“I was eighteen. Just out of high school, and as you know, my parents sent me to Scotland for my gap year. But in reality, they didn’t want anybody to find out that I was pregnant. I was supposed to have the baby, give him up, and come back home and go to college. Carry on as usual. You know?”
Libby nodded bleakly at the tacked-on question, even though she knew it hadn’t really required an answer. She sank down onto the sofa, and Tina followed suit. Her body angled toward Libby as she continued to speak, her voice strangely detached, her expression remote.
But her words were devastating, and as Libby listened, her shock and anger faded, and her heart broke for this woman who was trying so very hard to pretend that she was okay.
When it was more than evident that she was broken.
“I didn’t want to carry on as usual. I wanted to keep him,” she was saying, and a bitter smile lifted the corners of her lips. “But my parents wouldn’t have that. They were determined that I should give him up for adoption. I refused. I kept him. He was mine. And I loved him. But one day, I went to wake him from his nap, and he wouldn’t open his eyes. He was gone. Just like that.”
Libby had a hand over her mouth as she tried to choke back the sobs that threatened, and Tina, obviously noticing her distress, absently patted Libby’s knee, as if to comfort her. How like Tina to worry about what Libby was feeling while speaking about what had to have been the worst moment in her life.
“I’m so sorry, Tina. Oh God.”
“It’s okay. It happened nearly ten years ago. But I’ve had some . . . issues. I couldn’t stand the idea of working with mothers-to-be, delivering babies . . . it wasn’t the right fit for me anymore. But I couldn’t seem to find anything to fill the void afterward. I was a little lost. And then, in the last year or so, everybody started getting pregnant. Conrad and Kitty”—her oldest brother and his wife—“you. Then Kyle and Dumi were talking about adopting.” Kyle was her middle brother. “I didn’t know, not until after you had Clara . . . how hard it would be for me to be around babies. But I’m trying to fix it. I love her so much. I want to be the best aunt I can for her and for my brothers’ children. And I’m so, so sorry if I’ve been weird. I never meant to hurt you.”
Libby couldn’t help it—she was sobbing by now. Proper ugly crying, and she reached over to drag her friend into a hug. She sometimes found it hard to spare a tear for herself, but for Tina, she had many. Her friend’s heartbreak was so much worse than anything Libby had ever experienced, and her lost baby deserved Libby’s tears.
“You should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was complicated,” Tina whispered, trembling in her arms.
“Tell me why,” Libby invited her. “What was so complicated that you felt you couldn’t tell your best friend about this?”
“Well, for one thing, you were only sixteen, and it just seemed so wrong to burden you with something so adult. And Libby, I was embarrassed. You always seem to have it together. Even when we were kids, you were gorgeous, smart, well adjusted. Vivacious and kind. And so, so talented. It’s a little intimidating being your friend sometimes. You always seem so . . . perfect.”
Libby stared at Tina uncomprehendingly. Harris had said something similar earlier, about how popular Libby was and how easy it had always been for her to befriend people. Why did everyone seem to think she was this flawless woman who had her shit together? Her life was a mess, her marriage had fallen apart, and most days she had serious doubts about her ability to be a good mother. Now two people had told her, in the space of an hour, how easy she had it. What the hell was that about?
How could her two best friends not see how riddled with insecurity and doubt she was? Granted, Libby was awesome at the whole “fake it till you make it” thing, but she would have thought Harris and Tina would know her better.
“I’m not perfect,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral, because Tina was already fragile.
“I know that,” Tina replied, her voice wobbling. “I do. But you have to admit, Libby . . . you’re the most normal and well adjusted of all of us. And you were always so good. Everything was always black and white to you. No shades of gray. Something was wrong, or it was right. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand, because I knew you would never have stupidly gotten pregnant. I felt so dumb. Just another teen-pregnancy statistic.”