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“I guess you don't know anything about my friend Dylan, huh?” I asked before clearing my throat and readjusting my legs beneath the blanket.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Um …”God, where do I begin? How much is even necessary?“Oh! Remember when you were talking shit about the band who turned out to be my favorite ever?”
Peter laughed at that. “Yeah, I remember. The posers.”
“Well, one of those posers—the lead singer—is a good friend of mine,” I told him, surprised to find my chest puffing out with the tiniest bit of giddy pride. Oh, how far I had come. “They were my favorite band before he was my friend. We actually met a while back at an award show, hit it off, and … I guess the rest is history.”
It was clearly the abridged version of the story, but Peter didn't need to know the dirty details of when Lennon had met Dylan … right? Those were mine to keep locked away, to bring out only in the quiet nights when I couldn't sleep and missed the type of passion I was convinced only came out when I was with him. Giving them to Peter would likely serve as a death sentence to the nice thing we had, and what would be the point of that when what I’d once had with Dylan was obviously over …right?
“Wow, that's actually pretty awesome,” Peter said, awe heavy in his tone. “Why didn't you say anything though?”
“What?”
“When I was ripping them apart, you could've said,Uh, that's my friend, you dick,” he replied, laughing in disbelief.
Biting my lip, I realized what I'd done even if subconsciously. I'd hidden Dylan from him during a moment that was innocent enough. Was it suspicious now? How easily could he peer between the lines and see the truth in our history?
“Yeah, but then you would've thought I was just defending my friend,” I fired back, adding a little laughter that sounded nervous to my ears. “You took it more seriously when you thought they were just my favorite.”
“Ah, that's probably true,” he conceded easily. “Okay, well, I'll let you go. I gotta get to bed. But shoot him a text, find out if he can come, and then get back to me, okay?”
“Okay,” I barely squeaked. “'Night.”
“Good night, Lenny.”
He hung up then, and the phone dropped to my lap.
Could it be that easy? Was there really a chance that he didn't need to know? It never worked out that way in the movies I’d seen or books I'd read. They always found out, the intentions for secrecy always got fucked up, and when I really thought about it, my character in the story would never be a favorite. She’d be hated and shunned, but …
God, could it really bethateasy?
The knots that had been in my stomach loosened a little as I picked the phone up and opened my chat with Dylan. He had become more communicative in the recent weeks, a lot more attentive. At this point, I'd grown to expect a reply shortly after I messaged, and he didn't disappoint.
Me: Hey, so I have a question.
Dylan: Yeah? Lay it on me.
Me: What are you doing on the 29th?
Dylan: Hmm … let me check the calendar …
Dylan: Well, I have an appointment that day, but other than that, I'm all clear. Why do you ask?
Me: Well, it's my birthday, and I wanna get together with my favorite people and have dinner.
Dylan: LOL, all you had to say was, “Dylan, do you wanna come to my birthday party?”
Dylan: And the answer is, obviously, yes.
Me: Okay, cool. :)
Dylan: What should I get you?
Me: OMG, stop. Just having you there is enough.
Me: Honestly, if someone had told me a year ago that I'd be spending my next birthday with you, I'd have thought they were batshit crazy, LOL.
