16. Libby
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
libby
The heavy weight settled against me eases me from unconsciousness. Eyes closed, I turn my head and inhale the warm male scent. It’s clean, with a hint of something spicy. Fisher. I’m cocooned in him.
I blink, forcing my eyes open, surprisingly content with his presence beside me in bed.
Vision blurry, I reach out. When I’m met with nothing but empty sheets, I push myself up.
Quickly, I discover that my movement is restricted by the giant dog sprawled across my legs.
Bing lifts his head and wags his tail, his mouth falling open in the canine equivalent of a smile.
It’s not Fisher keeping me warm, just his dog.
The disappointment that surges is ridiculous.
I love dogs. I don’t love Fisher. I should be happy he didn’t sneak into his own bed last night.
That would have been a red flag. Besides, Fisher doesn’t even like me.
He might tolerate me—and that’s an upgrade from the disdain he showed me until a day or two ago.
He may feel this need to protect me—and, strangely enough, I like it—but he doesn’t like me.
Or maybe he does.
The man is confusing. He barely talks, and when he does, it’s to complain. But he keeps showing up.
At the realization that I was hoping it was Fisher beside me, a pit settles in my stomach. I try to ignore it by stroking Bing’s fur. “Hey, buddy. Thanks for letting me sleep here last night.”
He army crawls up my body, and when we’re face to face, he greets me with sloppy doggy kisses.
Laughter bubbles out of me. I wish I could have a dog.
With the hours on set, it’s never been possible.
Though I have all the time in the world now.
While my agent continues to leave messages about cleaning up my image, I’ve yet to hear a word about potential projects.
It seems I’m no longer Hollywood’s darling.
My, how quickly the community I’ve been part of my whole life has turned on me.
“You wouldn’t turn on me, would you?”
Bing licks my outstretched hand and lays his head on my chest, his dark eyes fixed on me. No, I don’t suppose this dog would even know how to turn on someone. He’s too loving. Too sweet.
Just like I used to be.
Trusting. Loyal. Naive.
For years I kept my mouth shut and dealt with the unwanted advances, all because I was too afraid to rock the boat.
The job of every person on that set depended upon me. Outside of my dad and Brad’s parents, the only family I ever had worked on set.
And I was right. The moment I said something, the moment I had the audacity to say no, I was fired.
I sink back into the mattress and inhale Fisher’s scent. He wouldn’t have kept his mouth shut. He’d never have allowed another person to dictate his life.
Then again, when a man acts like a grump, he’s considered broody and desirable. Someone to win over. If a woman tried it? She’d be labeled a bitch.
I suppose I should get up. Even if the idea of seeing Fisher this morning has me all sorts of twisted.
He’s convinced I’m not safe. That someone is trying to scare me.
It could be Brad, though I don’t understand why he won’t leave me alone.
If he’s behind the rock through my window and the other strange happenings, how did he find out where I am?
And wouldn’t he prefer I stay off the grid like this?
The longer I’m gone, the easier his lies are to weave.
Sadly, I can’t get myself to care. Not enough to go back and fight, anyway.
I’m in no rush to go anywhere. I’m set for life financially, so the next time I work, it will be on a project I truly care about. One I’m passionate about. For so long, I’ve done what I’m told. I don’t even know what I’d choose for myself anymore.
While I came here to escape, to run away from my life, what I’ve discovered isn’t a hiding place, but a place where I can start over. Here, I have the time and the privacy to figure out who I am when I’m not pretending to be someone else.
Who the hell is Elizabeth Sweet?
Who do I even want to be?
I shift, figuring I should probably get up rather than having deep, existential thoughts while lying in someone else’s bed. Instantly, Bing jumps off me and bounces to the floor, running in circles, clearly excited to start the day.
He probably needs to go out.
I slip out from beneath the covers and run my fingers through my hair. It’s pointless, really. Fisher probably won’t even notice how I look, let alone care that my hair isn’t brushed.
Silently, I creep to the door and peek out into the hall. From here, the faint sound of cartoons floats through the air. I follow the noise downstairs to the living room, where Sutton is curled up beneath a blanket, watching television.
Does she already know I’m here? Shoot. I don’t have the first clue how to explain my presence. I glance toward the back of the house, willing Fisher to appear and give her an explanation, but the kitchen is quiet. Where is he?
“You looking for Fisher?” Sutton asks in a sleepy, unsurprised voice. Normally when the girl greets me, she’s all smiles and squeals.
“Yup.” I point to the stairs. “He let me stay here last night because my house was—” I snap my mouth shut. I don’t need to terrify her by telling her that someone may have tried to break into my house. “I, uh, I saw another spider.”
She gives me an indulgent smile. “You really don’t like spiders, huh?”
“I really don’t.”
She curls up into a tighter ball. “Come sit. Fisher went to get donuts.”
I pad across the room and sit beside her. “You didn’t want to go pick out your own donuts?”
She shakes her head and her little button nose scrunches. “I don’t like how Flora talks to Fisher. Her voice gets high-pitched like this. Fisher —” Her voice takes on a sultry tone that has a shudder rolling down my spine. “It gives me the heebie-jeebies,” she finishes.
“Does he like her?” I don’t know how I feel about that. Any connection between Fisher and the donut woman— Flora, apparently —is none of my business. But that doesn’t stop my stomach from rising up into my throat when I imagine Fisher smiling at her the same way he did at me when we were dancing.
Sutton scrunches her nose again. “I don’t think so. He should like you. I like you. And then you could sleep over all the time.”
I cough out a laugh. “That’s not how it works.”
“But it could. Sounds like you’ve got a spider problem at your house. We don’t have a spider problem here.” She crosses her fingers, apparently not realizing I can see her hands. Or maybe assuming I wasn’t once a little girl who did the same thing when I told a fib.
My stomach sinks at the implication. If she’s fibbing, that means they do have a spider problem. Shoulders tense, I turn, scanning my surroundings to make sure there aren’t any creepy-crawlies nearby.
“Then we could have donuts together all the time and I would never have to have dinner at Flora’s house and we’d be like a real family.”
Any concern I had about bugs flies out the window at her words. “Sutton?—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off. “It would be so much fun, Libby. Please.”
“You only have two bedrooms, and I don’t think Fisher wants to sleep on the couch every night. But I’m right next door, and I’m always happy to hang with you.”
She frowns. “We have a third bedroom.”
Lips pursed, I tilt my head and sneak a peek up the stairs. “You do?” Then why did Fisher put me in his room? Why did he give me his bed, then sleep on the couch?
Sutton looks away, her shoulders sagging. “Yeah, but he never opens the door to it.”
“Huh?”
Tiny fingers pick at the fabric of her blanket as she keeps her focus downcast. “My parents’ room. He won’t even open the door, but everything inside is exactly like they left it.”
Oh, Fisher. My heart cracks for both of them.
For the man trying his best to raise a heartbroken little girl, all the while probably struggling with his own loss.
Grief is so damn difficult. There’s no right way to handle it.
Reality ebbs and flows, mingling with doses of the past. The tiniest flicker of a memory can derail an entire day.
One moment you’re laughing, and the next, it’s impossible to breathe.
A joke can lift your spirits, only to be undercut by a few simple notes from their song as a car with its windows down rolls by.
That’s how grief feels now, at least for me. As a child, I was desperate to hold on to every memory I had. I hoarded every item my mother had ever touched, hoping that holding it would bring even the most fleeting comfort.
I inch closer to Sutton, and as if she knows I need it, she rolls out from under her blanket and snuggles up against me. “But you go in there? Because it makes you feel closer to them?”
“I don’t remember them. Not really.” She takes a heavy breath for such a small person. “Maybe small things, like how Dad smelled like the ocean. And Mom’s laugh. But that’s it.”
God, do I wish I could remember my mother’s laugh. So many years later, I think it’s more of an impression of a memory than the real thing.
Sutton’s blue eyes shine as she studies me. “Is that bad?”
I strum my fingers through her silky blond strands. “No, pretty girl.” My voice cracks. “That’s just what happens. Time goes on and memories fade. I hardly remember my mom. That’s why I’m here this summer, even if no one wants me here. I stay because this island holds my last memories of her.”
Frowning, she grasps my wrist. “ I’m glad that you’re here. I don’t know anyone else who’s lost their parents. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about it.”
God. My heart squeezes, and I have to inhale through my mouth to keep from crying.
I rest my head against hers and close my eyes. “I’m always here to talk, pretty girl.”
I may not have the answers, but like Fisher, I want to be here for her. Even that feels selfish, though, because just this simple talk means more to me than she could ever know.