After that conversation, I’d avoided that girl out of guilt. Lucky for me, we moved again six months later.
But apparently the demon has finally tracked me down again, because without thinking, without planning, a lie emerges from my mouth, fully formed: “I didn’t need a plus-one. He got his own invitation.”
The weighty silence tells me Peter is doing invisible calculus now. Only he’s got the brain for it. “You can’t mean . . .” His voice slides past disbelief straight into incredulity. “You’re with Miles?”
No, no, no, the voice in my head screams.
“Yep!” my mouth chirps.
I am instantly back to silent Munch-screaming out the window.
The next silence extends too long. I’m incapable of breaking it, because the only thing I can think to say is, I don’t know why I said that—it’s an outright lie, but I also cannot. Cannot tell him that.
Peter clears his throat. “Well, the wedding’s not for a few months.”
“I know,” I say. “Labor Day.”
“A lot could change before then,” he says.
My jaw drops. Is he really insinuating that my fake relationship won’t survive three months to his wedding . . . when his relationship started just over a month ago?
“We’ll be there,” I say.
NO, my brain screams.
“Okay,” Peter says.
I need to get off the phone before I involuntarily spring a fictional pregnancy on him. “I’ve got to go, Peter. Take care.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You t—”
I hang up.
I pace in front of the window for about five seconds, then go straight to Miles’s door, a sinner on her way to confession.
I knock. No answer.
I pound. “Miles? Are you up?”
I rattle the knob. Or I expect to, but it’s unlocked. So instead, I basically just fall into his room, catching myself against his dresser. The TV atop it wobbles, and as I steady it, a voice says from behind me, “Are you stealing my TV?”
I turn, expecting to find Miles sprawled out in his bed. Instead, he’s standing in the doorway, fully dressed with a grease-mottled paper bag in hand.
I release the TV. “I almost knocked it over,” I explain.
“Why?” he asks.
“I told Peter we were dating,” I say.
He stares at me for three seconds, then laughs. “What does that have to do with the TV?”
“Nothing,” I say.
He laughs again and turns back to the hallway.
“Where are you going?” I call.
“To get sriracha,” he says.
“Why,” I say, trailing him to the kitchen.
“For my breakfast sandwich.” He drops the bag on the counter on his way to the fridge.
“Did you hear what I said?” I ask.
“You told Peter we were dating,” he confirms, rifling around the fridge for the hot sauce.
“Aren’t you mad?” I say.
He spins back with the sriracha bottle and an unmarked jar of something dark and goopy. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because we aren’t dating,” I say.
“I’m aware.” He dumps the bag out onto the counter, and two yellow-paper-wrapped sandwiches fall out. He slides one toward me, then turns to the already full coffeepot.
“How long have you been up?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Hour or two.” He carries two steaming mugs back to the counter. He gives me a mug with Garfield the cat wearing a cowboy hat on it. “Cream? Sugar?”
