Every Second With You

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The moonlight streams across his beautiful face, but I can’t bear to look at him. I stare out the window; the slats of the blinds chop silver streaks from the moon that shine through my room, and I wish I were anywhere but here, on top of the covers, in bed with the man I love, on the night of my twentieth birthday. I don’t know how to be false or fake with Trey, but I don’t know how to tell him the truth right now, either.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing strands of hair from my forehead. “Are you feeling better?”

I wince inside, but put on a brave face for him, adjusting the pillow to busy myself, as if it’s absolutely vital to find the perfect alignment for my head. Anything to avoid eye contact as we lie side by side, the pinball machine sounds of late-night New York City mingling with Sara Bareilles playing on my phone.

“My head still hurts,” I mumble, rubbing my palm roughly against my forehead to exorcise the headache I don’t have. I couldn’t very well tell him that my stomach hurt. That I’d thrown up my birthday cake. I might as well put an advertisement on my forehead saying “I’m preggers.” And that’s the one thing I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not tonight.

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