Page 19 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane
Libby slips her phone back into her pocket and makes her way to the front window. Her eyebrows rise nearly to her hairline when she sees the unfamiliar car parked in her driveway, a cherry-red Mustang convertible, engine roaring and exhaust curling up behind it like dragon smoke.
Libby walks outside in a stunned daze.
“Mom!” Lucas shouts from the driver’s seat. “Can you believe this?” He sounds like a little boy again, buzzing with excitement, his fingers trailing along the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
“Whose car is this?” Libby croaks with feigned enthusiasm as she approaches the rolled-down window, noticing how Bill, sitting in the passenger seat, doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Mine!” Lucas is giddy with joy. “Dad bought it for me!”
Libby clenches her teeth, forcing a smile onto her face for the sake of her son. She doesn’t want to take this away from him—it’s been so long since she’s seen him this happy—but it’s taking all her self-control not to strangle his father here and now.
“Why don’t you go inside so I can talk to Dad for a minute?”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, sliding out of the smooth leather driver’s seat and pulling her into a quick hug. “And then I’m going to pick up Justin. Wait till he sees me pull up in this!”
He heads toward the house, and Libby gently touches her neck where her son’s arm just was. When was the last time he’d been so casually affectionate with her?
She waits until she hears the front door close, until she knows Lucas is inside, and then she rounds on Bill.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she shouts, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She’d spoken to him about this, explained how important it was that they be on the same page about not buying Lucas a car. They’d agreed that Lucas was going to work to save up for it, learn the value of a dollar. Andthiscertainly wasn’t the car she’d had in mind for their seventeen-year-old son!
Bill’s gaze scans the cul-de-sac in a wide arc. “I know you’re upset, but let’s try not to make a scene for the entire neighborhood.”
Right now Libby could care less if her neighbors overhear. She’s tired of always holding herself back, considering everyone else’sfeelings before her own. “How could you do this? There’s no way he’s keeping this car! He’s only seventeen! It’s far too expensive, not to mention dangerous!”
“Lib, I know you said you wanted him to save up for his first car, but I have the money and he’s my son and—”
“This is exactly what we said we didn’t want to do!”
“No, it’s whatyousaid we didn’t want to do.” Bill’s face hardens. “If I want to buy my kid a car, I’ll buy him a car. He’s been going through a tough time and I wanted to do this for him. It was my decision to make.”
Libby can feel the indignation, the resentment taking hold of her, climbing up her throat. “He’s going through a tough time because ofyou! Because ofyourchoice! You can’t just buy him off and absolve yourself of any guilt you feel over it. And as for it being your decision to make—if you wanted to be a parent, you shouldn’t have left your son.”
“I didn’t leave my son, Libby. I left you. And this is why. The constant arguing. Our marriage was starting to feel like a battlefield. I couldn’t take it anymore!”
Tears well in Libby’s eyes and she turns away, not wanting to give Bill the satisfaction of seeing how much his words hurt her. But as she does, she sees Lucas standing on the front walk, a backpack slung over one shoulder, car keys dangling from his hand.
“Lucas, I—”
The look on his face tells her that he heard everything.
“Why do you have to be like this, Mom?” he asks, the hurt in his eyes, the hate in his words, like daggers through her heart. “Why do you have to ruin everything?”
Lucas pushes past her, climbs back into his new car. He stares resolutely out the windshield, looking anywhere but at his mother.
“Why don’t you get going to Justin’s,” Bill says as he steps out of the car. “I think your mother and I should finish this discussion inside.”
—
Libby paces the length ofher living room. “I just feel like this is something you should have spoken to me about!”
Jasper wanders into the room, his nails click-clacking against the hardwood floor to greet Bill, but at the sound of Libby’s shouting, he quickly scuttles back to the kitchen, his tail hanging low between his legs.
“I get it, okay?” Bill says. “Maybe it did warrant a conversation, but, Lib, come on. You know it would just have turned into an argument.”
“Not necessarily, we—”
“Libby. Look at me.”
