Page 85 of The Wedding Run
“The challenge?” he asks.
“I only have instant.”
“That might do more than keep me awake.” He grins. “I’ll take a raincheck. But you do owe me a cup of coffee.”
“More like several.”
He glances down at my hand still resting on his arm and then looks me in the eye. “Libby, I’m not the right one for you.”
His words ignite anger in me. “You think Derek is?”
“Not anymore. I’m sorry I ever encouraged you to marry him.”
“Then what is it?”
But he doesn’t answer.
“You’re scared, Luke Maine. You’re scared of taking a risk, of feeling too much. I know because that’s how I felt.”
“And now you’ve suddenly changed?” he challenges.
“Yes! And it’s your fault.” Now it’s clear that the real reason Luke won’t kiss me has nothing to do with Derek.
“I’m sorry, Libby,” he says, crossing the threshold and stepping out of my life.
I remember him carrying me on my wedding day, sweeping me over the threshold and up the stairs, and I realize it can never be again.
I close the door. There is too much between us and too much separating us.
CHAPTER 43
Libby
Iwander around my apartment, feeling unsettled and needing a distraction from thoughts of Luke. Finally, I dig my phone out of my purse, but a quick search shows I don’t have Aunt Barb’s number. There has always been a rift between her and Dad, and I’m not sure why. We never spent much time together, and eventually, we lost touch.
I find my old phone book in the back of my closet, and I dial her number, hoping it hasn't changed.
When she answers, I ask, “Barbara Collins?”
“Yes? This is Barb.” Her voice sounds older and a bit deeper, but still strong.
“Hi, Aunt Barb. It’s me, Libby.”
“Well, butter my buns! Libby! How are you, Sugar? Oh, Lord, is something wrong? It’s not your daddy, is it?”
“Oh, no, Dad’s as right as rain.”
“Thank the good Lord. And your sisters?” she asks.
“They’re all good. How are you?”
“I’m getting older. But considering all my kiddos are married, and they’re popping grandbabies out like a gumball machine, I’m grateful.”
There’s a pause as she waits for me to give my reason for calling. Once I begin explaining the letter Momma wrote, the story pours out of me.
“My oh my,” Aunt Barb declares when I pause long enough to breathe. “I remember your momma writing those letters. It was her way of holding on, of staying for you girls.”
I feel my throat tighten, and I can’t say anything.
