Love Me for Me (5 page)

W
entworth’s Hardware looked exactly
the same as it had when her father had made her go with him as a kid. She still disliked the musty smell of it and the sandpaper feel of the concrete floor beneath her shoes as she walked. In the last decade, she’d seen the invention of file-sharing, learned various new forms of social networking, and marveled at all she could do on a smart phone, yet at Wentworth’s it seemed that absolutely nothing had changed right down to the push-button cash register.

Choices were limited. There were no interior designers in town that she knew of, so she’d have to rely on her own tastes and what was available to make the changes necessary to put the Roberts’ cottage on the market—or at the very least make it inhabitable for advertisement to out-of-town renters.

All the gadgets, screws, nuts and bolts before her reminded her of the odds and ends in her memory box. On separate occasions, her mother had tried to empty out her memory box, telling her that she needed to rid it of all of the
junk
that was inside—rocks, old pieces of cement, ribbons—but she’d refused.

The last time she’d put something in it was right before she’d left New York. She’d picked up a runaway flier, a pink half sheet of heavy paper advertising a stage show off Broadway. It had floated past her on her way home to her apartment for the last time. She’d picked it up, folded it twice, and placed it inside her memory box before packing it up to ship to the cottage. It was at that moment that the flier had crossed her path that she’d stopped to watch all the people crossing the crosswalk in front of her. All those faces of New Yorkers—driven, busy, walking at a clip, oblivious to her stares. The flier would be a tangible reminder of those faces.

There were other memories in the box too. The pebble she’d taken from the driveway outside her house the day her father had packed the last of his things in his car and moved out for good. She’d held it in her hand as the other pebbles had crunched beneath his tires, his car pulling out in front of her, his eyes visible in the rearview mirror. She had also held on to a twig that she’d taken from the butterfly bush next to Pete’s window the day she’d snuck over to his house to take one last look at him before leaving him and never coming back.

Libby had known that the only way to get Pete to understand and not try and convince her to stay was to tell him straight out what she thought about leaving. That day was burned into her memory—every bit of it as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

“How can anyone be successful here?” she’d said. “I want to be around people who have ambition.”

“So going to a school closer to home doesn’t show ambition?” Pete had said, his face indignant. “I can’t believe you just said that.” He looked down at the floor, his jaw clenched. When he looked up at her, it was as if he were just seeing her for the first time, his eyes scanning her up and down. “Is that all that matters to you? What about your family? What about Pop and Nana? Don’t you want to be close to them? What if, God forbid, something happened to one of them? Wouldn’t you want to be able to come home and see them? Is your ambition worth that much?”

She did care about Pop and Nana. She did care about being able to see them, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She needed to attend an elite university to be surrounded by other people with goals like hers, people who could challenge her, push her to be the very best version of herself that she could be.

“I need a competitive university to get me where I want to be in life. If I go to college around here, I know I’ll end up staying in White Stone.” His expression looked annoyed, irritating her. “The best I can hope for here is an unimportant job at one of the little office buildings in town!” she could hear her voice rising. “This is an insignificant little town with no opportunities.”

“Wow,” he’d said, shaking his head, incredulity in his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, just staring at her as if he could not believe what he’d just heard. Then, quietly, he said, his face turning red from the anger that he was clearly attempting to control, “Then go, Libby.” That was all he’d said before he walked out of the room and left.

Libby remembered feeling helpless in that moment because there was nothing she could do to change the situation or what Pete wanted for his future. She had hurt him, but being honest with him was the only way she’d be able to leave. When the day came, she was more than ready to get out of town, but she couldn’t leave without seeing him.

Growing up, she’d always come to his first-floor window by the butterfly bush and knocked. He’d see her and sneak her inside. She hadn’t told anyone about going to see Pete the day she’d left. No one would’ve understood. She had snuck over and peeked in on him in his room, but she didn’t knock. It was only for a second, just to say goodbye. He was lying on his bed, reading a book. His face was calm, his expression neutral—a change from the last time she’d seen him. He had the palm of his hand on his temple, leaning on his elbow, and it struck her how she’d never get to hold that hand again. She took in his fingertips, the strength in his forearm, his eyes as they studied the page in front of him, the way his back rose with every breath. It may be the last time she’d see him. After their argument and the hurtful things she’d said, he certainly wasn’t going to show up for a visit.

The finality of it sent a wave of sadness over her, sadness like she’d never felt. Through that window, she saw the first person she’d ever kissed, the one who’d been by her side whenever things were tough, the only person she’d ever loved. She let the tears cloud her eyes on purpose so that she didn’t have to see it anymore. A stab of fear shot through her like a bullet as she thought about what she was giving up. She was leaving everything she knew for an unknown future. She tried to rationalize it in her head: They were only eighteen. Surely she’d move on, make a life in New York, and forget the hurt that was sitting on her chest like a cinder block at that moment.

Her fingers were wrapped around the twig, not wanting to let go, gripping it so tightly that it snapped right off in her hand. It was that snap that had brought her back to reality and, with it still in her hand, she’d run as fast as she could in the other direction.

“May I help you?” an elderly man’s voice came from behind her, yanking her out of her memory.

She pulled in a large breath of the musty air to send her back to the present. “I’m just looking, thanks,” she said, willing herself to smile in his direction. The man grinned at her warmly, his lips hidden beneath a white mustache. She recognized him. He was the same person who had worked there when she was a child.

“Let me know if you need me. I’ll be up front,” he said, walking away from her toward the door.

After she’d been left alone again to immerse herself in her memories, she took a moment to look around her. The hardware store hadn’t left any sort of impression on her before, but it was so clearly representative of the town, so different than anywhere she’d been in New York, that it pulled her back to another time. Everything in White Stone was like that. All her memories were right there, lurking around corners, each one startling her as it revealed itself, bringing her emotions to the surface.

The fear that she’d felt that day, seeing Pete in his room, came rushing back in full force—the fear about what she’d given up, about leaving him. Now that it all had come crashing down, she wondered if her choices had been the right ones. She couldn’t focus on the items in front of her. She felt stifled, as if she couldn’t get to the door fast enough, the air around her turning to liquid, like being underwater. Her chest was tight, her heart beating fast; she needed to get out of there. Memories of her childhood, leaving Pete—they were too much. She paced past the man, ignoring his inquiring stare in her direction, and she pushed through the door, sucking in a breath of fresh sea air. The sun was shining, the heat of it calming her. She moved over to the bench that sat between the hardware store and a gift shop next door and took a seat.

At eighteen, she’d thought mostly about herself, how much she missed Pete, and how hard it had been to get over him. He’d always been the one who could calm her, take away the anxiety she’d had about her family or school. When she was with him it was as if nothing else mattered. Being without him, alone in her dorm room every night, knowing that she couldn’t call, couldn’t hear his voice, made her feel as if her heart were actually breaking. She cried into her pillow until she couldn’t breathe some nights, the ache in her chest nearly too much to bear. Mostly, she’d been consumed with how she’d felt, but now, at thirty, her perspective had changed. Now she wondered what
he’d
thought when she’d left that day, what he’d felt.

A car pulled over to the curb, and she looked up to see if it was him, but it wasn’t. A woman got out and went into the gift shop. Relief flooded her; she wasn’t sure she was really ready to see him yet, she’d decided. She hadn’t worked out what she wanted to say because, unexpectedly, she wanted him to know her side of things. How could she possibly explain it to him—and would it even make things any better? The truth was that the only place where she could have the success she’d had was in New York. And Pete was happy in the life he’d made for himself. Perhaps she should just let it go, let him stay irritated with her…

“Libby Potter?”

She looked up to find a petite brunette with dimples and straight, white teeth grinning at her, her hand on her chest, shopping bags hanging from the crooks of her arms. “I can’t believe it!”

“Catherine?” Catherine had been one of her best friends in school and her neighbor growing up. She hadn’t spoken to her in years apart from the annual Christmas card, but she was one of those people who could be absent from her life for ages and yet when they came back together, it was as if they hadn’t been apart a day.

She embraced Libby, nearly knocking her over, her carrier bags thumping into her as they slid down Catherine’s arms. “It’s been so long!
Where
have you been?” She pulled back, shaking her head.

“New York.”

“Well, I know that.
Everyone
knows that. But I meant, why have you just come home now? We’ve all missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Libby said, and for the first time since she’d gotten there, she meant that. She was truly sorry not to have kept in touch better. It was all just hitting her, and it was a little overwhelming.

“Does Pete know you’re home?”

Worry and hurt and shame churned in her stomach. For Catherine, it was just a simple question about two people who had once been very close, but for Libby it was an inquisition, a judgment. She felt as if Catherine were really saying,
I know what you said to Pete when you left, and I live here too, you know. Am I insignificant?

“I’ve run into him, yes.”

“Here,” she held out her hand, “give me your phone. I’ll put my number in, and we can catch up.” Libby handed her cell to Catherine. “I’d really love to get together. How long are you staying?” she asked, her fingers moving at warp speed across the keypad.

“It would be nice to get together,” she smiled. It was good to see Catherine, good to have a friendly face. “I’m getting the Roberts’ cottage ready to sell, so I’ll stay as long as that takes. Maybe you could offer some ideas. Remember when we painted your bedroom?” Libby laughed.

“Oh, yeah! We thought the paint was a light yellow, and it was chartreuse! All my furniture was brown—do you remember?—and so we tried to paint it all white to tone it down. I thought my parents would kill us!”

They both giggled together and Libby was glad for the moment of relief.

“Well, you’d better call!” She stood up and handed Libby her phone.

“Of course I will.”

“See you soon!”

“Bye.” Libby thought about how much harder facing everyone was compared to leaving them. She decided to hurry back to the cottage. She didn’t want to run into Pete. She needed to get herself together before seeing him again.

T
he rental car still running
, she looked at the gas gauge.
How long can I sit here?
she wondered. She eyed the door to see if Pete had come out. In her rearview mirror, she had a glimpse of one side of his Bronco parked in front of the post office.
What is taking him so long? Why won’t he come out, get in his car, and leave?
She wasn’t ready to see him yet. She hadn’t worked out what she wanted to say or even how to emote.

There was a knock on her car window, sending her jumping with fright.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than stalk me at the post office?” Pete said as she put her window down.

He was wearing a blue T-shirt and tan shorts that came just to his knees, his hair messy from the wind outside. He leaned on the door with one hand, his fit arm showing through his sleeve. He’d always been thin, despite his attempts to bulk up, but she liked that about him. She frantically searched his eyes for any hint of affection, any lapse in total hatred for her, but there was nothing there. His all-too-familiar grin was absent, his strong jaw clenched, his face vacant.

“I waited for you to come in, but you kept sitting in your car,” he said.

“You were waiting for me?” She turned off the engine.

“Yeah. I’d like to know when you’re leaving.”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. She looked down at her lap, her eyes stinging from the tears that wanted to come. Seeing him brought back all the feelings she’d had for him, as if she hadn’t been gone a day. She wanted to see him smile, feel him fiddle with her fingers when they held hands like he had so many years ago. He was right there but so far away at the same time. She wanted to make him happy, make him understand how terrible she felt for hurting him. But if she tried to tell him all those things, it wouldn’t do anything but make it worse. Eventually, she had to leave. She needed opportunities that were not available to her in White Stone. The conversation would inevitably return to that fact. “I’m leaving as soon as I can,” she said.

“Right.” He blew air through is lips and looked out over the top of her car as if searching for something.

“Look, I get it that you don’t want me here. The real estate agent was message enough.”

Pete didn’t say anything, but she thought she saw contemplation in his eyes.

“Can you let me out please?” She swallowed to alleviate her drying mouth. “I need to pick up some boxes…”

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.

“Hello?” she said, watching Pete out of the corner of her eye. Answering Wade’s call was causing an angry punching sensation behind her temples.

Without even a “hello,” he started in, “I was wondering how much longer you’ll be before the house goes on the market.”

She rubbed a knot that had formed in her shoulder. “Wade, I need to keep the cottage for just a little while. I’d like to live there until I can get back to New York.”

“What? I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

She looked over at Pete who had parked the Bronco next to her car and was on the other side of his truck, loading boxes into the backseat. She whispered into the phone, “Wade, be reasonable. I’ll pay the entire mortgage while I live there. I
need
a place to live.” She knew he didn’t feel anything for her anymore, but he wasn’t completely merciless.

“This is
temporary
, Libby. You still need to get the place in order, and get it ready to either sell or rent. I’d like to actually make some money on this investment.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t want anything other than temporary,” she assured him, then jumped as she turned to pick up a box and bumped into Pete. He looked down at her, his lips pressed together in an unreadable expression.

“Look, I’ll talk to you later.” She ended the call.

Pete clapped the dust from his hands. “I need to hurry up if I’m going to help you. I have to check on Pop.”

P
ete and Libby
had called his grandfather “Pop” the entire time Libby had known him, which was over half her life. Pete’s dad hadn’t been around while he was growing up, and neither had Libby’s. At the young age of eleven, when Libby had first started getting to know Pete, their mutual lack of a paternal figure had drawn them together. His mother, Helen, had done well for herself. She’d raised Pete and his elder brother, Ryan, on her own, but Pop and Nana had always been right there, just down the street, ready to offer a helping hand for their only daughter and her children.

Pop had always been special to Libby. He seemed to understand her, to accept her without any reservations. When she’d left, she’d missed Pop so much, and she’d wanted to contact him and keep in touch, but she hadn’t. Thinking of him, she had a heavy heart. His health was failing him—she knew that much—and she’d missed twelve good, healthy years with him.

She pulled up behind the Bronco, turned off the engine, and got out of the car. Libby jogged up ahead of Pete, who was carrying the biggest of the boxes, his biceps straining under the weight of it. Libby unlocked the door and pushed it open. He carefully set the box down in the front foyer and scooted it to the side with his foot.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, looking around.

Considering that the room only had a sofa and one table with an extremely small television, she figured his comment was meant sarcastically. Sarcasm was good; she’d take it. It was much better than the disgust she’d seen before. She wondered, though, if it hurt as much for him to stand there, the two of them together, as it did for her. Seeing him was her real
coming home
moment, because it was he who had been everything for her, growing up. When her mother had pushed her too hard and she didn’t think she could take any more, Pete had had a way of lightening the mood, showing her how to be happy despite all the drama.

But most of all, he’d loved her. He told her all the time, and it made her feel untouchable. Like many high school romances, they had gone on in different directions in life, and now they were caught in the empty space between reality and the past. The feeling of it overwhelmed her. Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked, but that only sent them spilling over. She dragged her fingers under her eyes and sniffled.

“I was just kidding,” he said, his eyes a little gentler than they’d been before. “I’ll go get the next box if you’ll just keep the door from shutting.”

She nodded, her mind still stuck in the empty space. She wasn’t the person who had loved him anymore. She was someone else. It was as if she were two entirely different people: One side of her wanted to hold on to him and never let go, tell him again how sorry she was. The other side yearned to get back to the city—her real life.

Pulling her out of her contemplation was the sound of children’s laughter. She stood in the open doorway and saw two boys, one tall and lanky, his feet like those of a Labrador puppy—too big for him—and the other, a dark-haired boy, shorter, and running with a football under his arm while Pete playfully chased him.

“You can’t catch me!” the smaller boy shouted.

“Oh no?” Pete picked up speed and scooped the boy into the air, the football dropping down onto the grass. The little boy shrieked with delight.

“That’s a tackle,” Pete said, setting the boy down and tossing him his ball.

Libby wondered who they were, and a wave of anxiety rushed through her veins. Were they
his
children? Did he have a loving wife at home, and his own family? Pete looked so comfortable with them, so happy. She’d seen that playful side to him as kids, but to see him as a grown man, the kind way he handled them, hit her hard and made her feel like she was missing so much more than what she’d already lost.

“When’re you gonna set up that swing for us?” the lanky one asked.

Pete stopped, as if pondering the question, but noticed Libby and, for the first time in twelve years, she saw that smile. He hadn’t been smiling at her; he’d smiled for the benefit of the boys, but she didn’t care. The sight of it caused a flutter that started in the pit of her stomach and rose all the way up through her chest. The two boys looked her way; they seemed to just now notice that she was there.

“Who’s that?” the small one asked.

“That’s Miss Libby. Miss Libby, this…” he tousled the boy’s hair, “is Thomas, and this…” he gestured toward the tall, lanky one, “is Matthew.” Then he looked back at the boys. “This is Miss Libby’s house now. Pop doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Are you going to come over still?” the taller one asked.

Pete glanced over at Libby. “Maybe,” he said, his face turning serious before looking back to the boys.

Libby knew what Pete meant by “maybe.” They used to joke about it when they were young. Whenever he wanted anything from his mother that she wouldn’t let him have, to quiet him, she answered, “Maybe.” He used to say, “My mother has three answers: yes, no, and no, but she calls the second ‘no’
maybe
.” Because of this, Pete and Libby always used to say “maybe” instead of “no.”

Another memory came back like a flash of lighting. It had been years since she’d thought about it. Pete would pin her down, kissing her relentlessly, tickling her, and she’d scream, “Let me go!”

He’d tighten his grip on her, that smile across his face, and, just before kissing her again, he’d say, “Maybe.” She’d squeal and wriggle underneath him until he finally loosened his grip and let go of her wrists so she could wrap her arms around his neck, still giggling. She wondered why that particular memory had surfaced. There were tons of times they’d used “maybe,” but it was that time that she’d remembered.