“I’m meeting an old friend at the movies,” I lied.
He nodded, upset but refusing to show it. I was leaving him alone on a Saturday night.
Of course I felt guilty. On the way there, I could only think about what he’d be doing while I was gone: aimlessly wandering around the house, wondering when I was coming back, looking for some type of trouble to get himself into.
I returned home several hours later to find him still awake. I hoped he’d be sleeping so I could avoid exactly what transpired — the silent questioning, an uncomfortable conversation sustained only through glances.
He stopped me at the top of the stairs, a dangerous place to be when you’re caught in a web of lies.
Where were you?
His eyebrows raised the question. Letting me ascend the final step on the staircase, he investigated the scent of my clothes. Socks, pants, the sleeves of my shirt — he knew something was up.
After one long look that said I know, he turned away and went to bed. It was then I knew I’d have to buy him something nice, the only proper way to say I’m sorry.