Chapter 40
LAINE
The plant is dead.
Not dying. Dead. Brown and crispy and curled in on itself like it gave up weeks ago and has just been sitting here waiting for someone to notice.
The soil is pulled away from the edges of the pot, bone dry.
I don't even remember what it was. Something with purple flowers.
Something the girl at the nursery said was "practically unkillable. "
Apparently not.
I carry it to the trash, pot and all, and wipe down the windowsill. That takes about four seconds because there's no dust. There's never dust here anymore. You need activity to make dust — movement, living, the general shedding of a life being lived.
Even my fig is gone. Settled in a corner of Blake's living room.
I do a lap. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom.
Everything's where I left it. The bed's made tight, corners tucked.
The dish rack is empty. The mail is stacked on the counter — two weeks' worth that I grabbed from the box on the way in.
Electric bill. Junk. A coupon for a pizza place I've never been to.
The fridge has mustard, a bottle of white wine, and something in a takeout container that I'm not brave enough to open.
This is my apartment. I pay rent here. I have a lease with my name on it.
So why does it feel like I'm standing in someone else's house?
My phone buzzes.
Jamila
Pulling up now.
Did you get extra spring rolls.
Jamila
Obviously I got extra spring rolls. Who do you think you're talking to?
I smile. Pull two wine glasses from the cabinet — they're dusty. I rinse them, dry them, set them on the counter. Open the wine.
The buzzer goes. I let her up.
Jamila comes through the door carrying a bottle of wine that's definitely nicer than mine and wearing what she calls her "off-duty uniform" — joggers, a cashmere sweater, hair in a scarf. For Jamila, this is practically pajamas.
"I ordered on the way," she says, swapping her bottle for mine on the counter. "Pad Thai, green curry, tom kha, and—"
"Extra spring rolls."
"Extra spring rolls." She surveys the apartment. Quick, efficient. There's not much to see.
She doesn't say anything. Just smiles and takes the wine glass I hand her.
"So," she says, settling onto the couch. Kicks her shoes off, tucks her feet up. "Talk to me. What's new?"
"Everything. Nothing." I sit on the other end, pull my knees up. "How's Kerry?"
"Screaming at a television with six other women who think they understand basketball better than the coach." She sips her wine. "I give it two hours before someone gets thrown out of the bar."
"My money's on Kerry."
"Always." She grins. "How are your guys?"
My guys. I like that she calls them that. Like it's simple. Like it's just a thing that is.
"They're good. Really good, actually." And I mean it. The last few weeks have been... easier. Not perfect. But the kind of imperfect that feels honest. "We've been going out more. Together. All three of us."
"Yeah? Like where?"
"Farmer's market again. This little brewery Reid found. The grocery store. The coffee shop near the hospital." I take a sip. "It's getting more normal. The being-out-in-public thing."
She smiles, perfectly straight teeth flashing. "That's huge, Laine."
"It is." I trace the rim of my glass. "Reid has this theory. He says it's like — okay, this is his metaphor, not mine, and it's terrible — but he says it's like when you meet someone with a giant hairy mole."
Jamila's eyebrows go up.
"Stay with me. He says the first time you see it, that's all you see. But the third or fourth time, you stop noticing the mole and just see the person. Your brain files it under normal."
"He compared your relationship to a hairy mole."
"He did."
"And he's still alive?"
"My exact reaction." I'm laughing now, and it feels good. Light. "But the point is — the more we show up, the less weird it is. For us and for everyone else. And it's... kind of working? The barista at the coffee shop doesn't even blink anymore when I hold both their hands."
"That's really good. You seem different, you know that? More settled."
"I feel more settled."
"It looks good on you."
The buzzer goes again and I immediately start drooling. Food's here. Jamila hops up to get it and I clear the counter and dig through a drawer for chopsticks. I find one pair, slightly splintered. Jamila pulls two new ones from the takeout bag.
We spread everything out on the counter because the kitchen table has a stack of unopened mail on it that I forgot about and I don't want Jamila to see how long it's been there.
She sees it anyway. Of course she does.
But amazing friend that she is, she just hands me the pad Thai and says, "So tell me more. Was that the first time you guys did a real going-out thing? Like, not just errands?"
"Second. The first was the farmer's market. Which..." I poke at a noodle. Let it slide off the chopstick. "Which didn't go great."
"What happened?"
I tell her about the market. The abbreviated version — the hand-holding, Joyce appearing, the drop. I try to stay calm and clinical, but really, I still low-key hate myself for what I did.
Jamila listens without interrupting. Chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth.
"I panicked," I say. "That's the short version. I saw someone I love and I panicked and I dropped Blake's hand and kept Reid's. And Blake spent the rest of the morning carrying grocery bags so his hands would have something to do."
"Oh, Laine," she says gently.
"Yeah."
"Did you talk about it?"
"Eventually. Reid kind of forced it." I take a sip of wine. "He's gotten annoyingly good at that. The whole we're-not-going-to-bed-pretending-this-is-fine thing." Like, remarkably good. There's this whole side of him that just showed up one day without warning. My Reid has layers.
"Good for Reid."
"Blake said he was hurt. Actually said it. Out loud. Which for Blake is like — that's a five-alarm emotional event. The man processes feelings like he's defusing ordnance."
Jamila almost smiles. "And you?"
"I told him I was a coward. He told me it was a reflex.
Reid told us both to stop packaging things for each other's convenience.
" I set down my chopsticks. "And then we went to bed and nobody slept and the next morning we did yard work and talked about it more and it got.
.. better. Not fixed. But better." Waking up in Reid's bed alone felt like a punishment.
I know he didn't mean it like that, it was a hard night for everyone. But I didn't like it.
"That's healthy."
"Disgustingly healthy. I hardly recognize us."
She laughs, but her eyes are doing that thing where she's listening to what I'm not saying as much as what I am.
"So if it's getting better," she says carefully, "what's the part that isn't?"
I pick up my wine glass. Put it down. Pick it up again. Do I want to go there? Tonight was supposed to be fun and easy. But honestly? I need to talk some stuff out, and Jamila's the only one who's going to get it. The guys never will.
"Can I tell you something I haven't told them?"
Jamila sets her chopsticks down. Full attention. "Of course."
"The strangers at the market. The soap lady.
The people who stare." I turn my glass by the stem.
"Reid and Blake don't notice them. They genuinely don't. If someone isn't a physical threat, they don't register.
It's like they've got this military filter — danger?
no? irrelevant — and everything else just slides off. "
"But not you."
"Not me." I take a breath. "I see all of it. Every look. Every double-take. Every person doing the math."
"What kind of looks?"
This is the part I haven't said out loud. The part I've been circling around like if I don't look at it directly, it won't count. Because it shouldn't matter. These are strangers. Their opinions are irrelevant. I know this. I know this.
But it still sits like a rock in my chest.
"The women are... mixed. Some of them are curious. Some of them do this little pitying smile, like oh honey, which one's cheating on you? Some of them just look confused. Some of them look like they want to give me a high-five."
"And the men?"
I take a long drink of wine.
"The men are different."
Jamila waits, gaze steady on me.
"Some of them just stare. Like they're trying to figure out the logistics. You can see them working through it — the mechanics, the sleeping arrangements, the—" I wave my hand. "They go straight to sex. Like the whole relationship is just a bedroom arrangement and they're trying to picture it."
Her lip curls. "Gross."
"It gets worse." My voice is steady, but my fingers are tight on the glass. "Some of them look at me like... like I'm a thing. Not a person. A thing. Like being with two men means I'm — available. Open. Like I'm advertising something."
Jamila's face goes very still.
"There was a guy at the brewery. Last week.
Reid went to the bathroom and Blake was at the bar getting drinks and I was alone at the table for maybe ninety seconds.
This guy comes over. Smiling. Friendly. Says he noticed I was with 'those two guys' and was I—" I stop.
Swallow. "He wanted to know if I was 'looking for a third. '"
"What the fuck."
"I said no. He laughed. Like it was funny. Like I'd made a joke. And then Blake came back with the drinks and the guy disappeared and I didn't say anything because—"
She brushes my hair over my shoulder. "Because what would you say."
She so gets it. "Because what would I say, Jamila?
'Hey, some creep hit on me because he thinks our relationship means I'm up for anything?
' Blake would've gone looking for the guy.
And Reid would've—" I shake my head. "They can't fix this.
It's not something you fix. It's just...
the tax. The thing I pay for being a woman with two men. "