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I placed a bowl of scrambled eggs on the crisp kitchen island, gleaming brightly beneath the overhead pendant lights, as Margaret replied, “No, and it’s such a shame too. Honestly, I think she’s still hung up on Peter.”
That drew my attention, and Margaret smiled at me.
“Lisa was Peter’s girlfriend,” she explained. “They were together for, God, it must’ve been six, seven years.”
“I loved them together so much,” Tiffany commented, pouting as she passed with a plate of toast.
“Me too,” Margaret sympathized. “But they grew apart, and it is what it is. But she really was so good for him.”
It was like they’d forgotten who I was or why I was there as they reminisced on times when Peter and Lisa had been together. Trips the family had taken with her in tow, holidays they’d spent together, parties they’d attended. By the time Peter rescued me, after helping his dad and brother with something in the garage, I knew everything I’d ever wanted to know about his perfect ex, who was apparently well on her way to sainthood with all her volunteer work and time spent in the medical field.
Then, we said good-bye to his family, and they stiffly hoped to see me soon, but I knew it was bullshit.
I wasn’t good enough for their son and brother. I wasn’ther.
On the way back to Peter’s townhouse, he asked how my chat with his mom and Tiffany went.
I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, I think you know how it went.”
His brow crumpled as he asked, “What do you mean?”
“All your mom could talk about was your ex,” I informed him, as if he didn’t already know. Then, to add an extra dash of bitterness, I asked, “By the way, was that her dress in your closet?”
Peter laid a hand over his forehead. “Was that her dress …” The hand dropped back into his lap as he took a quick glance in my direction. “Lennon, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think they’d—”
“They don’t think I’m good enough for you,” I stated plainly.
“But you are,” he insisted.
It struck me square in the gut then—that all I’d ever wanted, everything I had ever dreamed of, was to be in a normal relationship with a normal man. But not once had I ever wondered if I was fit for that life, if it was where I belonged. Not until now.
“Peter, I haven’t even been to college. I don’t have a job. I—”
“I know all of that,” he replied gently. “But I’m still with you, aren’t I? If that bothered me, do you think I’d go through with this?”
“Yeah, but I can’t contribute anything right now.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a housewife, Lennon.”
The statement stung when it shouldn’t have. I sat there, stunned, as Stone Temple Pilots sang “Big Empty.” Not because being a housewife was such a terrible thing, but because I had never wanted to be one. I wanted to contribute financially to a household. I wanted my own income. I didn’t want to rely on a husband to give me an allowance whenever I wanted to buy something, like a leading lady from a ‘50s sitcom. It was why I had applied to jobs, why I had tried and tried to find employment, but it wasn’tmyfault they hadn’t wanted me. It wasn’t my fault none of the places I’d heard back from didn’t want to make reasonable accommodations for me. It was out of my control, yet I still wasn’t comfortable with not having my own income.
“I don’t want to be a housewife,” I replied.
“Okay, but then what would you do instead?” he asked, seeming to forget about my book and the ambitions I had.
“Well, hopefully, my book goes somewhere.”
Peter chuckled and laid a hand over my thigh. “I know you have high hopes for it, and it’s a nice thought. But there are thousands and thousands of books published every single day. The chances of yours taking off is—”
“You don’t think I can be successful?” I interrupted, hurt and ready to get the hell out of this car.
Peter sighed, scrubbing a hand over his scruffy cheek. “I didn’t say that. I—”
“Yeah, but you kind of did.”
He groaned through his frustration. “Lennon, I hope you find all the success in the world with your book. Seriously, I do. But I’m being realistic, okay? All I’m saying is, it might not go anywhere, and that’s okay too. I won’t care for you any less,” he said, squeezing my thigh before pulling his hand away to steer the car toward his condo.
It was a lovely sentiment. It truly was. I also appreciated the commitment he was implying—that he had plans to stick it out with me. But then there was something else, and it rubbed me the wrong way and left me unsettled.
