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“Wow,” I said, my cheeks burning and my blood boiling. “Nice.”
Peter’s hands clenched around the steering wheel, squeezing tightly until an abrupt release. Then, with a smack of his palms against the plastic, he shouted, “Dammit! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. But that guy …” His teeth gritted as he dragged his palm over the crown of his head. “You have a history with him. I don’t care if you deny it. I know what I fucking saw, and if you—”
“We used to sleep together,” I blurted out, unable to keep it in any longer. What had it helped? Why did it even matter anymore? If Peter and I were going to break up, then at least he'd have the truth. “It was only a few times, and it was never anything more than that. But it happened. Okay? Is that what you wanted to know?”
Peter’s jaw loosened as his elbow plonked against the window ledge. Defeat sagged his shoulders as he scrubbed a hand over his lips and chin. “Huh,” he grunted before working his jaw from side to side.
“It was before you,” I added weakly.
He barely bobbed his head in a nod.
“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just … I didn’t think it mattered, but obviously, it does, and I’msorry.”
It felt necessary to apologize. Like, if I hadn’t, his anger would have only grown, and I’d lose him. But it didn’t feel genuine in my heart. I wasn’t sorry for hiding it. I had protected him and us by not sharing what Dylan had once been to me. I’d thought it was the right thing to do.
What I was truly sorry for, however, was how much it upset Peter. That was never ever the intention.
“Is it over?” he finally asked as we pulled into his driveway.
“What?” I asked, taken aback. It seemed asinine to even imply that things between Dylan and me weren’t finished even though I'd already been with someone else for months.
“Is it over?” he repeated, every syllable firm and determined.
“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Jesus, Peter. I wouldn’t be with you if I was stillat allinvolved with him or anybody else.”
“Well,hedoesn’t seem to think it’s over,” he replied, twisting his lips like he’d just gotten a taste of something vile. “And I’m not so sure you do either.”
He threw the car door open and got out, then slammed it shut behind him. The solar-powered lanterns along his short walkway lit the way as he hurried to the front door while I remained in the car. Wringing out my hands and frantically wondering what I could do or say to convince him.
He needs thewholetruth, my mind stated firmly.
It was the obvious answer, and could it help? Maybe. But it might make things worse, and I didn’t want to fight with him. I hated fighting. I hatedthis. I hated that my relationship with Peter seemed to be hanging by a thread when just this morning, I had woken up, wrapped tightly in his arms, wondering what it would be like to have that every day for the rest of my life. Dylan had nothing to do with any of it because Dylan would never give me that life.
So, tell Peter that.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I made up my mind and climbed out of the car. I headed inside and found Peter sitting on the couch, his head in his hands.
Without a moment of hesitation, I said, “I never would've stopped things with Dylan if I’d thought I could be in a relationship with him.”
Slowly, Peter looked up, dropping his hands between his thighs. He snorted a short, incredulous laugh before asking, “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as I dropped my bag to the floor beside the door. “But I wanted to tell you the truth. Ididlike him. I liked him a lot …” I chewed at my bottom lip, already questioning if I should continue and if I was lying by saying it in the past tense.
“But?”
With a deep breath, I took a step toward him, resigned to the fact that I'd already begun. “But it never would’ve worked. He’s unreliable. He’s too”—I smacked my forehead—”locked in his own freakin’ head. He’s incapable of … I don't know … loving himself, and for those reasons, I couldn’t be with him. I wanted a normal relationship with a good man who wanted me for who I was. So, when you came into my life, I ended things with him to be with you.”
It was out there—the whole truth. Whatever he did with it now was his choice to make. Hell, I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to break up.
Maybe I even deserved it—I didn't know.
I was finding I didn't know a whole lot about what it meant to be in a normal relationship with a good man.
With my fingers running the coiled length of the bracelet, I left the living room to give him the space to think and walked down the hall. Retreating to his bedroom felt like overstepping in the event he decided we were over, so instead, I entered the bathroom and closed the door behind me.
I glanced in the vanity mirror, leaning over the sink to see my reflection. Worry lines ran the length of my forehead and left their mark between my brows. I might be only a year older now, the big and scary 3-0, but after the events of the night, I had tacked on another ten, and it showed.
But there were no tears, I noted. Not once since the argument had begun did I fight the urge to cry. I was only worried that he'd break up with me, that I'd lose what I had wanted for so long. Did it mean anything—that my emotions were calm and collected, even as despair etched itself into my skin?
