing in on them from the open windows. The feeling of summer was in the air: the marshy grasses along the road bending with the breeze of the passing cars, the large, orange sun hanging low on the horizon, and the crescendo of festive clatter filling her ears as they neared the town. The streets were full of people walking toward the beach for the bonfire—all in their shorts and T-shirts with straw bags to carry the treasures they’d found at the open-air market and craft stalls.
Libby looked across Pete to see who had set up closer toward the beach, but she was also taking in Pete out of the corner of her eye. He, too, had a T-shirt on, the soft-looking cotton of it reminding her of how it felt lying on his chest, his warmth radiating from underneath, the quiet thumping of his heart and the rising and falling under her from his breathing. She turned and looked out her own window.