For a moment, time stood perfectly still—and I was somehow outside of myself, looking at of the four of us through a clear, newly crafted lens.
There, standing on those front steps like an inarticulate fool—that was me, holding my breath and counting each bleeding second that had threatened to pass. And as if I needed any more reason to feel nervous, in front of me Dez just stood . . . blinking, his lips parting slightly, eyes slowly licking over me in a way that made my already burning cheeks feel impossibly hotter.
His gaze traveled from my heels to the fitted navy blue dress—up to the curls that fell loosely from my updo—and back down again. I wasn't sure whether he was surprised by my attire or by my presence. Perhaps both.
Beside him was Gina, with that still welcoming smile on her face, warm brown eyes that I'd never realized had been so familiar . . . until I looked at Lewis and realized that I'd seen them countless times before. Lewis—who was looking between the two of us with so much confusion written in his own, equally brown eyes.
And that was when everything that Dez had previously mentioned about him finally clicked into place—like the last, mockingly obvious pieces of a puzzle:
When Dez and I had met up at the park in an effort to get Hannah and Lewis back together, I'd suggested my own town, Veranda Grove, as the meeting place. But Dez had said no —"Lewis's cousin lives over there. He knows the area too well."
And just two days ago, when Dez had mentioned Lewis's parents leaving for a mission trip for two entire months—"They either sent him to his aunt's house or have his aunt stay with him."
Every seemingly insignificant word came rushing back to me like water bursting through a dam. It was only then that I realized those words hadn't been insignificant at all—because if any of it was true, and if Lewis was staying with Gina and not the other way around, then it meant he was now going to be my next door neighbor. For the next two months.
Time resumed its ticking.
"Aunt G. How do you two know each other?"
"Us?" Gina looked from me to her nephew. Her nephew. "Well, Lyra is my next door neigh—"
"Neighbor's house sitter!" I nodded, only seeing the bewilderment take hold of her face for a second before I turned to Dez and Lewis, willing my expression into casual surprise.
House-sitter? My panicked brain couldn't come up with anything better than house-sitter?
I went on, "When my schedule is slow at the bookstore, I sometimes work for the house next door. I had no idea your aunt lived right here! Wow. It really is a small world, right Gina?"
I smiled at her, hoping she had pieced enough together to know that I needed her to play along. She only stared at me for half a second before she nodded—though not without giving me a look that said I had some heavy explaining to do later.
Lewis seemed to buy my lie enough and didn't question it further. But Dez . . .
He folded his solid arms across his chest, a disbelieving glint in his eye. "You house-sit looking like that?"
Lewis and Gina's gazes both flew to my dress and heels, the same question raising their brows.
I prayed to god that they mistook my blush for makeup. "Not usually, but the owner of the house is going out for some fancy dinner tonight and invited all of the staff to celebrate. Something about his firm closing a huge deal. It's a little much if you ask me, but . . . rich people, ya know?" I rolled my eyes before grinning innocently at Gina. "No offense, Gina."
She pressed her lips together, clearly making an effort not to ask what the hell I was going on about. But again, she nodded.
"House-sitter?" Lewis turned to her with a shake of his head. "Your neighbors are weird."
I let out a small sigh of relief.
Just then, the distinct noise of a car door opening and closing sounded—and behind me appeared a boy wearing a red shirt and a matching cap. He glanced between all of us before looking down at a small receipt in his right hand, carrying a brown bag in the other.
The unmistakable scent of Teriyaki sauce filled the air as he drew closer. "I have a delivery for a Mr. Desmond Warren."
Dez tore his still skeptical gaze away from me with what looked like a great deal of effort—but he eventually stepped to the side and gave the delivery boy a curt smile. "That would be me."
I took that as my window of opportunity.
"Gina, can I talk to your for a moment? I just had a question about the neighborhood. I would ask the owner next door, but he's not home yet."
Gina patted down a side of her strawberry blonde hair before she straightened, as if the mention of that "owner next door" made her feel self-conscious. She glanced over her shoulder, where the delivery boy had already left, and Dez and Lewis stood watching us once again. "Boys, why don't you go on inside and give us a minute?"
Lewis shrugged and turned away without another word, but the tight look on Dez's face told me that I wasn't off the hook just yet. I pressed a smile towards them. "See you guys later."
"Later," Dez repeated. Promised.
As soon as they closed the door behind them, Gina said, "Okay honey, are you going to tell me what this is all about?"
I stepped away from the door and gestured for her to follow as I lowered my voice and said, "It's kind of a long story, but . . . I don't go to school here in Veranda Grove. I go to Lincoln Valley High School—with them." I gestured towards the door, where I didn't doubt the boys had their ears pressed against it. I lowered my voice further—until I knew for a fact it was only Gina who could hear. "Nobody knows where I live, and it's really important that it stays that way. Absolutely no one can know."
Gina took this in for a moment before something in her expression changed. A hint of sympathy hit her voice. "So what you're telling me is that no one knows that you're wealthy—and you don't want people to find out?"
I tightened my lips and nodded. So easy. So simple.
Why hadn't I thought of it first?
Gina shook her head, her tone softening, "Honey, the boys wouldn't judge you for that. Lewis is used to being in this neighborhood from visiting me, and Desmond is one of the kindest young men I know. They would never judge you for your money."
"I know, I just . . . is it okay if we keep this a secret between us?" I glanced down at my feet, pretending to be so desperate and ashamed that I couldn't look her straight in the eye. "Just until I'm ready? I don't want word to get out at school yet. I've had some bad experiences from my old school with people only using me for my father's money, and it's . . . " I exhaled as I clenched my fists. I hated it—I hated this act. And it was only getting harder not to hate myself for any of it.
The next thing I felt was Gina's arms wrapping around my shoulders. Her sweet, floral perfume fanned into my nose. "Of course. Of course we can keep this a secret between us." She pulled back and those brown eyes were warmer than I'd ever seen them—which did nothing but make me feel worse about all of this. Sick. "Is that why you came over here? Because you knew Lewis was my nephew?"
"Actually, I came here to talk to you about my dad."
"Oh." She straightened, her eyes darting to the direction of my house for a second before she forced another smile. "I hope he's doing well."
A sliver of hope ran through me, and I threw the speech I'd prepared out the window as I got straight to the point. "I know he messed up, but he likes you, Gina. I know he does. Please don't let my mother being in town ruin that for the both of you."
Gina's eyes flashed with what looked like consideration for a moment before she placed a would-be comforting hand on my shoulder . . . had I not known that the sympathetic touch meant rejection.
"I'm sorry, but like I told your father, I just don't think this is the best time," she said. "Things with your mother . . . well, when he called and explained why he had to cancel the date, I realized that I had my own things I needed to sort through, too. It's no secret that my divorce was just finalized. I don't want us to rebound with each other, especially because we're next-door neighbors. It could make things awkward if things didn't work out. I honestly do think it's for the best, and I hope both you and your father can understand that."
Feeling the genuine truth in her words, any hope in my chest deflated. I didn't have it in me to say anything else, so I bowed out gracefully, only giving her a small nod in response.
"But if you need anything at all," she added gently, "this doesn't mean you shouldn't still come by, okay? Don't be a stranger. If it's just to talk or even if you're bored, I'm more than happy to have you over. Between you and me, now that my daughter is off at college and my ex-husband is gone, the house gets a little too quiet for my taste." She gave me a small smile, and I wished more than ever that there was something I could say or do to change her mind about my father.
But I didn't want to look like some idiot, so desperate for a new mother that I was begging my neighbor to go out with my dad. And I didn't want to risk making my father look desperate either by making her think I was pleading on his behalf.
So I raised my chin and said, "I understand, Gina. Thanks for hearing me out, anyway. And thank you . . . for keeping my secret. I know it isn't right for me to ask you to lie to family, but—"
"Oh, don't you go feeling bad, alright? I understand perfectly well. Just have a good dinner tonight with your parents. Don't worry about Lewis or Dez. As far as they're concerned, you're not my neighbor." She winked. "Just their house-sitter."
I nodded, giving her the best smile I could muster as we said our goodbyes and she walked back into her house. Despite the comfort I felt at knowing she would keep my secret, there were still too many threads coming loose. I wasn't sure what it was I was feeling anymore. Angry? Guilty? Sad? Even if there was a word for whatever all those combined caused me to feel, I didn't think it would be enough.
Because now, Gina no longer wanted to go out with my father.
My father, who was bound to come home tonight with his heart ground to dust.
Home, where I was now going to be living next door to Lewis—who had it out for me because he thought I was out to hurt Dez.
And Dez, with that accusing look on his face as he went inside . . .
I headed back down Gina's driveway, tucking all of those thoughts into a dark, tightening pocket of my heart. Soon, too soon I would be having dinner with my mother, and if I was going to survive that, then I knew I needed to save my strength. If not for me, then for my father.
But then a door behind me sounded open, and I knew that the fight for my strength was going to be an uphill battle. I didn't have to turn around to know whose footsteps were coming towards me. To know that there was no running away from him this time.
I stopped where I stood and turned around to meet him. "Dez."
"What the hell is going on?" He was frowning as he approached, and I hated that I was the reason for that frown. For so many of them since we'd met.
But even I wasn't convinced by my traitorously weak voice as I said, "I told you. I house-sit sometimes for the people next door—"
"No."
"And there's a fancy dinner tonight—"
"Stop."
"And we're celebrating the boss's new contract—"
"Stop that, Lyra. Just—stop." Dez gritted his teeth, closing his eyes as he finally stopped in front of me. I could see that he was tired, that I was hurting him.
Because he'd known. He always knew when I was lying.
And yet, the only thing that ran through my mind as I looked up at him, standing there trying to gain control over his anger . . . was that he hadn't called me Peacock.
When Dez opened his eyes, they were near-ashen. His voice was drained. "You know, the other day, I thought we got over the whole 'lying' thing, but we're never going to get past that, are we?"
That dark pocket in my heart grew a bit tighter, tearing a small rip at its fringes.
"Will you at least tell me why?" He stepped forward, taking my hand in his. "Maybe . . . maybe if I knew why you felt the need to lie about these things, I could try to understand." There was enough worry, enough desperation in his voice that I nearly gave him what he was asking for.
But despite the way my heart shredded as I looked at him, I managed to croak out, "No."
He dropped my hand cold.
"I see."
I shook my head. "No, Dez. You don't—"
"And to think, I was actually starting to think we were friends." His smile was bitter. "What a fool that must make me, huh?"
"We are friends."
"Friends don't lie. Not like this. Not over something as simple as this." A flicker of anger carried through. And then he brought his gaze to me, carefully assessing everything from head to toe. It wasn't like the way he'd been looking at me earlier. There was something different in his stare this time around, almost like he was seeing through a new lens too.
When his eyes met mine again, they narrowed. Venom trickled down his voice as he said quietly, "Who are you?"
I wasn't the type to let my fear show. Maybe I blushed more than I liked to admit, but I never, ever faltered with my words—until now.
"W-what do you mean?"
"I mean," Dez said, stepping forward and closing the space between us in one slick stride, "I've had enough of your secrets, Lyra. So who are you? How the hell did you find out about my secret? Why are you so afraid of being seen out in public? Why did you lie about Ethan being your cousin? And why are you lying about house-sitting for the people next door? Who. Are. You."
I didn't know how to answer him.
"Lewis thinks there's something off about you." He cocked his head slightly. "And I'm beginning to think he's right."
"Dez—"
"Just answer the god-damned question."
"I can't."
Dez looked like he'd been expecting it. He nodded, his smile growing more and more mocking. Cold.
"You can't. Of course you can't. I bet you can't tell me why, either. You know, I've tried so fucking hard to be the person you—" He gritted his teeth, slowing his breaths before he started again.
This time his voice was softer, pained. "I told myself not to rush you, that it's okay that you're taking your time to open up to me. Because I understand what that's like to be in that place . . . and I didn't want you to be in that place alone. I told myself that eventually, I might earn your trust—but if this is how it's always going to be between us, then have it your way."
I didn't care how pathetically small my voice sounded, how my words came out breathlessly. Near silently. "It's not that simple."
He shook his head walking away from me as he said, "I'm done with this."
I reached for his arm. "Dez, please—"
He stiffened under my grip before turning around and glaring at the spot where my hand met his arm. Slowly, he dragged that icy gaze to me and said, "I'm done."
He yanked his arm out from under my grip, storming back into Gina's house without looking back.
***
Dinner with my parents went about as well as expected.
I didn't look at my father's face as that witch had uttered her news, but I felt the tangible shift in the air—heard the slight hitch in his breath and felt him freeze in his seat beside me. I could have sworn I even heard the violent crack his heart made as my mother once again cleaved it in two.
I wished I'd had the strength to do something then. To take the wine that bitch continued to sip on like juice and dump it over her face. To tell her how much I truly hated her and wished her far, far away from us. To tell her to go—be with David and leave us the hell alone.
But I was tired, more tired than I had been in a long while. And there was close to nothing left in me at that moment.
So I did nothing at all.
My father was silent for the entire car-ride home. Before he excused himself to bed, the only thing he said to me before he turned away was, "I'm sorry I wasn't there."
And as his voice cracked and I glanced the exhaustion tearing away at his face, I was left too stunned to say anything back.
I couldn't sleep. As I laid in bed and each minute dripped by, I only grew more and more restless. Those dark thoughts threatened to consume me once again, the same thoughts I'd told Dez about just a few days ago.
But now when I thought of him, it didn't make me feel any better.
It hurt.
And all I could think about was the way that I'd hurt him, the way I'd lost him. The person who had defended me over his own team. Who had done nothing but give me patience I didn't deserve. Who had distracted me—who'd made me laugh despite everything going on at home with my mother.
Desmond Warren.
When the fuck did he get under my skin?
And why didn't I want to let him back out?
I decided to answer these questions by heading down to my father's study and shuffling through his collection of amber liquids.
I didn't know how it was possible for so many things to go wrong in one day—and I didn't know where or how I would begin to fix it.
So for the night, I decided to mix it. With whiskey.
A lot of it.
I snatched a half-empty crystal decanter from one of my father's shelves and took it into the living room. It had been a year since I'd last had any alcohol. The last time I had a drink in my hand, it had been spiked.
But even if he came for me now, I wasn't sure I cared anymore.
At least, that was what I told myself as I knocked back that first glass. And then the second. And it wasn't long until I realized that my tolerance was a lot lower than it used to be. I was halfway through my third when the burning I felt with each sip reduced to a pleasant tingling. My cellphone was somehow in my hands—and I was staring at a perfect, little blue heart.
By the time I'd finished the rest of what was in my glass, there was an annoying ringing in my ear. But then . . . the most beautiful voice broke through.
"Peacock?"
I melted into the couch, smiling against my phone. "Mmm. You're calling me Peacock again."
There was a slight pause—and then that voice frosted over. "What do you want, Lyra?"
"No!" I hiccuped. "Stop calling me that!"
"What the hell? Are you drunk?"
Before I could answer, another hiccup stole my throat.
"Oops." I giggled. "S'cuze me."
Dez hissed a curse, and for some reason I imagined he was running his hand through his hair. His luxurious, dark, chestnut hair. He always did that when he was exasperated or nervous.
He was so cute when he was nervous.
The sound of something jingling—keys, possibly—crossed through the line. "Where are you?" Dez said.
Another hiccup. "I'm at home."
I giggled again.
What were the purpose of hiccups?
The jingling stopped. "You're drinking alone? At home?"
I didn't know why he sounded so concerned. It wasn't like I was out getting wasted at some party with a bunch of strangers. I was drinking at home—by myself.
I laughed as it finally struck me. "Wow. That must make me sound pathetic. Do you think I'm pathetic, Dezzyyy?"
There was no humor in his voice. "I don't think you're pathetic. I think you're confusing as fuck, Lyra. I thought you didn't drink."
"Let's just say it's a special occasion." I made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. I didn't know—I didn't care.
For a long moment, the line stayed silent. I glanced at my phone thinking Dez had hung up, but the call was still ongoing.
Hold on. Had I just drunk called Dez?
I put my phone back to my ear. "Hello?"
"Did something happen during that dinner?"
I sat up on the couch, losing the ability to speak. The room spun a bit, but I managed to stay on my feet as I walked—or stumbled—towards the window to get air. Even the world outside was swimming.
But the stars sure as hell looked pretty that way.
"Lyra—"
"Will you stop calling me that?" I frowned. "I don't like it."
"Are you going to tell me what's going on with you? You do know we have school tomorrow, don't you? Why in the world are you drinking at two in the morning by yourself on a Sunday night?"
I snapped out of my buzz. "It's two in the morning? Shit, Dez. I'm sorry if I woke you—"
"I wasn't sleeping." He sighed before he added, "I couldn't."
"Oh . . . why not?"
I counted several heartbeats before he spoke again.
His tone was clipped. "Is there a reason why you called?"
I took a deep breath as I cracked open the window, savoring the cool breeze that rolled in from the ocean. I glanced up at the moon. It was so big and bright and beautiful tonight, casting a milky glow over the sea. The image was peaceful. Night was peaceful . . . and I used to love the silence that it offered—I used to love the moon.
But now I thought I might like the sun better.
I might have a new favorite color.
"I called because I was having a really bad day," I said quietly.
"I don't see how that correlates."
Don't say it.
Hang up the stupid phone and go to bed now.
I added, "And I missed you."
Something like genuine surprise sounded from him. "You . . . missed me?"
"I know I just saw you a few hours ago, but even when everything went to absolute shit at dinner tonight, all I could think about was how I wanted to see you. So yes, Desmond. I missed you." I exhaled, slowly feeling the nausea bubbling in my stomach as my liquor caught up to me. I laid my forehead against the cool window frame, letting myself revel in the reprieve it offered from the heat of the alcohol.
It was a while before he said anything, but eventually Dez said, his voice a bit strained, "I missed you, too."
I shut my eyes. Relief. Yes, that was relief I felt—even as the world continued to spin. "Are you still mad at me?"
Another pause. "Yes."
See, you should have hung up.
I chewed on my bottom lip. "Do you still want to know the truth?"
"Yes, but I don't want it right now. Not in this state. I want it when it's something you decide on telling me and not just something you're throwing out because you're drunk and upset."
"I'm not that drunk."
"Is that so? And what, exactly, did you have to drink tonight?"
I glanced over my shoulder, at the near-empty decanter I'd left on the coffee table. Shit. Wasn't that just half-full?
"Whiskey," I answered.
"How much whiskey are we talking about here?"
"Just three glasses—"
"Three glasses?" Dez's voice hit a startling crescendo before it flew down to a harsh whisper. "Christ, Peacock! What the fuck! Three shots would have been enough to do you over, but three glasses?"
In spite of his yelling, I couldn't help the warmth pooling in my chest. "You called me Peacock again."
He muttered another curse. "Where are you now? Can you stand?"
"I'm standing now." I looked back up at the sky. "Have you seen the moon tonight? It's so pretty, but it's not as pretty as—"
"Go to your kitchen and grab a glass of water."
I peeled myself away from the window. "Why?"
"Because you are going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow if you go to bed like that. So just do it. And tell me when you're done."
I didn't know if it was the concern or the command in his voice that made me do it—but I listened.
I struggled a bit more than I should have to reach my kitchen, but I managed to not break any glasses as I swayed towards the sink and filled a cup to the brim with water.
"Got the water," I said proudly.
"Good. Now drink it."
"All of it?"
"Yes, all of it." Just from his tone, I imagined Dez had rolled his eyes. A smile tugged on my lips.
"You don't have to chug it all at once," he went on, "but make sure you have the full glass before you go to bed. Or maybe a couple more after that one. Do you have any crackers?"
I shuffled through the cabinets until I found a box of saltines. "Got 'em!"
"Munch on those for a while, okay? And if you have any aspirin around, I suggest you have it ready for tomorrow. You'll thank yourself in the morning."
I chewed on the first few saltines, and despite the alcohol I drank, my stomach grumbled painfully. I hadn't realized how hungry I was—but then I remembered I'd hardly eaten anything during dinner. Maybe that was why the whiskey had hit me so quickly.
So I ate more crackers, and I drank more water. And slowly, I began to feel less sick.
"Mmm. Best fake boyfriend ever." I chuckled before another thought hit me, and my smile waned.
"You are still my fake boyfriend right? Because if that was us breaking up earlier . . . I mean I know you said you were done, but—"
"No, that was not us breaking up." Dez sighed. "Couples fight, Peacock. Even—even the fake ones. I just didn't want to hear anymore lies earlier. I was saying I was done with the conversation. Not you."
I let out a silent breath of relief.
"Sometimes I wish I could be, though," he added quietly. "Done with you."
If I was a good person, I would have told him that it would have been for the best. But then he said softly, almost too soft for me to hear, "But I don't know how to."
And butterflies—beautiful, drunk, careless butterflies—slammed wildly into my gut.
I put down the box of saltines. "Dez . . . "
"What happened to you at dinner, Peacock?"
I stiffened. "What?"
"You heard me. What happened during that dinner?"
What happened?
Well . . .
For starters, my mother showed up with that plastic smile on her plastic face.
Then she ordered her $500 bottle of wine and overpriced oysters, telling us all about her fabulous life in Manhattan while we waited for the food and drinks to come. She asked about how things were going at my father's architecture firm—probably more concerned about how much he was banking in than how he was actually doing.
Then the waiter brought out the wine.
And when my mother lifted her left hand up to reach for her glass, that gleaming diamond on her finger struck both me and my father in the face.
The diamond she hadn't worn while she was at our house.
And I'd sat, numb and in silence, as she finally crushed my father's heart.
But I didn't tell Dez any of that as all I said was, "If I tell you a secret, will you remember it in the morning?"
He sighed, clearly frustrated I hadn't answered his question. But he said, "You're the one at risk of not remembering this conversation."
"Oh." I chuckled. "Yeah."
He didn't seem to find it funny.
I dragged myself back to the couch, taking my water, crackers, and a bottle of aspirin I'd dug through the cabinets with me. And taking a deep breath, I said, "I never want to be like my mother."
Something in his tone changed then, though I couldn't quite place it. "Why?"
"Because she doesn't think about anyone but herself. She's selfish and materialistic and vain." I laid my head against the arm rest, tucking my knees up to my chin. "And she was the first person to ever break my heart."
There was a pause. I hated those pauses. I didn't know what they meant, not when I couldn't see his face.
I wished I could see his face.
But eventually Dez said, "Mine was, too."
My chest tightened, thinking of what he'd revealed to me at the cages—that his mother was dead. And that he was only four when he'd lost her.
"What happened to her?"
"She was . . . sad," he said. "Hurting. But she never told anyone why. No one knew the extent of it until the day she turned up dead."
He exhaled, slow and heavy, before he said, "She killed herself."
The world stopped spinning.
It just—stopped.
"My brother was the one who found her," Dez went on. "He was only six at the time, but it haunted him up through high school. It still does. I think it was a part of the reason, maybe the only reason, why he started doing drugs. To escape those memories. It was his way of coping. Of forgetting. And I knew—for the longest time I knew he had a problem. But I never spoke up. I didn't know what to do. I thought, how could I tell my older brother how to properly cope with what he saw? When he was the one who . . . I had no idea what that must have felt like. I didn't want to pretend I understood because I didn't.
"That was why I took the fall for him two years ago. Because I thought, maybe if I'd spoken up before, I could have caught him before he plunged into that dark place. He got addicted—dependent on the drugs just to get through his days, but as soon as the cops found his stash, I knew where it would land him. And I knew that if he didn't get the help he needed, he would have ended up just like our mom. Dead at his own hands." He paused before he said, "I couldn't lose another person that way."
I only half-registered the tears that were spilling over.
"That was why your act in the cafeteria last semester resonated with me, Peacock. Because you did the one thing I never could. You saw someone who needed saving, and you did something about it—before it was too late."
I couldn't help the small sob that escaped me then. Because Dez . . .
Was that why it looked like his guilt was eating him alive? Why he always carried so much weight on his shoulders?
Because he thought he had been too weak?
"I didn't tell you that to make you feel sorry for me," he said, his voice gentle—as if to comfort me. As if he wasn't the one who needed the comforting.
"I told you that because I want you to know that there's no part of me I'm afraid to show you," he continued, "Not anymore. And I hope one day you'll feel the same way about me."
I clenched my teeth, feeling every false story, every secret, and every lie rise in my throat like bile. I didn't know how to tell him that I already felt that way about him. That I had for a very long time now. But I swallowed back my tears and forced myself into composure.
And I told him a different secret.
"I know you don't like mushrooms."
There was a stretch of silence before Dez said finally, "What?"
"You don't like mushrooms," I said again.
"Yes, but how did you know that? I've never told you—"
"You were picking them off your pizza the other day. So I know you don't like them." I closed my eyes, picturing his beautiful face in my mind as I recalled every moment I'd spent with him.
"I know that the painting of the boat in your hallway is your favorite because your eyes flash to it every time you pass it," I went on. "And I know that you like the sound a piano makes because when we were listening to music in your car, no matter what song, your breathing always got just a little bit deeper when those keys started playing . . . I know that you like grape soda, but you don't like actual grapes . . . That when you really, really find something funny, you don't laugh because you're too busy replaying it in your head . . . That you hate the sounds the chairs make at school when they slide across the floor. And I could probably go on all night, but—I think you get the point."
The line fell silent, and I counted my breaths as I waited for Dez's response.
Secrets. All of it—secrets I had kept hidden in a special, little corner of my heart.
But when an entire minute passed and he still didn't say anything, my nerves got the better of me.
"Are you there?"
"I'm here." Dez's voice was hoarse, but he didn't say anything else.
I sat up from the couch, restless again. The crackers and water had helped; I was still drunk, no doubt, but I was no longer a stumbling fool, so I knew exactly what I was saying as I said, "Do you remember what I told you about me that day you found out I knew about you and your brother? What I told you that no one else knew?"
"When you randomly blurted out that you used to go to school outside of Boston?" He sounded thrown by the sudden change of subject. "Yeah, of course I remember. I have to say though, if you were trying to distract me from being pissed at you at the time, that was—"
"I wasn't trying to distract you, Dez. I was trying to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"Everything."
Again, that damning silence.
But there was something I realized when he walked away from me today. That this entire time, my lies hadn't been protecting him at all—they'd been hurting him. And maybe it really did make me selfish, perhaps even more selfish than my mother, but I didn't want to be the reason he was hurting anymore.
I would . . . figure out a way to keep him safe, even if he was no longer kept in the dark. And who knew? There was a chance that him knowing everything would make things easier. Maybe I'd been going about it all wrong—maybe letting him into those darker parts of my life wouldn't bring him closer to me. Maybe it would give him reason to understand why he needed to stay at a distance.
And he had to. He had to understand.
"Dez," I braced myself as I began slowly, "the reason why I've been lying to you . . . "
"Don't," he breathed.
I paused, blinking. "What?"
"Don't tell me the truth now," he said, though it sounded like it pained him to do so. "I told you, I want you to be sober when you decide it's what you want. I don't want to take advantage of you like this, Peacock. I don't want you to regret it in the morning."
"You sound like you're talking about sex," I said lightly, if only to hide the knock of disappointment I felt as he said it.
"But it's more intimate than that, isn't it?"
My silence seemed to be answer enough for him.
"If you decide tomorrow or anytime in the future that it's still what you want, I will be there to listen. I will always be there to listen and hear you out—that is my promise to you. But for tonight, let's just try to forget about it, okay?"
I shook my head even though he couldn't see me, still tasting the words now riding impatiently on my tongue. But a better, more clear-headed part of me knew he was right. As much as I wanted to finally put everything behind us, I was still three glasses deep in whiskey.
"You should try to get some sleep," he said, "You're going to have a nasty hangover tomorrow. I'll call you in the morning, okay?"
I exhaled.
In the morning.
When I would tell him everything.
He added lightly, "Or did you think I was going to let you sleep through class and ditch me?"
I gave a slight laugh. "Never."
"Alright then . . . good night, Peacock."
There was a sort of calm in his voice, one that hadn't been there when he'd first answered the phone, as he said it.
So before he hung up, I said, "Dez?"
"Yes?"
And it might've been the effects of the alcohol taking its final pull on me, or maybe it was the fact that I knew tomorrow would change everything between us.
But I said, "I've dreamt of you, too."