"Rob, I’m not going to that dinner with you."
"Come on, my mom expects you," he whines, a hint of desperation in his voice.
I know everything about our relationship has been moving fast, too fast, and his pressure is making it worse.
"You should’ve asked me first," I say firmly.
"You’d say no," he counters.
He’s right, of course.
"Please, just come with me? I really need you there tonight."
"You know they have another performance tonight. I can’t just skip it," I explain, trying to sound as reasonable as possible.
"Fine," he mutters.
He looks at me for a brief second, then away, clearly irritated. He pulls up his pants, throws on a t-shirt, and heads for the door. Before he can leave, I reach out to stop him.
"Wait. Are you mad at me?" I ask, sensing the tension radiating off him
