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WHAT ABOUT PETER?
PAST
“Please don’t be upset.”
I roll my eyes, holding my phone up to my ear so I can hear him clearly from outside the loud pub.
“I’m not upset,” I reassure him, glancing around out of habit. It’s Friday night and Peter and I made plans to meet up, but he’s called me to bail, saying he had to stay late at work. Lucky for me, I’d already gotten us a table. “I’ll call you later.”
He apologizes, telling me he’ll make it up to me, but I’m already walking back inside, determined to not waste a perfectly good outfit.
We hang up just as I reach my table, and I tuck my phone into my clutch, prepared to eat and watch the drunk, rowdy people by myself.
It’s odd to be on the older end of the partying spectrum, watching everyone lose themselves in their liquor. But it’s also interesting, something I haven’t really seen since my college days.
Peter recommended the place, saying that even though this place caters to a younger crowd, there isn’t a better place to get a burger. And now that I’m here, done up for our date, I’m getting my fucking burger.
I met Peter five months ago while I was picking up lunch for my boss. It was a cute little interaction where he offered to pay for the food and I declined, saying it was on the company card.
And then he asked me to dinner, and I said yes.
Peter is…kind. He’s soft-spoken and thoughtful. Which is why I was able to let him off the hook for missing our date.
And for the last five months, I’ve insisted that we keep it casual. I haven’t dated anyone else, and I haven’t wanted to. But I’m not ready to commit to anyone right now. Not when Miley and I are getting ready to start our own design firm.
And not when I’m not one hundred percent about Peter. But if I’m being honest, he’s the closest I’ve come to a relationship in a very long time.
Someone places a drink in front of me and I stare up at the waitress.
“I didn’t order this,” I tell her, eyeing the glass of red wine.
“It’s from Pete,” she rushes out before walking away.
Pete.
I wish I could get people to stop calling him that.
I’m about to pull out my phone to text him with gratitude when I glance up at the bar.
And for some reason, it’s like I’ve seen a ghost.
The ghost of Abraham Pugliesi happens to glance my way just as I notice him.
It’s strange to see this man again, as a different woman.
The skin he’d touched was long gone. I’d shed the girl I was and became a strong woman.
He can’t possibly recognize me.
But…I’d seen him enough times on my television screen to know that he’d started to let himself grey. The thick silver whiskers amongst the dark brown hairs of his beard make me wonder if he’s kept track of time as it passed.
It’s been four years.
But love will still reach out and punch you in the gut if you let it.
Not love,I remind myself.
Still, time is a minor detail when it comes to the desires of the heart.
