Chapter 27 Dane
Dane
The publishing party for our book, Luna’s Magical Guardians, is held at a gallery in Chelsea, all exposed brick and industrial chic.
By the time we arrive—fashionably late to avoid the initial crush—the space is full of people I recognize from the industry.
Editors, agents, fellow authors, reviewers. All of them turn when we enter.
It took longer to get the book published than we initially thought. But now that it’s finally done, I couldn’t be happier with the results.
The cover is beautiful—Jonathan's watercolor illustration of a baby surrounded by three distinct figures, each outlined in soft light.
Atlas with silver hair and careful hands.
Rowan with golden warmth and protective strength.
Sage with dark thoughtfulness and gentle wisdom.
And in the center, Luna herself, tiny and perfect and loved beyond measure.
Claire looks stunning in a new dress Lottie insisted on buying her—emerald green that brings out her eyes, flowing fabric that showcases her gorgeous post-baby figure.
Stuart's in a perfectly tailored suit, every inch the successful surgeon.
Jonathan wore dark slacks and a button-down that shows off his physique—he refused to wear a tie, claiming it felt like a noose.
And I'm in my usual—dark jeans, blazer, the snazzy new reading glasses I just bought with Claire’s help.
As we move through the space together, we draw some stares and whispers. Some people avoid us entirely. Others approach with careful politeness, congratulating me on the book while obviously dying to ask about our relationship but not daring to have the balls to.
My editor, Fletcher, finds us near the bar where Jonathan is getting Claire a glass of white wine and himself a beer. "Dane! And this must be the famous family." His smile is genuine, warm. "I'm so glad you're all here. The book is extraordinary."
"It was a group effort," I say, introducing everyone. "Jonathan did all the illustrations—"
"Which are stunning," Fletcher interrupts. "We've been getting interest from animation studios already."
"Really?" Jonathan looks genuinely shocked. "For my illustrations?"
"For the whole package. The story, the art, the message. It's exactly what the market needs right now."
We're discussing potential next book ideas when I notice a woman approaching—late forties, stunning, vaguely familiar. She's making a beeline for Claire.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she says, her voice carrying a slight British accent. "But I had to say something. I'm Naomi Ellis."
The name clicks—actress, multiple Oscars, known for being private about her personal life despite being constantly in the tabloids.
"I know your work," Claire says, slightly starstruck. "You were brilliant in 'The Portrait.'"
"Thank you. But I actually wanted to talk about your work—or rather, your life.
" Naomi glances at us, then back to Claire.
"I'm in a similar situation. Not four people, but three.
It's been hell keeping it private, managing the secret.
Watching what you're all doing, being public, being proud—it's inspiring. "
"You're polyamorous?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
"For six years. My husband, my boyfriend, and me. We've been terrified of public reaction, of how it might affect our careers. But seeing you face it head-on—" She turns back to Claire. "How do you handle the judgment? The criticism?"
"Honestly? Some days are better than others," Claire admits. "But we decided that living authentically matters more than other people's comfort. And we're not alone—there are more people like us than anyone realizes. They just hide."
"Not hiding is terrifying," Naomi says softly.
"Not hiding is liberating," Jonathan counters. "Hiding is what's really horrible. Living in fear of being discovered, of someone finding out the truth."
Naomi pulls out her phone. "Can I give you my number? I'd love to talk more. My partners and I—we've felt so isolated. Knowing there are others, especially others who are public about it—"
"Of course," Claire says, entering the number. "And thank you. For telling us. It helps to know we're not the only ones fighting this fight."
After Naomi leaves—after exchanging contact information and promises to stay in touch—we circulate through the party. The turn-out is much larger than we expected.
"This is really something," Claire says, leaning against me slightly. "What we made together."
"You're tired," Stuart observes. "We should go soon."
"Stuart, I’m fine. Really… and I want to enjoy this a little longer." She looks around the gallery, at all the people in groups talking, connecting. "We created something that matters. That helps people. I want to appreciate that."
“Agreed, but I also want to get back to relieve Lottie,” he says. “She was nice enough to watch Rowan tonight but I don’t want to keep her up too late.”
We're discussing when to make our exit when Fletcher approaches with someone I don't recognize—tall, thin, nervous energy, probably early thirties.
"Dane, this is Tim Ashford. He teaches children's literature at Columbia. He wanted to meet you."
Tim extends his hand, which I shake. "I'm a huge fan of your speculative fiction work. The 'Fractured Starlight' series especially—brilliant world-building."
"Thank you. What do you think about the new book?"
"It's wonderful. Exactly what the children's literature market needs—diverse family representation without being preachy. My students will love analyzing it." He glances at Claire, Stuart, and Jonathan. "Are these colleagues? Fellow authors?"
The question is innocent but loaded with assumption—that the three attractive people surrounding me must be professional associates rather than partners.
"This is Claire, Stuart and Jonathan," I say carefully.
"Oh! The muses for the guardians?" Tim's smile is genuine but curious. "That's so cool that you modeled characters after friends. Did you each contribute a specific guardian's personality?"
He doesn't know. Despite all the media coverage, all the public attention, he genuinely doesn't recognize who we are to each other. The innocence of the question hangs in the air.
Before I can respond, his colleague—an older woman with sharp eyes—who has joined us leans in. "Tim, honey, don't you read the news? That's the family. The polyamorous situation that's been all over social media."
Tim's face goes through several expressions within seconds—confusion, realization, discomfort, and something that looks like embarrassed fascination. "Oh. Oh. I—I heard rumors about some author in a weird relationship, but I didn't think—I didn't realize—"
"That it was real?" I finish for him, my voice carefully neutral. "That actual people are living this way?"
"No, I just—" He's stammering now, clearly wishing he could disappear. "I didn't mean to presume or judge. I just thought maybe the media was exaggerating, you know? Making something out of nothing for clicks."
"The media isn't exaggerating," I say, my voice firm but not angry. "This is my family."
"Right, of course, I didn't mean to suggest—" Tim looks genuinely distressed now. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed—"
"It's fine," Claire interjects, but her voice sounds strained. When I look at her properly, I see her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"Actually, it's not fine," I correct, my protective instincts flaring. "You didn't just assume—you dismissed. You heard about our family and thought it couldn't possibly be real, that it must be media fabrication or exaggeration."
"Dane, I really didn't mean—"
"I know you didn't. That's the problem. People don't mean to be dismissive.
They don't mean to reduce our lives to rumors.
But it happens anyway, and it hurts." I look at Claire, see a tear track down her cheek despite her effort to hold them back.
"It hurts her especially, because she's the most visible target and people feel entitled to judge her. "
Tim looks mortified. "Ms.—I'm sorry, what is your name again—"
"Claire," she says quietly.
"Claire, I apologize. That was insensitive and dismissive. You're right—I heard the rumors and my first instinct was to doubt rather than accept. That's my prejudice showing."
The apology is sincere enough that some of Claire's tension eases. "Thank you for saying that."
"I should go," Tim says. "Again, I'm sorry. And the book really is wonderful—I mean that."
After he leaves, Stuart immediately turns to Claire. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she says, but her voice wavers. "It's just—hearing someone call our life a 'weird situation' like it's something to gossip about rather than something we live every day—"
"He's an idiot," Jonathan says firmly. "And Dane handled it perfectly."
"Did I?" I look at Claire, worried I made it worse. "Was I too rough on him—"
"No, you said what you needed to." She wipes her eyes, smearing her makeup slightly. "I'm tired of people treating us like we're some big train wreck. We're real. This is real. And you defended that."
"Always," I promise, pulling her close to me.
"We should leave," Stuart says. "You're exhausted."
"Just a few more minutes," Claire requests. "I don’t want the night to end on a bad note."
We stay another half hour, talking to some more people in the industry and everyone has only amazing things to say about the book.
As we're finally heading out, a young couple approaches us near the door. They're both men, one carrying a toddler who's half-asleep on his shoulder.
"We just wanted to say thank you," one of them says quietly. "For the book, for being public about your family. We're raising Emma together—us and her mom, who's our best friend. There are no books that look like her life. So thank you for starting to change that."
We thank them for letting us know and I see Claire practically beam from the good energy rolling off this little family.
We walk to the car in silence, processing the evening. The photographer outside takes a few shots, but we ignore them—it doesn't matter anymore. Let them photograph us. Let them write whatever they want. We know what’s important.
In the car, Claire sits between Jonathan and me, with Stuart in the front passenger seat.
"Thank you," Claire says suddenly. "For defending us. For refusing to let that professor guy reduce our life to a rumor."
"You don't need to thank me for that," I tell her. "We're a family. We protect each other."
"Still. Hearing you be so firm about it, so unapologetic—it helped. Made me feel less worried about living this life."
"Don’t ever worry, baby," Jonathan says, his arm around her shoulders. "We’re all here for you."
We drive through Manhattan, heading toward the bridge that will take us home to Westchester.
The city lights reflect off glass towers, creating a maze of illumination.
Somewhere in this city, people are living in secret, hiding their families, afraid of judgment like we used to be.
But there’s no way we’ll go back to that.
The book launch was more than just a professional event. It was a declaration—we exist, we're valid, we're building something worth celebrating. And anyone who can't accept that can stay in their comfortable, conventional boxes while we live fully in the messy, beautiful reality we've created.
"I'm proud of us," Claire says. "Not just for the book, but for everything. For choosing this despite how hard it is."
"It's worth it," I say simply. "Every hard moment, every judgment, every challenge—worth it for what we have."
As Claire leans into my side, I’m so truly grateful for her and our sweet baby girl. I can’t imagine my life without them.