14. Libby
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
libby
Hollywood Star Brad Fedder donates one million dollars to women’s shelter in Los Angeles.
My jaw drops as I read the alert that popped up on my phone.
I’d rather not ever see that man’s name again, but if I have to, then I suppose I prefer this over anything else.
God, now what is he trying to cover up? It must be bad to warrant such a big donation.
There’s no way he did this willingly. The man’s only friends are the figures in his bank account, and he hates women.
Or maybe he just hates me.
Either way, he certainly doesn’t respect women. That was clear every time he touched me despite my obvious disdain for him and the many, many times I begged him to stop.
I focus on breathing, willing the anxiety that clutches my throat and threatens to swallow me whole to abate. It’s the way my body reacts every time I think of that man and his touch.
Instead, I focus on how good yesterday afternoon was. Despite the run-in with the spider and Fisher, practice was everything I needed.
Community theater is nothing like being on a television show.
Every moment I spent with the group yesterday reminded me of why I fell in love with the stage.
The instant gratification is a high I haven’t felt in forever.
There’s no waiting for some critic—or thousands on the internet—to react to my work.
The dopamine hit that comes when a scene goes right is instantaneous.
While I’m only helping with the production, the way the kids listen to my suggestions is far more satisfying than any part of acting has been in a long while.
A round of applause from the kids or an overjoyed smile from Maggie are all it takes to make my day.
Maybe it’s pathetic that such minimal affection has this kind of effect on me.
Hell, just thinking about practice makes warmth bloom in my chest. Yeah, maybe it’s sad that I’m so starved for kindness, but I won’t worry too much about it.
I’m happy. That’s truly all that matters.
Though I’d be a tad bit happier if I had some of the items from the grocery order Doris still won’t fill.
God, that woman makes me angry.
But I refuse to be labeled as difficult.
I refuse to be what others say I am in general.
So I sip my Diet Pepsi, which apparently Doris has no trouble getting, and enjoy the sound of the ocean and the way the sun warms my skin. June hasn’t just brought more tourists. Warmer afternoons and a balmy breeze are also welcome changes on the island.
I’ve just let out the loudest of sighs, content in a way I’ve been striving for since I came up with the idea to run off to this island, when the lightest of giggles carries over the summer breeze. “Libby! Libby!”
I lift a hand to block the sun and spot Sutton rushing toward me, her hair back in braids that bounce with as much enthusiasm as she does.
Behind her, Fisher follows, his movements much more subdued.
Dammit, he’s not making it easy to avoid him.
After the way my stomach did that little swoopy thing yesterday when he carried me to practice, the last thing I need is another run-in with the man.
“Hi, pretty girl. What’s all the excitement for?”
I keep my eyes on Sutton despite the intensity of Fisher’s gaze.
“Fisher and I are here to take you for a picnic.”
Fisher and picnic do not belong together in a sentence. Eye twitching, I sit up. “A picnic?”
Blue eyes brighten as she swipes at a stray hair with the back of her hand. “Yeah. It’s a tradition. Wednesday nights in the park.”
“There’s a park?” This time I can’t help but look at Fisher. No one has mentioned a park.
He grins. The man fucking grins, and my heart somersaults down the path and lands with a kathwump at his feet.
“Sure is.” He holds up the picnic basket as if trying to prove to me that he hasn’t been possessed by aliens who’ve come to earth to kill me with the unsuspecting promise of a smile. It only makes me more suspicious. “Even got some of your favorite things.”
“He did. He got your sodas and straws and strawberries and the—” She tilts her head back, peering up at Fisher, and snaps her fingers. “What’s the nut called again?”
“Pine nuts,” he says.
Sutton raises a finger in excitement. “Yup. Pine nuts for your salad. We even looked up the recipe for your favorite salad.” She holds her hand up to her mouth, my favorite of her little quirks, and whispers loudly, “Did you know there’s a whole article on what Elizabeth Sweet eats for lunch?”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and I finally haul myself out of my chair. “Yes.” I brush off my leggings, then straighten. “People on the mainland are a bit ridiculous.”
Head tilted, she purses her lips. “But there’s a lot more to do there too.”
“We’ve got goats,” Fisher says, his lips twitching. When he lifts his gaze to mine, like we’re sharing some sort of secret, I swallow my tongue.
I only now notice that his typically messy hair is swept to the side like he took time to get ready.
And I think he may have even trimmed his beard.
His brown eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, like he’s truly happy.
Why is he happy? And why do I feel like I’d do anything to keep him this way?
“So what do you say, Princess? Come with us to the picnic?”
I have to look away from him. Those words combined with the earnest hopefulness in his expression are screwing with my mind. “Is this a tourist thing?”
“Nah.” He adjusts his hold on the basket. “It’s an islander thing, but tourists tend to discover it.”
“So summer people are invited?” I swallow past the lump in my throat.
I’m tired of feeling unwelcome, so while I appreciate that Sutton and Maggie do their best to include me in activities reserved for islanders, I don’t particularly feel like getting the stink-eye from Doris or being run off by the woman from the bakery.
Especially when I’m feeling better than I have in a long, long time. Why ruin the vibes?
Fisher’s eyes flash with an emotion that, if I weren’t so jaded, I’d think was empathy.
“You’re invited, Libby. Come with us to the picnic.
Please? Like Sutton said, we’ve got your favorite salad, diet ginger ale, and straws.
And if you’re a really good girl, there’s a carton of sherbet in the freezer when we get home. ”
The husky quality of his voice makes it impossible not to imagine him saying those two words— good girl —in a completely different way. When he’s wearing significantly less. When I can feel the burn of that scruff between my thighs.
Somehow I know that Fisher is the type of man who would praise me for coming. He’d work hard to get me there, and then he’d be the one thanking me.
A fierce shiver works its way down my spine, sending goose bumps erupting along my arms.
“And make sure you bring a jacket,” Sutton adds, eyeing me pointedly as I rub at the goose bumps erupting along my arms. “If you’re cold now, it’ll just get worse when the sun goes down, right Fisher?”
He rolls his tongue against his bottom lip in the cockiest way, his eyes dancing. The man knows precisely why I’m shivering, and it has nothing to do with the weather.
Fifteen minutes later, Fisher comes to a stop on the side of the road in front of the park—and by park, I mean the open space beside the pier between the inn and the water.
It’s the perfect spot for such an event, especially if tourists come.
The rolling hill off the rickety white deck of the inn is covered in blankets and picnic baskets.
There’s even a guitarist sitting on a stool near the building, strumming tunes. I haven’t seen him around, but I’m not sure I’ve met all sixty-eight people on the island yet. I’m just about to ask Fisher about him when Bing barks and takes off toward a loud whistle.
“Yoohoo! Over here!”
Fisher bumps me with the picnic basket, herding us in the opposite direction. “Just ignore him. Bing will find us eventually.”
Wilder jogs up to us, gasping for air when he stops. It’s an exaggerated display, but I’m smiling, nonetheless. Especially when I see the T-shirt peeking out from under his flannel. It reads: When God made me, he grinned and said “this will be fun.”
“I won’t take that personally,” he mumbles to Fisher. “I’ve got a spot set up over here.” With a hand to my back, he steers me toward his blanket.
“We’ve got our own,” Fisher grumbles.
“Oh, Lindsey’s here!” Squealing, Sutton takes off.
Fisher deflates, like he knows there’s no chance we aren’t joining them and he’s not thrilled about it.
I don’t mind in the least. Being surrounded by people means it’ll be easier to avoid looking at the man whose eyes keep boring into me, who’s speaking to me in a gentle tone that’s as strange coming from him as it would be coming from Betty the goat.
Since the piggyback ride yesterday, it seems as though the man has gone from despising my existence to wanting me around. And I don’t know what to do with that. Every time I look at him, I catch him watching me, and the affection in his eyes makes my cheeks heat.
Is this change in his behavior because he feels bad for me? God, I hope not. The idea that he’s only being kind because he pities me is far worse than dealing with his annoyed scowls.
“Where’s Kennedy?” I ask Wilder.
“She’s working off island for the week. She helps out at the clinics on the other islands throughout the summer.”
“Hmm.” I’ve never thought about the other islands off the coast. Are they like this one? They couldn’t possibly be smaller than Monhegan.
“How’s island life?” He drops onto his knees and pats the space beside him. He’s like a giant golden retriever. Always smiling, always looking to play. He couldn’t be more different from the grump who’s currently scowling at him.