32. Libby
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
libby
Dad: Call me. Please.
Robin: Libby, I need you to stop avoiding me.
Brad: This is fucking absurd. You? How the fuck could they nominate you?
Dad: Congrats, Libby! Please call me back.
Robin: The calls keep coming. We have a lot to discuss. Call me!
Robin: Libby! This is huge! Call me!
My phone won’t stop. It’s been like this for weeks, but this morning, everyone is extra determined to get my attention. Too bad my only concerns are here on this island. Hollywood can wait another day.
“The biscuits go to Ivy, and the lasso is for Farmer Todd, right?”
Cank shakes his head. “The lines, Libby. Not a lasso.”
“Hmm, that’s not what Fisher calls them.” With a shrug, I drop the lines onto Putt-Putt’s back seat. She’s been busy helping me make deliveries all week. My goal has been to give Fisher a break with the hope that he’ll start working on my dock so I can take the Pink Lady out on the water.
No such luck yet. When he’s not busy doing his hacking stuff, we’re spending time with Sutton or locking ourselves in his room and getting lost beneath the sheets. It’s been the best summer of my life, and there’s no way I’ll let thoughts of the real world ruin it.
“Ivy needs the lines and Farmer Todd needs the muffins .” Cank emphasizes the nickname I came up with, like he thinks it’s comical.
But listen, there may only be sixty-eight people on this island, but if I don’t focus on descriptions, I’ll forget their names. It works for me for now, but if I plan on staying here, I’ll have to drop those soon. Also, he can call them muffins all he wants, but he’s wrong.
Maybe the biscuits are for the animals. They’re not fit for human consumption, that’s for sure. I learned that the hard way.
“Okay, Cank,” I call as I get into Putt-Putt.
When I put her into reverse, she makes a loud beeping noise the islanders have come to call my warning beep.
“Have a beautiful day.”
Cank’s laughter floats on the breeze as I putter away from the docks.
The late July days are nearly endless, and the weather has been beautiful. Maybe it’s time I convince Fisher to allow Sutton and me to finally do the Monhegan Goodbye.
My phone buzzes again, a call this time, but I ignore it as I pull up Spotify and navigate to the Summer People playlist. It’s full of songs that remind me of my time here.
Some of the islanders still call me summer people, but they’re my summer people.
My time with the folks of Monhegan is bringing back the joy I felt when I was here with my mom.
When Noah Kahan’s “Maine” starts, I can’t help but smile. I take the path toward the library at a steady pace, waving to my summer people as I pass.
“Hi, Libby,” Kennedy calls as I pass the inn. She’s outside with Lindsey, who’s wearing rain boots and jumping up and down in a kiddie pool.
Putt-Putt veers to the right as I peer over at them. Whoops. I grab the wheel with both hands, and when I try to straighten out, I overcorrect a little and almost veer into a fruit stand.
“Hi, Libby.” Maggie laughs as she jumps out of the way.
“Sorry!” I yell as I continue on.
Determined to make it to my destination in one piece, I force myself to keep my eye on the path in front of me and my hands at ten and two on Putt-Putt’s wheel like Fisher taught me.
He, of course, drives with one hand on my thigh and the other on the wheel. I won’t point out his hypocrisy, though, because there’s nothing I love more than Fisher’s touch.
An hour later, all my chores are done, and I head home. As I pull up the path to our houses, Sutton runs out the front door, her blond braids bouncing, her face covered in pink goo. “Libby!” she calls as I come to a stop. “What took you so long?”
“Sorry, pretty girl. I had to make some stops for Cank. What’s on your face?” I hold out a cookie that Cank’s wife sent along specifically for her. By some miracle, these are nothing like the biscuits, so I’m not concerned that she’ll break a tooth.
Sutton takes a bite of the black and white cookie. “Have you seen the news?” she asks, crumbs spraying from her mouth. She clutches my hand and pulls me into the house.
“Ah, hell.” Fisher turns away, reaching for a towel.
He’s not quick enough to hide the pink goo smeared all over his face too.
Lightness takes over, making me feel like I might float away. “What’s going on?”
He looks absolutely adorable. His messy, floppy brown hair is pulled back with a pink scrunchy so it doesn’t get stuck in what I’m guessing is one of the face masks Libby and I ordered last week.
It’s got hibiscus oil in it and smells so freaking amazing, and because it’s for sensitive skin, it’s safe for kids.
Sutton grins. “We’re doing face masks.”
As Fisher dunks a towel in a bowl filled with water and flowers, like in a fancy spa, Sutton holds up a finger and glares at him. “It needs to stay on for five more minutes.”
Fisher’s jaw ticks, like he wants to react one way but is holding it back because he loves his little girl. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
“Do you do this often?” I survey the room. A handful of pink and purple pillows from Sutton’s bed are set up on the floor, and the coffee table is pushed back and covered in all of her spa goodies.
Fisher sits on one of those pillows, peering up at me like he’s begging for help.
I want to kiss him so badly. This might be the sexiest he’s ever looked. Covered in goo, showing his love for his girl. The smile that takes over my face is so big my cheeks ache.
His pathetic expression morphs into one of adoration, though his voice is rough as he mumbles, “Once a month.”
“Four more minutes,” Sutton reminds him.
His face falls in defeat, making it nearly impossible not to drop to my knees to cuddle him.
I turn my focus to Sutton so I don’t ruin their special moment. “What’s the news, pretty girl?”
“You can’t tell her yet,” Fisher says, his eyes narrowing.
Sutton drops her head back, groaning. “Why?”
“Because I won’t be able to kiss her with all this stuff on my face.”
My heart thumps against my breastbone. God, I love him.
Shit. I really love him.
I suck in a breath to keep myself from saying it. It’s too soon. But it’s real. I know without a doubt that I love them both.
Sutton scrunches her nose. “Ew. Why do you have to be like that?” With a roll of her eyes, she dunks a towel in the water. “You can take it off.”
Rather than pass the towel to him, she does the most adorable thing.
She stretches forward and cleans the pink goo off his face for him.
The way he sits patiently, eyes closed, allowing her to give him this facial, breaks me wide open.
It’s mind-boggling, knowing he has even the smallest doubts about how good he is for her.
I’ve never seen such devotion. My dad is wonderful, and he’s done a lot for me, but never has he let me give him a facial.
Monthly facials. I’m just…wow. Yup, I love the guy.
Once she dries his face, he pulls the scrunchie off his head and tosses it at me. “Crying over there?”
I shrug my shoulders and feign indifference. “Just got something in my eye.”
Sutton cups a hand to her mouth and whisper shouts, “Your nose is growing, Libby.”
Fisher washes Sutton’s face just like she did his, taking his time, with his tongue pressed into his cheek as he swipes the washcloth delicately around her eyes, careful not to get any of the goo in them. After he pats her skin dry, he gives me one of those warm smiles again.
He looks good wearing a smile. This one is full of pride.
Like all he’s got—Sutton and me and this place—is enough.
I really hope it is. My life is a disaster, but by some miracle, just being me and being here seem to be enough for him.
It’s a heady sensation. Addictive. I’ve never been enough on my own.
I’ve always taken on a role. Quiet. Effusive.
Bright and shiny. Whatever was needed at the time.
Whatever role I was thrown into. I’d make work.
But being me? That’s a role I’ve never had the opportunity to explore thoroughly, and I’m rather enjoying it.
He’s dressed in his typical jeans and flannel, white shirt untucked. A little messy and unkempt. Completely cozy-looking. My body itches to go to him. To lean into his chest. To feel the brush of his lips against my forehead. To close my eyes and just inhale. This feeling. His scent. This summer.
“You can tell her now,” he says to our girl as she takes another bite of cookie.
I’m not sure when I started thinking of her as ours, but in that moment, with her attention fixed on me, her blue eyes so bright, a cookie crumb clinging to her lip, one overall strap falling off her shoulder, I’m desperate for it to be true.
“You were nominated for an Emmy!” She bounces, her braids swinging.
“Don’t jump while chewing.” Fisher pushes to his bare feet and ambles toward me. With a yank, he pulls me into his chest. “Congrats, Princess.”
Bewildered, I look back and forth between them. “What are you talking about?”
Fisher frowns down at me. “I’m sure your phone’s been going off.”
He knows I’ve been ignoring everyone. He’s seen me silence enough phone calls and dismiss dozens of texts. But he never presses. Instead, he reminds me that he’s here when I’m ready to talk.
That time is fast approaching. If I want them to truly be mine, Fisher deserves to know what brought me here. He needs to know what the real world will be saying once they find out where I’m hiding.
Though it doesn’t feel like I’m hiding. Not anymore.
It feels like I’m finally living.
“Libby!” Sutton drags me from my thoughts. “Did you hear me? You’re going to win an Emmy!”
I throw an arm out, signaling for her to join our hug. She settles against my stomach, squeezing me tight. “Thanks, pretty girl. I did hear you; I’m just trying to understand. Where’d you hear this?”
“It was on TV. Everyone’s talking about it because no one’s seen you for months. Kind of silly. You’ve been here the whole time; it’s not like you’re hiding.”
I smile. She gets me. “You’re right, pretty girl.”
Eyes closed, I soak in the feel of the two of them, but within seconds, my phone is buzzing in my pocket again.
Fisher presses a kiss to my forehead and looks down at me, his expression almost pained. “You should probably get that.”
As much as I hate to pull away from them, he’s right. I’m no longer hiding, and that means facing the real world.
When Dad flashes across the screen, I can’t help but smile. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Oh, could this possibly be the Elizabeth Sweet?” he quips.
“Ha ha.” I step out onto the porch and settle on the top step.
“You’re harder to reach than the damn governor. I’m being serious. I talked to her an hour ago. She doesn’t even screen my calls the way you do.”
I roll my eyes but bite back a smile. “I get your point, Daddy. Is there a reason you called?”
“I wanted to talk to my daughter. It’s been a week since I’ve heard your voice. Does a father need any other reason?”
“Oh, it’s not because I’ve been nominated for an Emmy?”
He chuckles, the familiar sound a comfort. “Oh, you don’t say?”
“I haven’t even seen the reports. Sutton just told me.”
The door opens behind me, and Bing bounds out. Fisher and Sutton are next, but they follow the dog to the yard without stopping, Fisher shooting me a wink as they go.
“In the best supporting actress category, Libby. Congratulations. You deserve it.” My father’s voice cracks.
That’s when the gravity of the moment finally hits.
I’ve been acting since I was a kid, but this is my first nomination.
Though my performance this season couldn’t even be called acting.
Every emotion the academy saw on the screen was one I felt during those last few months on set. The irony of that is not lost on me.
“Thank you.”
“You’ll have to come back to California. Robin has a plan to get the win.” That’s the funny thing about awards. Acting is only part of the process. Lobbying the judges is where the real work is.
“I’m not leaving, Daddy.”
Though he’s trying to give me privacy—sticking to the other side of the yard while he tosses a ball to Bing—Fisher’s eyes cut to mine when I make that declaration.
I blow out a breath as my dad launches into all the reasons I need to come back. Casting agents have been calling. Producers are vying for me. Apparently disappearing from the limelight has everyone talking. “And with this nomination, you’ll have even more offers,” he finishes.
“Daddy.” With a sigh, I reiterate all the reasons I’m not coming back.
This is not the first—or second or even fifth—time I’ve explained that I’m not sure if I ever want to act again.
I can’t imagine constantly being surrounded by the narcissistic people on sets again.
Hollywood is toxic. Or at least the version I saw day in and day out for twenty years.
I needed a break, and the eight weeks I’ve had so far haven’t been nearly long enough.
“At least fly in for the awards show. See how it feels to be back.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, my chest tightening so painfully it’s hard to breathe.
“Libby, this is a big deal. Huge. Your mother—” He stops himself. He never talks about her. He’s never once used her memory to guilt me, and thankfully that remains true even now.
“Always wanted this,” I finish for him.
It’s the truth. My mother’s dream was to win an Emmy. She never got the chance. But that doesn’t mean I should live my life for her. Like I told Fisher, we need to live for ourselves, not for the ones we’ve lost.
“For you, Libs. She wanted this for you. She’d be so proud of you. And you deserve to tell your truth. To control the narrative. This is the perfect opportunity to put the production team in its place. You have been nominated. Not the show. Not Brad.”
I suck in a breath. He wants me to control the narrative, but he has no idea what the narrative actually is. I doubt he’d be telling me to come back if he did.
“I’ll think about it.” I pull the phone away from my face and put it on speaker.
As the topic changes and we talk about my life on the island, I scroll through emails about potential projects from my agent.
Each pitch, one after another, makes me shake my head. I’m almost ready to give up and ignore my inbox again when one catches my eye.
Boston Theater… Wicked .
As I read the details, excitement bubbles in my chest.
I say goodbye to my father and focus on Fisher and Sutton. She’s laughing as she and Bing race for the ball.
Boston isn’t that far…