23. Fisher
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
fisher
Her whole body tenses up. Yeah, I know the jerk-wad of an ex costar is threatening her and that she’s here hiding out, but I don’t know what he’s trying to force her to keep her mouth shut about.
Every morning I wake with the desire to hack into her email again and search for clues about what he’s done.
To break into her text messages, or his.
Like my craving for that first cup of coffee, the need for answers percolates in my system.
How easy it would be. With a few keystrokes, I’d have exactly what I want. But this other nagging pull overshadows my curiosity. More than I want the answers, I want her to trust me with them.
I’ve never experienced the sensation before.
This desire for a bond with another person.
It sits on my chest like a big, fat lump, reminding me to stay the fuck away from her personal communication.
Trust can’t be earned through hacking. That’s for damn sure.
She has to open up on her own. With any luck, the insight I gave her into why I feel more like a prisoner than a resident of this island will help.
Her eyes dart around like she’s working on a plan to get herself out of the conversation.
If I were better at this, I could probably ease the answer out of her, but communication has never been my strong suit.
Trying to exude patience and nonchalance that I don’t feel, I turn back to the steaks, though I continue to monitor her reflection in the door of the microwave.
Finally, she slumps and bows her head. “What do you mean why am I here? You made me sit here.”
Frustration flares through me as I turn off the stove and slide the pan to the other side. “Don’t get smart on me now, Princess.” Arms crossed, I lean against the countertop and watch her.
Picking at an invisible dot on the perfectly clean table she sighs. “It’s obvious that you read the papers, so this seems like a waste of a question.”
“Do you really think I look like the kind of guy who reads the tabloids?”
Her emails? Maybe. But the tabloids hold no appeal.
And nothing about the clips of information I’ve caught here and there through Sutton depicts the real Libby.
They might talk about Elizabeth Sweet, the actress persona she dons when necessary, but they couldn’t be more wrong about the girl who captivates my attention.
She huffs out a hard breath, causing her blond hair to ruffle away from her face. “Everyone reads something. All the information is there if you look for it.”
I bite back another growl of aggravation and drop into the chair beside her. “I want to hear it from you.”
Her baby blues widen at the intensity in my voice.
Uninterested in taking the words back, I grasp her small, cold hand. I create a connection. A physical tie to each other.
Her eyes lock there, flaring a little when I lace my fingers with hers. “For my entire life, the whole world has felt as if they know me.” She swallows thickly and licks her lips. “Everyone has an opinion about who I should be. I needed to escape so I could figure out who I really am.”
That might not have been the exact answer I was fishing for, but damn is it a good one.
She lifts her head and holds my gaze, and the entire room shrinks. It’s only the two of us, nothing else.
I see it. Dressing for herself, learning to drive the golf cart and light the pilot. Wanting sherbet instead of ice cream. These are all ways she’s been trying to find herself. Discovering the Libby I adore.
I squeeze her hand.
Her eyes glitter with unshed tears. “You’re running from your life. And I’m running to find mine.”
I rub my lips together and consider her words.
“I’m not running from my life.” Hell, most of the time I feel like I’m clinging to a past I should have let go of long ago.
Only in the last few weeks have I felt like a single thing on this island is for me.
I swallow hard at that thought. In the short time I’ve known her, this woman has changed me.
Lips pursed, she tilts her head. “Really? Because you seem like you’re living your brother’s life.”
Not a single cell in my body can work up any type of disagreement. I am living his life.
“So why don’t you go into their room?”
My chest aches at just the idea of it. I hate talking about Hunter. I hate talking in general. But talking about Hunter, missing him, remembering that I’m a shitty replacement for the original, is more painful than I can bear.
Libby gives my hand an encouraging squeeze.
“I can’t get rid of their stuff. I just can’t.
” My voice almost cracks on the last word.
I clear my throat and swallow past the combination of loss and inadequacy.
“I’ve already taken over the rest of his life, as you so aptly pointed out.
” I force a lighter tone to keep her from harping on that point.
“So, what’s your plan after the summer?”
Brows lowering, she deflates. “Why does everyone assume that I’m leaving?”
Because nothing on this island sparkles the way she does. And something that shines as bright as she does should not be stuck in the dusty salt air of Monhegan. “’Cause you’d lose your mind here, Princess. I promise.”
With a sigh, she slips her hand from mine and rubs her temples.
“Head hurting?” I ask.
She nods, though she doesn’t look at me.
An ember of worry ignites in my chest. “Badly?”
“No, just a dull ache. Kennedy said it might.” Her posture sags further, her eyes getting heavy.
Knowing I need to keep her up, I stand. “No sleeping yet. Let’s eat. Then we can watch a show so you can relax.”
She puts up no fight, eating her entire steak and her favorite salad before she insists on watching Friends .
And when she drops next to me on the sofa, I wrap my arm around her and tuck her into my side.
As she rests her head against my shoulder, a peace I don’t think I’ve ever felt settles over me.
Watching stupid crap on the television has never appealed to me, but I wouldn’t move for anything right now.
The show might be dumb, but the company is perfect.
“I don’t get what everyone loves about these people,” I grumble halfway through the third or fourth episode. It’s impossible to keep track of this nonsense.
“They’re the friends I always wanted but never had. Most friendships in LA are transactional. Business. No one really cares about anyone but themselves.” She yawns, her words slowing. “You and Maggie feel like my first real friends.”
The words explode like fireworks in my chest.
I tighten my hold on her and swallow past the emotion clogging my throat. Minutes later, her body is limp and her breathing evens out. When I’m sure she’s truly asleep, I carry her up to my bed and tuck her in.
Just as I lean down and press my lips against her forehead, she whispers, “Please stay.”
Crawling into bed with her is simultaneously the worst and the best idea.
But now that she’s asked, I can’t turn her down.
So I flip off the bedside lamp and pad to the other side of the mattress, where I lie on top of the blankets.
As the mattress dips with my weight, she shifts and rests her head on my chest.
“Night, Fisher,” she mumbles.
For a long time, I lie awake, watching the way her long lashes flutter in the dim light of the moon. I brush a strand of blond hair off her cheek, my thumb sweeping across her silky skin. I could watch her forever.
I swallow hard. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for the woman who will leave me in a matter of weeks. But at this moment, I know it’s already too late.