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“I'm going to bed,” he told me, flat and emotionless. “I have work in the morning.”
“Are you … are you mad at me?” I asked, not liking the sound of my voice. Small and weak.
“I don't want to talk about this anymore, Lennon,” he said, not looking at me as he undid his zipper and dropped his khakis to the floor.
Maybe I had been wrong in thinking the anger had left his eyes.
“I don't want to go to sleep, knowing you're mad at me,” I replied helplessly as I stepped into the room, wrapping my arms tighter around my chest.
“I'm not mad,” he insisted, still unable to face me. “I'm disgusted, and I'm disappointed. But I'm not mad.”
Then, Peter climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up over his head, like a little boy hiding with a flashlight and a book.
“Disgusted?” I spat into the dark room. “I get being disappointed, and I could understand being bothered and even angry, butdisgusted? Because I have a past?”
No response.
His ability to shut down like this was infuriating and childish, and Dylan had been right about one thing: it was a dick move. And in some ways, entirely unnecessary. We could’ve talked about this like adults, we could’ve worked it out, but instead, he had chosen to shut down.
Now, it was my turn to be mad.
I turned around and left the room, closing the door behind me. Walking down the hall and into the living room, I ran through my list of options. I could call my parents and have them pick me up, but that would require an explanation I wasn’t willing to give. Tarryn would be awake, and I knew she would be more than happy to give me a ride. But she was also a fighter and a sucker for drama, and I didn’t want her to make things worse.
You could call Dylan.
As soon as the thought entered my mind, I shook it away. I knew without a doubt he would be outside in a heartbeat, no questions asked. But talk about making things worse. Peter would never forgive me then, and that was what I wanted. To make this better, not further dig our relationship’s grave.
So, with a sigh, I pulled off the witchy chic top I had bought specifically for my birthday, then removed my boots and jeans. In my tank top and underwear, I grabbed a blanket off Peter’s recliner and curled up on the couch.
Closing my eyes, I tried to turn off the noise in my busy mind. The whispers of doubt. The worry, fear, and concern for my relationship. I was hardly tired, but sleep was the only thing I could think of to turn it off.
Until a vibration came from somewhere on the floor, and I remembered my phone was in my pocket.
Reaching for it, I saw Dylan had texted me.
Dylan: Hey, you disappeared. Just making sure you’re okay.
Me: Yeah, just sleeping on the couch.
Dylan: Seriously? He’s making you sleep on the freakin’ couch?
Me: No. I just don’t want to sleep in the same bed as him right now.
Dylan: Gotcha.
Dylan: Want me to pick you up?
Me: Tempting, but no. It’s okay.
Me: Anyway, back to what you said before … don’t be sorry you gave me the bracelet.
Me: I’m not.
Dylan: Okay, good.
Me: And when I look back on this birthday, I know I’ll remember fighting with him and sleeping on his shitty couch. But I’ll also remember receiving the nicest, coolest present from my favorite rock star, who ended up being a really, really good, sweet friend.
Me: That’s the part I’ll try to remember most.
