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I nodded, even as his commentary from before was fresh in my mind. “Yeah, they're good,” I replied.
“Do you love him?”
“What?” I coughed around the word, turning completely from the TV screen to stare at her, wide-eyed and startled.
“Do you love Peter?” she repeated, now smirking.
“I don’t know,” I said with a roll of my eyes and a forced shrug.
Tarryn’s skeptical eyes pinned me to the couch cushion as she said, “Oh, come on, Lennon. It’s a yes or no question.”
And she was right; it was. But it had taken her asking for me to realize I hadn’t once considered it, and with that realization, it occurred to me that I didn't in fact love Peter. I liked him a lot, and I enjoyed our time together. But I didn't love him. And if I didn't love him now, after months of being together, was it possible that I ever would?
The revelation made me shift on the couch, suddenly unable to find a comfortable way to sit in the house of a man I didn’t love. I needed a change of subject—something far away from love and Peter—to put my body and mind at ease, so I grappled for the first thing to come to mind.
“What about you, huh?” I abruptly prodded, offering my own smirk.
Tarryn narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “What about me?”
“What’s going on with you and my brother?”
Her glossy lips fell open with a silent gasp, her eyes wide with defensive shock. “Me and your …Connor? Oh my God. Nothing’s going on with us! Why …” She shook her head and rolled her eyes away, aiming her gaze at the TV instead. “God, Lennon,” she scoffed in a hoarse whisper. “You know, you could avoid the topic without making stupid accusations. Is something going on with me and Connor …”
As she continued to grumble and shake her head, I smirked quietly while the gears in my head squeaked to life. Because while my inability to confess my love for Peter had told her everything she needed to know, her inability to stop rambling told me there was absolutely something going on between her and my brother.
***
Tarryn never made a confession, and neither did I. But two movies later and one pizza consumed, she left with a hug and a promise to see me again before she went back to Scotland.
Now sitting in the dark living room, I listened to Peter's snoring coming from down the hall. The man was in desperate need of an appointment with a sleep specialist and a CPAP machine, and I knew damn well if I went in there now, I'd only become more and more agitated by the lack of sleep before deciding to give up altogether.
So, in the living room I remained—with one thought spiraling dangerously toward the edge of an invisible cliff.
I don't love him.
It wasn't lost on me that he had never professed his love for me either, which could only mean the feeling was mutual.
We were happy, but we weren't in love, and somehow, it seemed to be fine. But was it? Would I even want it to be if all it meant was to wake up fifty years from now, thinking I’d wasted my life on a man who never truly loved me?
God, even the worst, most damaged souls deserved love, and I wasn't close to being that far gone, and neither was he.
It made me snicker with a bitter taste singeing my tongue as I thought about how badly I had once wanted this. The normality I had longed for, only to find that, in the process, I'd somehow forgotten I needed more. No, Ideservedmore, and so did Peter. Maybe we could give it to each other. Maybe all we needed was a good, healthy conversation to iron out the rough, tattered edges, but in this moment, he was snoring, and I was lonely.
So, I pulled out my phone and sent a text.
Me: I miss you.
My committed mind stared at my rebellious fingers and those three little words on the screen. I couldn't believe I'd typed them, and more than that, I couldn't believe I'd sent it.
But now, he was typing, and my stomach was lurching angrily with a warning to put the phone away. I didn’t listen though. I couldn’t as I watched those flickering dots dance across the screen, and then there was a reply.
Dylan: I miss you too.
My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the foreboding whispers of my brain and anxious gut. I began to type again, asking if he could come get me, asking if we could just go for a ride the way we used to. I wanted to see him. I wanted to refresh my memory of the scent of his skin and the touch of his hands. The last day I had seen him was too far away now; it had been too long. If he left before I could see him, the distance between us would only grow longer and farther until I couldn’t differentiate the smell of him and an old leather jacket.
But then I stilled my frenzied thoughts at the realization that the snoring was missing from the chorus of frantic heartbeats and heavy, labored breaths.
Peter shuffled down the hall and emerged from the doorway, his silhouette illuminated in light. In a groggy voice, he asked, “You coming to bed?”
