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Nine times out of ten, Peter was a good guy, and our relationship was one I could envision being content in for a while, being in love or not. But every now and then, he made a comment like that, and I was forced to question every choice I'd made.
This was one of those times.
Peter chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, come on. She's not sick; she’spregnant. All pregnant women puke.”
“Not all pregnant women have hyperemesis,” I fired back, crossing my arms over my chest. “It's not unreasonable for her to ask her husband to not play a freakin' game and to help her around the house while she's sick.”
He sighed and shook his head again. “I figured you’d be on her side with this,” he mumbled under his breath.
“There shouldn’t be sides at all,” I disputed. “He’s her husband. He should—”
Peter interjected with a deep, exasperated groan. “Lennon, it’s none of our business, okay? Let them handle it. In the meantime, I gotta go. I'll pick you up later, okay?”
His desire to always have the last word, no matter how trivial the topic might be, was infuriating sometimes.
“Yep,” I muttered in reply.
He fished the keys from his pocket as he asked, “What are you guys gonna do?”
At the mention of my plans for the night, all my irritation disappeared, replaced with a racing surge of nerves. I hoped he couldn't hear my pulse, hammering away in my ears, as I thought about the phone call I'd made earlier while he was in the shower.
“You're looking at it,” I said, forcing an easy laugh. “My parents are gonna order a pizza, so we'll probably watch a movie or something.”
“Nice,” he said, then jingled his keys as he gestured over his shoulder. “Well, have a good time with them, and I'll see you later. Maybe if we’re not too tired, we can … you know.”
He gyrated his hips, and I rolled my eyes playfully at his insistence on keeping our sex life so regimented.
“We’ll see,” I replied, smiling. “Have fun.”
“Will do.”
Lying to Peter was one of the worst things I'd ever done, and the guilt had my heart in a vise as he walked down the driveway toward his car, parked at the curb. But for what it was worth, I hadn't lied because my intentions with Dylan were impure. I only wanted to see him and share a couple of hours before he was gone for months—maybe even forever if I never saw him again. But Peter wouldn't understand that, and he'd never allow it.
Keeping it hidden was for the best, and if all went according to plan, there would be no reason to unearth my secrets and expose my lies.
God laughed when we made plans though, didn't He?
***
Mom and Dad weren't happy when they saw Dylan's BMW pull up to the curb. But I couldn't say they were all that surprised either.
“Does Peter know?” Mom asked as Dad got up from the couch to answer the door.
“No,” I answered honestly, unable to lie to another person. Especially her.
She wasn't happy about that either.
“Lennon,” she warned, shaking her head, “if he finds out …”
“I know,” I replied, dismissing the conversation before it could happen. “But that's why he won't find out.”
“Don't be so sure about that.”
It seemed almost like a threat, the way her tone sounded. Stern and unforgiving.
I looked at her, startled, and asked, “You're not going to say anything, are you?”
Mom shook her head. “No, of course I wouldn't do that to you,” she said, a little softer this time. “But lies have a way of telling themselves. Just keep that in mind.”
