Page 76 of Songs for Libby

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I came out of my room in an unmistakably pouty mood, groaning as I pulled my robe over my belly and frowned my way toward my fridge.

“Is your hip acting up again?”

I turned to find Sean on my couch with a notebook and pen. Writing lyrics, no doubt. “It’s fine. And what are you doing in my house?”

He shrugged. “You gave me a key for a reason.”

“I’m not sure the reason was for you to lurk in my living room while I sleep.”

He just smiled, apparently entertained by my grouchiness. “So why are you moaning and groaning so early in the morning?”

I pulled my bottom lip up and furrowed my brow, feeling petulant. I didn’t want to tell him my stupid reasons, but my need to complain won out. “Nothing fits me anymore!”

One eyebrow rose sky-high.

“Shut up,” I said, even though he hadn’t said anything. “Apparently it was very naïve of me to expect that only my belly would expand. But no. Everything is expanding.” I’d bought a bunch of new clothes a couple months ago. Flowy, loose tops and lots of leggings, but I had underestimated how much bigger I would get. Classic first-time mistake.

He gave me an amused but compassionate look. “You’re growing a human, Libby. What did you expect?”

I just glared at him.

“Don’t they have clothes specially designed for amazing women who grow humans?”

I frowned at the floor and folded my arms over my robe. “They’re called maternity clothes.”

“See? Why don’t you go get some of those?”

I turned away from him and yanked open the fridge. “I don’t want to.”

“Why not? You like shopping.”

I got the milk out and raided the pantry for cereal. It was an avoidance tactic. Because I couldn’t admit that the very act of shopping for and purchasing maternity clothes felt monumental. It was something that I shouldn’t have to do—not on my own. Jonas should have been there, telling me I looked cute and then picking out the ugliest thing he could find and trying to get me to try it on.

Sean moved over to sit at the kitchen counter. I could feel his eyes on me as I methodically poured myself a bowl of cereal.

“Hey, Libby?”

“Hm?”

“So, are you okay…financially?”

I looked up and my glare said, Did you really just ask me that?

His hands came up in surrender. “I know. I know. We don’t talk about money. I’m not allowed to help out, or offer to pay for stuff. But this is different. I should be able to ask in these circumstances.”

Maybe he had a point. Plenty of widows were left destitute. I sighed out my resignation. “I’m fine, Sean. I have a job that you see me go to every day, and Jonas had”—breathe—”great life insurance.”

“Okay. I won’t ask again.”

“Thank you.”

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

My glare was back. I had bed head and was wearing a robe over sloppy pajamas, and I’d done nothing but frown and glare all morning.

Once again, he raised his hands in surrender. “Hey. It’s not my fault you’re always gorgeous.”