Chapter 5 #2
"You remember Monaco? That journalist?"
Jonathan's eyes widened. "That was different. She approached us. And Stuart wasn't involved."
"Stuart chose not to be involved. Said he didn't share." I pull my laptop back out, already seeing the narrative possibilities. "But maybe he just hadn't found someone worth sharing."
"You think Claire would be interested in... that?"
"I think Claire is more adventurous than she appears. And I think she deserves to be appreciated by people who see different facets of her brilliance."
"Stuart will never agree to it."
"Stuart's already losing his mind just from being close to her. Either he'll combust from repression or he'll have to try something new." I start typing, ideas flowing. "Besides, have you seen how she looks at all of us? She's attracted to Stuart's intensity, your charm, and—"
"Your creepy writer's observations?"
"My intellectual depth," I correct. "She needs mental stimulation as much as physical. That's why Stuart's coldness frustrates her—she knows there's intelligence there, but he won't engage fully."
Jonathan considers this. "You're seriously suggesting we all pursue her? Together?"
"I'm suggesting we stop pretending we're not all interested and see what happens naturally. No competition, no jealousy, just... possibility."
"This is either fucking brilliant or a disaster waiting to happen."
"Probably both. But at least it'll give me material for the next three novels."
Later that evening, I'm in the library when I hear footsteps. Claire appears in the doorway, wearing jeans and a T-shirt—and wearing my cardigan over it.
"Sorry," she says. "I meant to return this earlier."
"Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
She moves into the room, drawn to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. "This is incredible. Have you actually read all of these?"
"Most. Some of them I started but just couldn’t bring myself to finish."
Her fingers trail along the spines, stopping at a familiar section. "You have your own books."
"Occupational requirement. Though I rarely reread my own work."
She pulls out one—my third novel, the one that actually made the USA Today bestseller list. "This one's my favorite."
"You've read my work?"
Color touches her cheeks. "I may have downloaded a few after learning you were Lottie's neighbor. Curiosity about the mysterious writer next door."
"And?"
"You're better than I expected. More depth than your genre usually allows." She opens the book, flipping through pages. "The way you write relationships—it's honest but not cynical. Hopeful without being naive."
"You sound surprised."
"I guess I expected more... masculine posturing? But your female characters are fully realized. They have agency, intelligence, and their own arcs beyond romance."
"My editor says I write women too strong. Makes the men look weak by comparison."
"Your editor's an idiot." She's found a particular passage, reading quietly. "This part, where she chooses herself over both love interests? So good."
"I liked that part too. But it tested poorly with focus groups."
"Focus groups want fairy tales. You're writing real life with better dialogue."
I move closer, looking at the passage she's reading. "That scene was inspired by a real person. A woman who walked away from everything safe to build something entirely her own."
"What happened to her?"
"Still writing her own story, I believe."
Claire looks up at me, and we're closer than I realized. She smells like lavender and something citrus and it makes me want to breathe her in.
"Is that what you do? Collect people's stories?"
"Sometimes. Other times, people just give them to me. Like earlier—you handled that embarrassment with grace. Most people would have fled."
"I considered it. But you three need help, and I need clients." She closes the book, holding it against her. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Your friendship with Stuart and Jonathan—it's unusual. Three successful men choosing to live together?"
"We've been through everything together. Jonathan's public breakup with that actress, Stuart's divorce, my mother's death. We're family, just not blood."
"Have you ever..." She pauses, choosing words carefully. "Been interested in the same woman?"
Interesting question. "Once or twice."
"What happened?"
"Depends on the woman. And the circumstances." I study her face, seeing genuine curiosity there. "Jonathan and I have successfully shared before. Stuart's always been too territorial."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Shared?"
"Not in a crude way. More like... appreciating different aspects of the same person. Together, we can give someone more complete attention than either could alone."
"And Stuart?"
"Stuart guards what's his. Or what he thinks should be his. Even if he's too scared to actually claim it."
She's processing this, I can see the wheels turning. "That's... unusual."
"Most interesting things are."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked. And because I think you're someone who appreciates honesty, even when it's complicated."
She sets the book on the shelf, turning to face me fully. "I don't understand you three. Stuart runs hot and cold, Jonathan flirts openly, and you... you observe everything like you're taking notes for later."
"I am taking notes for later."
"Is that all I am? Material for one of your books?"
"No." The word comes out more forcefully than intended. "You're not material. You're... unexpected."
"How?"
"You walked into our carefully controlled dynamic and disrupted everything just by existing. Stuart can't focus, Jonathan's actually interested in something beyond his subscriber count, and I'm having conversations instead of just observing them."
"And that's a good thing?"
"I’m not sure yet."
She moves closer, animated now. "Your book—the subplot with the three friends who fall for the same woman? Was that autobiographical?"
"Not when I wrote it."
"But now?"
"Now I'm wondering if I was prophetic."
She grabs my arm in excitement. "The twist where she doesn't choose—where she decides they all offer something different she needs—I didn't see that coming. It was brilliant and bold and—"
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us. But suddenly her lips are on mine, brief and electric.
She pulls back immediately, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
I cup her face gently, gauging her reaction.
She doesn't pull away, so I kiss her again, properly this time.
Slower, deeper, with intent rather than impulse.
She makes a small sound, her hands coming up to rest against my chest, and I discover that Claire kisses like she does everything else—with complete commitment.
When we part, she's breathing unsteadily. "This is complicated."
"It doesn’t have to be," I say, my heart rate increasing.
"Stuart—"
"Is hiding in his office, pretending he doesn't want you."
"Jonathan—"
"Is probably doing bicep curls and thinking about you in those yoga pants."
"And you?"
"I'm wondering what happens next in this story."
She steps back, but not far. "I don't know if I can do complicated right now. My life is already a mess."
"Maybe. Or maybe complicated is exactly what you need. Simple hasn't worked out well for you, has it?"
She laughs, but there's sadness in it. "No. Simple turned out to be controlling and manipulative and incredibly destructive."
"We're not simple. But we're also not cruel. Dysfunctional? Absolutely. Emotionally stunted? Stuart definitely, Jonathan and I moderately. But we don't hurt people we care about."
"Do you care about me?"
"I'm starting to. Which is inconvenient, given that Stuart saw you first and Jonathan's actively pursuing you."
"This is insane."
"This is interesting." I touch her face again, gentle. "And you're interested too, or you wouldn't still be here."
She doesn't deny it. Instead, she takes my cardigan off, hanging it carefully on the back of a chair. "I should go. Lottie was just finishing up cooking dinner."
"Will you come back tomorrow?"
"For the meditation session? Yes."
"For more than that?"
She pauses at the door. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Maybe is enough for now."
After she leaves, I return to my laptop, but I don't write. Instead, I stare at the blinking cursor and wonder if I've just complicated an already complex situation beyond repair. Or if, maybe, I've just written the first chapter of something none of us saw coming.
Stuart appears in the doorway fifteen minutes later, looking tired. "She left?"
"Yes."
"Did something happen?"
I consider lying, but that's not our way. "We kissed."
His jaw tightens. "Of course you did."
"Stuart—"
"No, it's fine. You're right. I had my chance." He turns to leave, then stops. "Was she... did she seem happy?"
"She seemed confused. Interested. Scared. All of the above."
"I should have stayed in the hotel. That morning. I should have stayed."
"Yes. You should have."
He leaves without another word, and I return to my blank page. Sometimes the best stories are the ones we don't plan, the ones that write themselves despite our best efforts to control the narrative.
This feels like one of those stories.
I just hope it has a better ending than most.