Chapter 3
Maya
The smell of bacon woke me.
I blinked at the ceiling, disoriented. Griffin's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold. Downstairs, I could hear him moving around the kitchen, cabinets opening, the sizzle of something in a pan.
He was making breakfast. He never made breakfast.
I found him at the stove, spatula in hand, focused on a pan of scrambled eggs like they required his complete attention. He didn't turn when I walked in.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning." He slid eggs onto a plate, added three strips of bacon, pushed it across the counter toward me. Still not meeting my eyes. "Coffee's ready."
"You made breakfast."
"I did."
"You never make breakfast."
"First time for everything." He scraped the last of the eggs onto his own plate. His movements were too controlled. Too careful.
I poured myself a cup of coffee just to have something to do with my hands. The silence between us pressed in, suffocating.
"Griffin..."
"I have to get to work." He grabbed his keys from the counter, finally looking at me. His expression was careful. Neutral. "We can talk later."
"You're not going to eat?"
"Not hungry."
"You just made..."
"It's for you." He crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
My forehead. Not my mouth.
He used to kiss me on the lips even when I had morning breath. This was different.
"Griffin, wait..."
"Later, Maya." The front door closed behind him.
I stood alone in my parents' kitchen, surrounded by the ghosts of family breakfasts that would never happen again.
*
I couldn't focus on work.
The laptop sat open on the kitchen island, my client's branding mockups blurring on the screen while my mind replayed last night on a loop. Griffin's offer. Ivan's face. The way my body had moved toward him before my brain caught up.
I'd been staring at the same slide for forty minutes. The Whitmore deadline was in twelve days, and I'd made exactly zero progress since Ivan showed up. At this rate, I'd have to ask for an extension, something I'd never done. Something that would make me look exactly as scattered as I felt.
My phone buzzed. Ivan.
Can we talk? Just the two of us.
I should tell Griffin. I typed out a message to him: Ivan wants to meet. Then I deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it again.
I'm working from home today, I sent Griffin instead. Love you.
It wasn't technically a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.
My phone buzzed again. Jenna.
I almost let it go to voicemail. But Jenna had a sixth sense for when something was wrong, and ignoring her would only make her show up at my door.
"Hey," I answered, trying to sound normal.
"What happened?"
So much for normal. "What do you mean?"
"Maya. I've known you since freshman year. You sound like someone died. What happened?"
I closed my eyes. "Ivan showed up last night."
Silence. Then: "You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
"Maya." Her voice went sharp. "Tell me you didn't let him in."
"I didn't. Griffin was there. We sent him away."
"Good." She exhaled. "Good. Because I was there, Maya. I saw what he did to you. You didn't eat for a month. You barely got out of bed. I thought..." She stopped. "I thought I was going to lose you."
My throat tightened. Jenna had been the one to drag me out of that darkness. She'd shown up every day with Thai food I wouldn't eat and rom-coms I wouldn't watch until slowly, painfully, I'd started to function again.
"I'm not going back to that," I said.
"Promise me."
"Jenna..."
"Promise me you won't do something stupid. Because if you choose this, whatever this is, I don't know if I can be there to pick up the pieces again."
I stared at the ceiling. What counted as stupid? Wanting two men? Considering Griffin's insane offer? Still being in love with someone who'd abandoned me?
"I promise," I lied.
*
After Jenna hung up, I tried to work. Really tried.
The Hartley rebrand was due in six weeks. Though not as high-profile as the Whitmore account, this was the most demanding contract on my plate and the one that could finally put my freelance design business on the map. I had mockups to finalize, a presentation to build, a career to focus on.
Instead, I sat at the kitchen island and thought about Griffin's offer.
It was ludicrous. Insane. The kind of thing that happened in movies, not in real life. Not in my life.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Griffin was bisexual. He'd told me about his past relationships early on, men and women both. He'd always been open-minded, adventurous. I just never thought that openness would extend to sharing me with someone else.
I pulled up a blank document on my laptop. Typed two words at the top.
PROS. CONS.
Under CONS: It's insane. Jenna will kill me. What will people think? This isn't how relationships work.
Under PROS: I wouldn't have to choose. I could have them both. Griffin said he's okay with it. Ivan wants me back.
I stared at the screen.
Last night, when Griffin had made his offer, I'd rejected it immediately. Called him crazy. Asked if he was missing a marble.
But I hadn't said no because I didn't want it.
I'd said no because it wasn't done. Because normal people didn't do things like that. Because I was supposed to choose. That was how relationships worked.
What if I didn't have to?
The house was too quiet around me. My parents' furniture, my mother's watercolors on the walls, my father's books still lining the study shelves. I was twenty-four years old, living alone in a house built for a family, trying to decide between two men who both wanted me.
My fingers hovered over my phone. Then I typed: I've been thinking about what you said. Can we talk when you get home?
I hit send before I could change my mind.
*
Griffin's reply came twenty minutes later: Leaving now. Be there in 20.
I paced the living room until I heard his Audi pull into the driveway. When he walked through the door, his expression was guarded, hopeful and cautious in equal measure.
"You wanted to talk," he said.
"Sit down."
He sat on the edge of my father's old recliner, elbows on his knees, watching me.
"Last night," I started, "when you made that offer..."
"I meant it."
"I know." I sat across from him on the sofa. "That's what scares me."
"Why?"
"Because it means you actually thought about it. This wasn't some heat-of-the-moment thing."
"No. It wasn't."
"How long?"
He hesitated. "How long what?"
"How long have you been thinking about this? About... sharing me?"
"Since I realized you weren't all the way here." He met my eyes. "About a month."
A month. He'd been carrying this for a month.
"Maya..."
"Let me finish." I took a breath. "I've been thinking about it all day. And I... I want to try."
His eyes widened. "You do?"
"But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"This isn't just about fucking him out of my system. If we do this, it has to be real. No sneaking around. No lies. Full transparency between all of us."
Griffin leaned forward. "What else?"
"You and I come first. Always. If this starts hurting us, we stop."
"Agreed."
"No questions asked. No negotiations. We stop."
"Agreed."
"And..." I hesitated. "Would you want to see? When I'm with him?"
Griffin's breath caught. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating. Not jealousy. Interest.
"Would you want me to?"
"I'm asking what you want."
"I want to know everything." His voice dropped. "I'd rather be in the room than wondering."
I didn't know what to say to that.
He crossed the room and knelt in front of me, taking my hands. "Maya. I'd rather know than be kept in the dark. Whatever happens, I want to be part of it. Not shut out."
My chest ached. This man. This ridiculous, understanding, impossible man.
"Okay," I whispered. "Now we just have to see if Ivan will agree."
"You think he won't?"
"I think he's possessive. I think sharing isn't in his vocabulary."
"Then he doesn't get you." Griffin's cheeks stiffened. "Those are the terms."
*
The next day, I was elbow-deep in the Hartley presentation when I heard it.
Not Griffin's Audi. A motorcycle.
Everything in me stilled. I pushed back from the kitchen island and ran to the window, parting the blinds.
Ivan swung off the black Fat Boy, pulled off his helmet, and raked his fingers through his thick, wavy hair.
He'd shaved since Friday night, his jaw clean and sharp, the stubble gone.
He was wearing a fitted black t-shirt that hugged every muscle, and even from here I could see the way his arms flexed as he hung his helmet on the handlebar.
"He came back," I whispered.
He'd said he wouldn't give up easily. Apparently, he'd meant it.
The knock came. I looked down at myself, denim shorts, a spaghetti-strap tank top that clung to every curve. No bra. My nipples were already peaked against the thin fabric.
"Fuck."
I glanced at the hallway mirror as I passed it, smoothing my hair.
I hated that I did that. Hated that second of vanity, of wanting to look good for him.
I pulled open the door.
Ivan's green eyes traveled from my face to my chest, lingering there just long enough for heat to flood my belly, then back up. A slow smile curved his lips.
"Why are you here again?" The words came out breathless. Not at all how I'd intended.
"Isn't it obvious?" His voice was low. "I said I wouldn't give up, love."
"Don't call me that."
"Why not?"
"Because you lost the right."
He glanced past me into the house. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"I don't think so." But even as I said it, I could feel my resolve cracking. His eyes were doing that thing they always did, seeing straight through my defenses. "Say what you came to say and leave."
He didn't move. Just waited patiently.
Damn him.
"Five minutes," I said. "Then you're gone."
I stepped aside.
*
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I regretted it. Being alone in a room with Ivan had always been dangerous. He had a way of making me forget every rational thought in my head.
He looked around the living room, my mother's watercolors, my father's old recliner that I couldn't bring myself to donate, and something softened in his expression.
"Just as I remembered it."