Funny Story(4)

I’d hoped to stay awake long enough to shove a glass of water and some ibuprofen into Peter’s drunken hand when he got home, but I drifted off on the couch.

When I jolted awake at the click of the front door, it was full bright in the living room, so I could see Peter’s surprise at finding me there.

He looked, honestly, like he’d stumbled upon a woman who’d broken into his house and boiled his pet rabbit, rather than his loving fiancée curled on the sofa. But still the alarm bells didn’t go off.

It was hard to feel too panicky with Peter nearby, looking like the very least inventive depiction of the archangel Michael. Six foot four, golden-blond hair, green eyes, and a strong Roman nose.

Not that I have any clue what a Roman nose is. But whenever a historical romance writer mentions one, I think of Peter’s.

“You’re back,” I croaked and got up to greet him. He stiffened in my hug, and I pulled away, my hands still locked against the back of his neck. He took hold of my wrists and unwound them from him, holding them between our chests.

“Can we talk for a minute?” he asked.

“Of course?” I said it like a question. It was.

He walked me to the couch and sat me down. Then, as far as I could figure, a couple of tectonic plates must have smashed together, because the whole world lurched, and my ears started ringing so loudly I could only catch bits of what he was saying. None of it could be right. It didn’t make sense.

Too much to drink . . .

Everyone went home, but we stayed back to sober up . . .

One thing led to another and . . .

God, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but . . .

“You cheated on me?” I finally squeaked out, while he was in the middle of yet another indecipherable sentence.

“No!” he said. “I mean, it wasn’t like that. We’re . . . She told me she’s in love with me, Daphne. And I realized I am too. In love. With her. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Some more sorries.

Some more ringing ears.

Some more platitudes.

No. No, he didn’t cheat on me? No, he simply confessed his love to someone who was not me? I was trying to jam the pieces of the puzzle together, but nothing fit. Every sentence he said was incompatible with the last.

Finally my hearing caught on something that seemed important, if only I could figure out the context: a week.

“A week?” I said.

He nodded. “She’s waiting for me now, so we can leave right away. Not be in your hair while you figure things out.”

“A week,” I repeated, still not understanding.

“I looked online.” He shifted forward on the couch to pull a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, and handed it to me.

Some truly deluded part of me thought it would be an apology note, a love letter that made all of this . . . not okay, but maybe salvageable.

Instead it was a printout of local apartment listings.

“You’re moving out?” I choked.

A flush crept up his neck, his eyes darting toward the front door. “Well, no,” he said. “The house is in my name, so . . .”

He trailed off, expecting me to fill in the blank.

Finally, I did.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Peter?” I jumped up. I didn’t feel hurt then. That would come later. First it was all rage.

He stood too, brows shooting toward his perfect hairline. “We didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Of course she fucking meant for this to happen, Peter! She had twenty-five years to tell you she was in love with you and chose last night!”

“She didn’t realize,” he said, defensive of her. Protecting her from the blast of this emotional fallout while I was here on my own. “Not until she was faced with losing me.”

“You brought me here!” I half screamed. At the end, it turned into a sort of deranged laugh. “I left my friends. My apartment. My job. My entire life.”

“I feel so terrible,” he said. “You have no idea.”

“I have no idea how bad you feel?” I demanded. “Where am I supposed to go?”

He gestured to the apartment listings, now on the ground. “Look,” he said. “We’re going out of town to give you space to figure things out. We won’t be back until next Sunday.”

We.

Back.

Oh.

Oh, god.

It wasn’t just that I was expected to move out.

She was moving in. After they got back from a sexy new-couple vacation that was being pitched to me like an act of kindness for my benefit. I almost asked where they were going, but the last thing I needed was a mental picture of them kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

(Wrong. I’d later learn they’d been kissing along the Amalfi Coast.)

“I’m really sorry, Daph,” he said, and leaned in to kiss my forehead like some benevolent father figure, regretfully shipping off for war to do his duty.

I shoved him away, and his eyes widened in shock for just a second. Then he nodded, somberly, and headed for the door, totally empty-handed. Like he had everything he needed and not a lick of it was in this house.

As the door fell shut, something snapped in me.

I grabbed one of the bulk containers of Jordan almonds Mrs. Collins had picked up on her last Costco trip, and ran outside, still in the silk pajamas Peter bought me last Christmas.