Chapter 11: What He Hid

By one in the morning, the yard was empty, and Pete was stacking chairs by himself.

"Go," he told me, without looking up. "I've got this. I'm a man who processes through stacking."

Miles followed me up the stairs of our building.

At the third-floor landing, I turned around.

"What did she mean about February?"

He didn't answer right away.

He stood two steps below me, so that for once I was looking down at him.

"It's not what she thinks it is," Miles said. "I'll tell you before you leave. I promise. I can't do it tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll say it badly, and you've had enough tonight."

"That's an excuse."

"It's the truth." He climbed one step. "I need to say it right."

I wanted to push him down the stairs.

I wanted to pull him up them by his collar.

Both of those were true, and I held onto the railing until my hand hurt.

"I have something to say first," I said.

"Okay."

"You let me trust her for three years."

His face didn't change, but his hand went tight on the banister.

"She sat in my room. She ate my Gran's pie. She held my hair at your birthday party when I threw up in the sink."

I took a breath. "And the whole time, you knew she'd been in your bed."

"I didn't think she was a danger."

"You didn't think I'd want to know."

My voice cracked. "You decided that for me. You decided it was kinder to let me be the only person at that table who didn't know."

"I was ashamed."

"Of what?"

"That I'd hurt her. That I dated her for three weeks because I was lonely and she was nice."

His eyes were bright. "It was a mistake, and I made it with your friend."

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