Chapter 45
It’d been two weeks since my aunt arrived in town, and no one knew when she was leaving.
If you asked, her answer was, when I feel like it.
She and my parents were acting like they hadn’t invalidated my entire existence, saying hi to me in the hallway and shit.
Oh, so you can’t speak? they’d say. No, I said, unfortunately polygamists don’t speak.
A lot had happened in those two weeks: My mom’s supervisor was fired for giving a DEI training three years ago.
My dad’s old boss at the National Archives was fired too.
The administration floated the idea of taking control of Gaza, the President said he would make himself chairman of the Kennedy Center, tariffs were announced then delayed at the last minute, measles were back even though there was a shot for them.
I felt like I was trapped inside one of those revolutionary war massacre paintings, American flags towering over piles of bodies, dragging myself through the bloodied landscape with the gnawing feeling that I belonged elsewhere: in a still life with flowers or something.
Instead, I was stuck in this bizarre patriotic portrait, watching it rendered in the worst way.
Even as the government was being gutted, my mom was determined to stay at HUD.
My dad was convinced this made her a traitor, but I was afraid she’d be fired, and we’d be financially screwed.
This was how most nights went in our house: My dad would remind her she was working for a dictator.
My mom would remind him he was delivering food like a teenager.
Then she’d warm up his dinner, which he ate silently watching the news. Then they went to bed.
Things were falling apart, but I had no clue how to hold them together.
I was not the kind of woman who was skilled in triaging a broken household; I was the teenage boy leaving his dirty boxers on the floor.
The house was falling apart with us: My aunt had broken the bathroom door so now it was propped against the wall.
One of the kitchen lights had exploded. For days, it was dim like a dank cellar.
Our neighbor’s massive dog kept headbutting our fence, and now it looked like it was missing teeth.
My dad went to scream at the dog as if the dog understood.
From their bedroom window, my mom watched the drama unfold in her bathrobe like she was watching a stranger lose their mind in the street.
Terrible as it was, I knew exactly how I was going to write that scene for my novel.
Tristan was in the library reading Resistance, Rebellion, and Death when I walked in.
I assumed the library would look like Hogwarts like the rest of his campus, but it was kind of dusty with ratty furniture.
For two people who weren’t supposed to be seeing each other, we’d met up a ghastly number of times (early-early in the pink morning, late nights, the odd weekend hour).
I often wondered if he saw Nia after seeing me or was ever coming from being with her.
Based on his busy academic schedule, he must’ve been.
As I approached his table, I imagined him and Nia the night before at a French bistro for Valentine’s Day.
Two-person seating only. Cheap red wine swirling in Nia’s glass, her mouth lush and plum-colored, leaning in for a kiss.
Tristan and I had become masters at compartmentalizing.
But in some dingy back-alley corridor of my mind, the thought of all our separate bodies colliding in this perverse, secret way was undeniably hot.
Seeing me, Tristan stood to kiss me on the side of my mouth.
We must’ve looked like another unremarkable couple swapping lipless kisses after work.
My world felt inverted then, like I was watching myself through a looking glass.
Jay was once the one I shared this routine kind of romance with.
I was starting to think I’d taken it for granted, how easy our dynamic had been.
The other night I sent him a heart emoji for Valentine’s Day when I was high. He said, Thank you!
Why was he treating me like a coworker who Slacked him a spreadsheet? He didn’t even send an emoji back. But now that the fires were over, we hardly spoke. It was these stretches of silence that cut into me, the knife pushing deeper whenever my phone rang and it wasn’t him.
Tristan and I walked to the same café as before.
This time there was no snow, just a bitter, cold wind.
We ordered pricey toast topped with microgreens and fried eggs, which were as expensive as everyone said.
Tristan paid. He always paid, though his program stipend couldn’t be much. I felt guilty but said nothing.
When we sat down, I asked, “When does your semester end?” We never talked about what summer would be like with us, whether he’d be going home or staying in the city.
“May. But that feels like fucking forever.”
Slowly, I said, “And what happens when you get married?”
“What do you mean what happens when I get married?”
“Will I never see you again?”
He cocked his head, amused. “Who said I was getting married?”
“You did!”
“Yeah, in like ten years. I have to finish my PhD first.” He said this like it was his own version of manifest destiny.
A guy kept twisting to stare at us from a table in the corner. I ignored him, but it bothered me. It was a reminder that Tristan and I shouldn’t be out together. To all the people complaining about polyamory seeming like a lot of work, folks, I can tell you being the other woman is way more work.
“Do you see this?” I asked.
Tristan followed my gaze. “Oh, that’s Miles.”
He went over to Miles. They exchanged a few words, and Tristan was back in his seat.
“He’s in my program.”
“You don’t care about being seen?”
“It’s not like we’re doing anything right now.”
I looked at Tristan like, Are you insane? He didn’t notice and left for the bathroom. Miles approached our table. As he got closer, it struck me that he hadn’t been staring at me and Tristan together but at me alone.
“You’re gorgeous. Could I get your number?”
“Are you serious?”
Miles laughed. Perfect straight teeth, big dark gums. “You’re not his girl, right?”
“No, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?” He reached in his pocket. “Put your number in my phone.”
When Tristan turned out of the bathroom, Miles shoved his phone away. They dapped each other up on our way out while I stared forward.
I casually told Tristan about Miles asking for my number while we walked.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” He was angrier than I’d expected, storming back toward the café. I stared at the pretty, glowing makeup counters through Sephora’s windows, refusing to be the girl tripping after some pissed-off guy.
Tristan eventually sulked back down the street. “Sorry. I’m being dumb.”
“You are.”
“But, like, what a dick—he sees me with you.”
“Yeah, but you’re not with me with me.”
“No, I know, but still.”
I didn’t know why I even told him about the encounter.
Then I saw that I’d wanted to hold a mirror up to him to see his reaction.
How was he that different from Miles? A guy going after what he wanted regardless of the rules?
For that matter, how different was I? At least I was trying to find a new way.
Tristan was doing what men had done forever.
Seeing my somber face, Tristan cracked a goofy smile. I laughed, but I had a slight sinking feeling not dissimilar to when Jay stormed out of the art gallery. It was the feeling that we didn’t have a shared understanding and that everything hinged on reaching one.
We passed a string of upscale shops, windows advertising slabs of marble for your countertops, a gold faucet for your new kitchen, Pandora, Glossier, Billy Reid.
On the corner of M and Wisconsin, across from the domed Farmers and Mechanics Bank branch with the big clock in the middle, two women held up signs that said, “What Are You Going to Do About the West Bank Now?” I remembered hearing about a West Bank boy who was shot by an Israeli sniper a day after celebrating Gaza’s ceasefire with his family.
As Tristan and I were passing, a woman cradling a small dog yelled at the two women with signs. How dare they, they needed to go back to their country, this was America. People danced around the commotion with armfuls of shopping bags.
Tristan stood between the women with the signs and the woman with the dog, telling her to back up.
His anger was attractive to me then. I asked the two women if they were okay while he managed the dog lady.
They said they were used to it. Then the dog-carrying woman started yelling at me and Tristan, calling us DEI hires and telling us to do some crack.
I broke out laughing because why would I just do some crack? My laughter incensed her.
We decided that going back and forth with this woman was useless and walked toward the river. I realized we’d essentially retraced our footsteps from that snowy night. Maybe that’s what all relationships were about, going in circles.
Tristan touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
He nodded.
I laughed.
“Do you always laugh at awful shit?”
This startled me. “I’m laughing because I don’t know what else to do.”
His hand closed around mine. “I’m joking, my little DEI hire.”
I smiled, but I missed Jay. It wasn’t a negative reaction to Tristan. It was that I wished Jay could be there with us. We’d unpinned that possibility with our deception though.
“What are we even doing?” I asked.
“Enjoying the view of this dirty-ass river.”
“I mean what are you and I doing?”
“Oh.”
“Nia might be into an open relationship if you asked.”
He let go of my hand. “I’m not though.”
I glared at him. “What you mean is you wanna fuck around, but you don’t want her to. She was so right.”
“No, that’s—what do you mean, she was right?”
I paused. “I meant the royal ‘she,’ like when Whitney Houston said ‘I’m every woman.’ ”
“What?”
I kept going. “If she and Jay find out on their own, it’d be worse than if we’d just confessed.” I didn’t add that my relationship with Jay would also be irrevocably ruined.
“I know.”
“You seem so… calm.”
Tristan took my hand again. “I’m not calm, Cat. I’m on fucking antidepressants.”
I burst out laughing. Then I said, “You don’t feel bad?”
“I never said I didn’t feel bad. I feel awful, but half the time I feel you and I exist on a different timeline.”
I watched him, annoyed. “What do you think Nia would say to that?”
“That I’m full of shit.”
“Are you?”
He paused for a long time. “I know you think I have zero integrity, but I do have some.”
I didn’t think he had zero integrity. It was more like on a scale of one to ten, his integrity was a three and a half.
The wind blew forcefully off the water. Tristan shielded me from it with his body.
An overwhelming sadness settled over me, a sadness that encompassed everything.
Trash bobbed in the river: yellow McDonald’s wrappers, metal Coke cans, plastic bags crumpled like the face of a depressed clown.
Darkly, I wondered if there were parts of the plane and helicopter floating by.
Tristan softly fingered my cheek. “You and I are more alike than you think.”
I scoffed. “How?”
“I might be monogamous and you—”
“Are you monogamous? You’re fucking two women. The math’s not math-ing, love.”
Stepping closer, he cradled the back of my neck. “We both want what we want.” His voice dropped in a way that was both hot and scary, like, what in the dark romance was happening? “And we’re willing to pay the price for it. Even if it bankrupts us.”
My stomach turned from the ugly clarity of that statement. “So you just want to lie forever?”
“Of course not. I just—what should we do then?” His voice cracked. For the first time, I registered his agony over what we were doing. The emotion seemed to come from nowhere. Maybe he was as good at hiding his guilt as he was at compartmentalizing.
I’d been telling myself that Tristan was simply a side quest on my polyamorous journey. But the more time we spent together, the more false this felt. All arrows pointed toward walking away from him, salvaging what I had with Jay. But it was like I was being physically held back from the exit.
He took my cheeks in his hands and kissed me on the forehead. I wanted to laugh, to say, you are full of shit, but really, I wanted to cry. I felt safe then despite both our safety nets in the world, already flimsy, disappearing from underneath us.