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What. About. Peter?
The question hit me square in the gut as I turned away from Dylan, the image of his erect dick still vivid in my mind.
“Oh my God,” I uttered, stabbing my fingers through my thick, tangled mane of hair, sick and dangerously close to heaving on the patchworked floor.
Oh my God, Peter.
Years ago, when Tarryn and I had been in high school, she had made out with a boy who wasn't that month's boyfriend. Her reason was that it was a dare, that she never had a choice.
“But there's always a choice,” I'd said, thoroughly disgusted with my friend for betraying the promise she'd made to whatever his name was.
I had made a vow then that I'd never make that choice, that I'd never be so weak.
But I guessed they were right when they said to never say never. Whoevertheywere.
“Lennon …” Dylan spoke from behind me as I leaned forward to press my hands to my knees. He took a step and placed his palm on my back. “Hey, are you—”
“No, I'm not okay,” I snapped, agonized by the roiling of my stomach and the screaming in my head. “I-I think I might …” A pathetic moaning sound left my throat, and I was unable to say the words as I clamped my lips shut to keep the bile from leaving my mouth.
My eyes quickly scanned the room for a garbage can, but Dylan found it first. He shoved the plastic beneath my face, where I promptly expelled my vanilla chai and the disgrace of having another man's body in my mouth.
While rubbing circles between my shoulder blades, Dylan muttered pointless reassurances, and all my idiotic brain could think was,Dylan freakin’ Pierce is watching me throw up in his garbage can. I hope I'm not ruining something important.
I guessed I’d already known my relationship was destroyed.God help me if I ruin a potential radio hit too.
When there was nothing left to vomit, I slowly stood upright. Holding an arm around my stomach, I moved to sit in the armchair Dylan had occupied and planted my elbows to my knees with the weight of my shame and guilt sitting against my hunched shoulders.
“Don't beat yourself up,” Dylan said.
Dragging my watery gaze over his frame, I sighed, weak and upset. “I royally fucked up, Dylan, and now,I'mthe one who has to tell him,” I replied. “Of course I'm going to beat myself up.”
“You're going to tell him?”
Scoffing, I nodded, incredulous. “Obviously. Why the hell wouldn't I tell him?”
“You realize you'll never see him again, right?”
Turning away, I swallowed against another surge of uprising bile. “Y-you don't know that. Maybe we can make things work. Maybe we … I don't know. Maybe he'll understand o-or—”
“Think about what you’re saying, Lennon. You're not stupid,” he replied, slowly lowering himself onto the stool across from me. “You told him you'd never see me again,” he reminded me. “So, what are you gonna do? Tell him that not only did you break that promise, but you almost had my dick in your mouth too?”
Hearing it out loud, hearing the words leave his lips, forced the tears from my eyes. I hiccuped on a sob, knowing how right he was, and still, I foolishly shrugged and replied, “I mean, I-I won't say it quite like that. I can, um …”
“You can lie,” he offered gently.
I turned my tearful eyes back on him, hands trembling and gut reeling.
“He'll never know, and you can keep what you have with him.”
“He'll find out,” I whispered through quivering lips. “Secrets have a way of telling themselves.”
“Well, that's up to you then,” Dylan replied. “But if you want to make things work with him, then we can call tonight the end of”—he moved his hand in a circular gesture—”whatever the hell we are. You just let me know, and you'll never hear from me again. We’ll be over, and I won't keep torturing you, but only if you stop torturing us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lennon
Peter's bedtime ritual always struck me as strange, albeit endearing.
