Yeah. I’ll pick up wine.
JuJu
Perfect. Can’t wait to see you.
She trusts me. She’s at my apartment waiting for me to come home because she can’t wait to see me and I’m sitting in a Starbucks after having coffee with my ex that I didn’t tell herabout.
I should tell her tonight. Should explain what happened and why I made the choice I made and hope she understands.
But what if she doesn’t? What if she spirals the way she did with Garrett? What if this is the thing that makes her realize she can’t trust me? What if I lose her over this?
No. It’s fine. It was just coffee. Sienna got her closure and now she’s gone and there’s no reason to worry Juliette over nothing.
The drive to the liquor store feels longer than it should. I keep replaying the conversation with Sienna, trying to figure out if I said anything that could be misinterpreted. Trying to convince myself that I did the right thing by hearing her out instead of just telling her to leave.
But the feeling in my gut says otherwise.
The feeling that says I just made a huge mistake.
I grab two bottles of Juliette’s favorite wine, the Pinot Grigio she likes that she claims is too expensive so she never buys it for herself. Head home while practicing what I’ll say if she asks about my day. I’ll keep it vague. Say I ran into someone from my past, had a quick conversation, nothing important.
That’s not really lying. It’s creative editing. For her benefit. To protect her from worrying about something that doesn’t matter.
I reach for my buzzing phone.
Dex
Saw you talking to someone in the parking lot. Everything good?
Shit.
Yeah, all good. Just ran into an old friend.
Dex
Didn’t look like a friend.
It’s complicated.
Dex
If you say so. Be smart, Rodriguez.
I don’t respond. What am I supposed to say? That I just had coffee with my ex and didn’t tell my girlfriend? That sounds worse than it is. It was nothing. It meant nothing.
By the time I pull into my building’s garage, I’ve almost convinced myself that this is fine. That I’m making the right call by not telling her. That there’s no point in worrying her over a fifteen-minute conversation that meant nothing.
Almost.
But when I walk into my apartment and see Juliette in my kitchen wearing one of my t-shirts, her hair up in a messy bun, humming along to music while she chops vegetables for dinner, the guilt crashes over me.
She looks up and smiles. “You’re home!”
“Yeah.” I set the wine on the counter and pull her into a kiss, trying to push away the feeling that I’m already lying to her just by not saying anything. “Traffic was bad.”
“Well you’re here now.” She goes back to chopping, the knife making rhythmic sounds against the cutting board. “How was your day?”
This is it. This is my chance to tell her.
