“I don’t know, Libby,” he shook his head. “We need to go.” He pulled away from her and began to pack up the last few things that were left from the fireworks. He folded the towels and placed them into his bag and slid the empty wine glasses into the side pockets. He didn’t say anything else. She waited.
“Tell me, what don’t you know?” she pressed.
He slid the bag onto his shoulder and moved toward her. His mouth was turned down, the skin between his eyes creased, his face showing fatigue. “I don’t know if I need this right now. I’m tired. I have a lot going on. I…” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if relieving an ache there. “I just need to go home.” He turned away and started walking toward the car. Libby followed in silence.
When they got to the Bronco, Libby slid in on her side and didn’t say a word. She was too busy thinking about his response. He’d been given one night—one night—without the burden of watching over Pop, of worrying about the realities of life, and she’d dropped a bomb on him like that. She felt awful. How selfish could someone be? Even though she hadn’t meant to, she’d still thought about herself first instead of considering what a conversation like this might mean to Pete. She’d given him one more worry, one more thing to contemplate. It was no wonder he was tired.
The rush of air from the open windows of the truck drowned out the chirping of the crickets in the woods as they drove home in silence. She wanted to put her hands on his face, kiss his lips and tell him she was there for him—she’d always be there for him—and the thought that she may never get the chance to do that was nearly crushing.
She didn’t know where to go from here. She was so confused. Her time in White Stone had made her realize that she wasn’t happy in New York, and, if she couldn’t be with Pete—if she had to see him day in and day out—it would tear her heart out, so she couldn’t be happy in White Stone either. It was overwhelming. Pete pulled into Celia’s drive, turned off the engine and twisted toward her just like he’d always done when they were kids. But this time, she didn’t see that kid anymore. She saw the man she was in love with, and it terrified her because she didn’t know what more to do about it. The ball was in his court.
“Call me if you need me, if Pop needs me,” she said, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes again. She sniffled a little. She didn’t want to get out the car.
“I will. Do you need me to walk you up or are you okay? It’s dark…”
“I’m okay.” She opened the door, got out, and shut it. As she leaned on the open window, she said, “I’m here for you regardless of our issues, whether we’re together or not. If you need me, call.”
Pete nodded and started the engine. “I’ll wait for you to get in the door,” he said, tipping his head toward Celia’s front porch.
* * *
Libby looked at her phone. Nothing. She didn’t expect anything, but the silence was absolute torture. She couldn’t control this, and it was terrifying. She’d just fled New York on a moment’s notice, leaving her brand new job with barely an explanation to her boss, and now she was sitting in her mother’s house in White Stone with not the first clue as to what she was to do next. Always, she’d had a reasonably attainable goal to meet and, as long as she’d done what was expected, she’d met that goal. But this wasn’t a goal; it was her whole life, and she didn’t know how to behave. Her stomach ached for relief, the acid settling like fire in her gut.
She’d been up for hours. Her head was pounding and her eyes still stung from lack of sleep. She’d woken throughout the night, thoughts flooding her mind. Each time, it had taken quite a while to fall back asleep. She rubbed her eyes, trying to relieve their dryness.
“Do you want lunch, honey?” Celia asked from down the hall. As restless as she was, and as terrifying as her life was at this moment, she was glad to be with her mother again. She was glad that Pop was just a drive away, and she’d get to see all the lovely faces she’d left by going to New York.
She hadn’t even told Mr. Wiesner when she’d be back, because she had no idea. It all reminded her of the first time she’d ever jumped off Catherine’s swing. She’d said she wouldn’t do it. It didn’t look fun to her; it looked startlingly scary. So many things could go wrong: the tree branch could break, the swing could come undone, she could hit the water too hard—so many things… Pete had asked if she wanted to do it, and she’d told him no. She could still see the way he looked at her—that protective gaze—and he said, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. If you decide to, I’ll help you, but I think you can do it by yourself.”