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Then, assuming it was good enough, I climbed out of the car and went into my house to eat a dinner I no longer wanted.
And then I wrote a song.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lennon
When I had been thirteen, a boy I had believed to be the love of my life resorted to online bullying to thwart any further flirting. He called me a blind bitch and blocked my AOL screen name, and after I spent too many nights crying, I had decided he was no longer worth my tears.
Nobody deserved to be talked to that way, not even twenty-nine-year-old me, and it was that same belief that kept me from replying to Dylan.
I could find excuses for his weeks-long silence or his disgruntled attitude. But to speak to me in the way that he had, there was no logical excuse for it, and no apology could settle the nauseous feeling in my gut.
Peter didn’t ask many questions after I walked through the door of his condo. He was curious about the guy who had dropped me off, and surely, he had recognized him from Cassie and Stephen’s wedding—the piercings and tattoos would’ve given him away. But all he asked was if I was okay and if he needed to kick some ass, which I appreciated. But I told him no, that it was fine and that I’d only gotten into a stupid fight with my friend. Then, the subject was brushed under the rug, as it usually was when I spoke of Dylan to anybody.
But even after Peter and I enjoyed a quick dinner of Chinese takeout, a movie we both loved, and sex on his couch, the sting of Dylan’s despicable questions and accusations sat uncomfortably in a twist of nerves and an inability to find peace in Peter’s arms.
I tossed and turned between attempts to find distraction by reading on my phone until, finally, I dozed off as the sun was peeking through the blinds covering the windows … only to be woken up shortly after by Peter’s lips against my shoulder, neck, and ear.
“Let me sleep,” I grumbled, brushing him away.
He chuckled against my shoulder before resuming his assault against my neck and ear.
I groaned through exhausted frustration, ready to smack him if he didn’t stop, when he said, “My mom just texted me. She wants us to come over for brunch.”
“What?” I asked, slightly more alert than before. “Like, today?”
“Yep,” he replied, kissing my bare shoulder. “They want to meet you.”
I was fully awake now as my eyes widened toward the closet door. “Whowants to meet me?”
“My parents,” Peter said, planting another kiss and then another. “My brother, his wife …”
Reaching for the nightstand, I grabbed my phone and saw it was eight in the morning … on a Saturday. It was the weekend, the time to sleep in and stay tucked in bed until eleven—at least. And my boyfriend’s family wanted to meet me for brunch when the only clothes I had were the ones I had worn yesterday? No, thank you.
“Um … I don’t know—”
“Come on,” he coaxed, wrapping an arm around my waist. He pressed his naked body to my back and lifted his leg over my hip. “I really want you to meet them, Lenny. We don’t have to stay long, and we can always come back here after to take a nap, if you want …”
Sighing, I stifled the need to sigh resentfully. Peter was sweet, and I loved how much he wanted me to meet his family. I just would’ve preferred a little further notice so that I could’ve at least had the foresight to stuff a change of clothes into my bag.
But I looked over my shoulder, smiled into his puppy-dog eyes, and said, “Okay.”
Peter squeezed me tight and pressed a big kiss to my lips, then jumped out of bed to get dressed.
He opened the closet door while I sat up in bed, releasing another sigh before reaching down to the floor for the T-shirt and bra I had discarded the night before. I sniffed the shirt, hoping it didn’t reek of sex, and was pleased to find it didn’t. A little spritz of the perfume I kept in my purse, and it would be passable.
“I guess I’ll check the living room for my underwear,” I muttered, smoothing the shirt out over my stomach.
“Okay,” Peter replied absentmindedly as he rifled through his closet. “Oh, hey, I have this if you don’t wanna wear your clothes from yesterday.”
Already out of bed and standing in nothing but my bra and T-shirt, I turned to watch as he pulled a dress from his closet. It was casual and could’ve almost passed for one of his shirts had I not taken a good look at it. But it was decidedly feminine with the sleeves capped in lace, the bust ruched, and the waist flared out slightly.
I furrowed my brow at the sight of it, then asked, “Why do you have a dress in your closet?”
“Oh,” he said, shrugging. “I dunno. It’s probably my sister’s or—” He cut himself off with a sigh and a shake of his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t even try to lie. It, uh, it was my ex-girlfriend’s.”
My brain swam with a thousand retorts, but all I could ask was, “Why do you have your ex-girlfriend’s dress in your closet?”
