Epilogue #4
She turns the glass in her hands, fingers finding the micro-scratches from a dozen past dishwashings.
She rinses it twice, maybe three times, not because it’s dirty but because she likes the feeling of the water, the sound it makes as it hits the crystal.
She shakes off the excess, then sets the glass upside down on the counter, just left of the sink—where it always waits.
Not a dare anymore.
A signpost.
A ritual.
She stands there for a long moment, palm pressed flat to the cool countertop.
She can still taste the sweetness of the bourbon cocktail, still feel the ghost of Leo’s stubble on her thigh, the bite of Jason’s fingers at her waist. Her body hums, not with anticipation, but with the echo of enough.
She breathes in, chest swelling, and lets her head hang for a second, chin nearly to her chest.
She hears footsteps. Jason’s, first—he never walks heavy, but she knows his pattern, the slight drag of his heel, the deliberate pauses.
He moves into the kitchen without speaking, comes up behind her, and settles his hand at the small of her back.
The touch is casual, but anchors her like a hand on a kite string.
He doesn’t ask if she’s okay. He never does. He just waits with her in the quiet, letting the moment fill and empty at its own pace.
Leo is a beat behind, his presence announced only by the faint scuff of denim on tile and the sigh as he leans against the doorway. He crosses his arms, watches them for a minute, eyes soft and hooded. He doesn’t try to join; he knows the choreography by now.
The three of them just stand there, in a triangle of borrowed light, none of them rushing the close.
Brielle glances at the wine glass again.
Upside down, it looks like an hourglass, the kind from a board game or a therapy session.
She thinks: if you turned it right-side up, it would start the clock again, mark the beginning of something new.
But this way, it’s a full stop. A pause. A choice to stay.
She turns in the circle of Jason’s arm, leans her cheek against his shoulder. He bends, kisses the crown of her head. Leo’s smile twitches at the corner, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing, but she sees it and tucks it away for later.
No one says anything.
They don’t need to.
Eventually, Leo pushes off the doorframe, walks over, and sets a hand on her other shoulder. His palm is rough and warm, the pressure light. Jason tightens his hold, just a hair. Brielle is the axis again, but this time, it’s not about holding the balance. It’s just about being held.
She thinks about the jar on the shelf in the living room. She hasn’t touched it in weeks, maybe months. She could add a new note, but there’s nothing left to wish for, nothing left that needs writing down.
She’s already living it.
She looks at Jason, then at Leo, and in both of their faces she sees the same thing: not hunger, not permission, but “the ease of no longer searching.
She closes her eyes, lets their hands ground her, lets the silence ring.
It started as a fantasy.
They chose it anyway.
They keep choosing it still.
Mom Club Confidential
Harper
I leave you alone for ONE birthday and suddenly we’re negotiating threesome contracts
Brielle
First of all, it was legally binding
Rachel
There were no lawyers involved
Brielle
Emotionally binding then
Naomi
I’m choosing silence
Harper
Oh no. When Naomi chooses silence it means judgment
Naomi
I’m not judging
Rachel
You absolutely are
Naomi
I am simply observing
Brielle
You’re the only one of us who hasn’t spiraled
Harper
Statistically suspicious
Rachel
Honestly true. Naomi never spirals
Naomi
I spiral
I just do it privately
And efficiently
Harper
Jesus Christ
Brielle
Okay but hypothetically—
if you were spiraling—
what would that even look like?
Naomi
Hypothetically?
Brielle
Hypothetically
Naomi
Structure.
Rules.
And no one misunderstanding who’s in control.
…
Rachel
OH
Harper
Well that was alarmingly specific
Brielle
Naomi Becker what the fuck
don’t skip this!
After everything—
I keep waiting for it to quiet down. For the sentence that explains it. It doesn’t.
This was a mistake.
This was reckless.
No.
This wasn’t something that happened to me.
I chose it.
I thought wanting was dangerous. Like if I let it spill, something would break. So I kept myself small and called it love.
That was safer.
It wasn’t.
I didn’t know how quiet I’d gotten
until I wasn’t.
There were moments—
where I knew I wasn’t being tolerated.
I was being chosen.
And nothing broke. Not my marriage. Not my life.
I didn’t disappear.
I came back.
Jason saw it before I did. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.
He stayed.
We still pack lunches. We still argue about stupid things. We still miss each other sometimes. But there’s a hum now. A current. I don’t have to vanish to keep the peace.
I don’t want to be smaller. I don’t want to pretend.
I want this. Still married. Still mine.
And if that means I stop waiting for permission—good.
—B
writing got heavier here