by Krista Wolf
“Hang on a second,” Adam interjected. “We’d have to face those things anyway. At some point, no?”
Trey frowned. “What the hell do you mean?”
“He means this is our choice,” I offered. “To date one woman. To make her ours, and share her between us. This is what we want, correct?”
For a second or two, Trey looked uncertain. Slowly he reached for the last of the chicken wings — his first of the night. Adam and I had already decked three dozen of them.
“We’re asking one girl to date all three of us,” Adam continued. “Exclusively. Nobody else.”
Trey looked up as he chomped down. “So?”
“So that’s a relationship,” said Adam. “So far we haven’t found a serious one. Not since Alex, and that was college. We were all fucking around. But this? This could’ve been something. An actual, full-blown, four-way relationship. And if we took things to that level, how long would we still hide it?”
Trey took a moment to finish his wing. He washed it down, then dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“As long as we wanted to,” he finally said.
“And do you think that’s fair?” asked Adam. “To Hannah, or Brooke, or whoever it is we end up dating?”
Trey’s eyebrows came together. “Fair as in… what?”
“How long do you think any girl wants to stay our dirty little secret?” I asked, seeing where this was going. “She dates us and what? We never bring her anywhere too public? We never bring her around our friends, our co-workers, our families?”
Trey dropped the napkin and stopped. His look had changed to one of actual consideration.
“Eventually, all this would come out anyway,” Adam said. “You’d have to come clean, or at least not lie that you’re sharing a girlfriend. And if things got even more serious? If we wanted to make her forever ours? Get a place and have children with the same girl together, like we sometimes talk about?”
“We’re usually drunk when we talk about it,” Trey pointed out.
“That doesn’t make it any less of a conversation,” I replied. “We all know who tells the truth. Drunks and children.”
“Anyway,” said Adam, “my point is that eventually, with a successful relationship, we’d have a whole ‘coming out’ problem anyway. We’d have to tell friends. We’d have to tell family. It would be only fair to our girlfriend. And to us.”
Trey looked down at the table. I saw his broad shoulders slump an inch or two, before reaching for another wing.
“I see your point,” he said finally. “But this girl still lied. She was interested in us for an article, for fuck’s sake. And once that thing went to print, with our names on it?” He shook his head. “There’s a good chance we’d be outed. The power to ‘come out’ on our own terms would be taken away from us. We’d be outed by default, and before we were even sure of anything.”
All around us, the noise of the bar blended in. Glasses clinked. Darts thudded. A few dozen voices, all chattering at once.
And us in the center, staring glumly down at nothing.
“Goddammit,” Trey sighed at last, throwing down his unfinished wing. “She really did have a great ass…”
Thirty
BROOKE
I cried all the way home, then I cried some more. Nothing could’ve prepared me for this level of loss. Of having the proverbial rug ripped straight out from under me, without any inkling it was going to happen.
The worst part though, was that I should’ve been prepared. I was days away from completing the article. And with it, my assignment.
How long did you expect this to go on?
Naively, I’d never asked myself this question. Or to be more accurate, I’d never faced it. Yes, I had some vague romantic notion of continuing on with the guys even after I’d put out the article. But that would mean continuing the lie. Living as Hannah instead of Brooke, and avoiding my friends. Lying about what I did. Where I worked. Lying about everything important to me, really.
Everything except my feelings.
Those were real, I knew that now. As real as real could possibly be. Not only had I fallen hard for three separate men, I’d fallen hopelessly in love with the idea of being a shared woman to them. The benefits of my four-way relationship were too incredible to deny, too fantastic to ignore. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t go back…
Even as I said and thought those things, a part of me kept laughing at myself. How could I sustain this? How could I possibly be in love with Adam, with Dante, with Trey… all at once, all sharing my heart. Giving one-hundred percent of myself to all three of them, rather than a third to each.
I realized now, it didn’t work like that. Each of my lovers had all of me, all of the time. It was almost like there were three of me, instead of one. Three separate Brookes maintaining three unique relationships, each with its own inner dynamic. Adam and I had things that Trey and I didn’t. Dante and I had inside jokes that the others could never understand.
And on top of all that? There was a fourth relationship. The one between all of us, and that was the best one of all. Suddenly I could see the appeal for the guys, in wanting to do this. I’d seen first-hand the camaraderie and closeness of being together, not just sexually but overall. The fun and laugher and amazing experiences, that four people could have over only two.
I could’ve come clean. Should’ve come clean. At least then they could’ve decided what to do with me. Whether to forgive me or not.
Instead I’d been found out. Left to look like a selfish, careless asshole. One who was only using them for a scoop or a story, one who cared more about advancing her career than actually building something with three magnificent men.
And nothing could’ve been further from the truth.
At the moment, I cared nothing about the article I should be writing. I didn’t even care if I made Chloe’s deadline, or we missed our window with Cosmo entirely. That would mean my job, for sure. The abrupt end of a long, hard climb along the greased rungs of a tight journalistic ladder.
But all I could think about was them.
When my tears finally dried up, I vowed to keep them from coming again. I turned on every light in my apartment. Tried to distract myself with music, with videos on the computer. Eventually even with the television. Nothing worked. I couldn’t concentrate on a single thing, no matter what I did, no matter where I went.
I tried lying down, but that made things worse. I considered going for a run, or maybe even to the gym, but it was far too late. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink, and that part sucked too. I was stuck. Trapped within the prison of my own mind, with nothing to do but—
Knock. Knock.
My heart leapt into my throat. As I approached the door it began pounding wildly, soaring with hope.
Maybe they’d reconsidered. Maybe they wanted to talk about things some more…
All hope died the second I peered through the peephole. My mouth curled into a bitter frown.
“What the hell do you want, Chris?”
On the other side of the door, my ex shifted from one foot to the other. He looked very small, very weak.
“Honey could you open up? I need to talk to you for a second.”
I heaved a sigh so deep, it seemed to come from the very bottom of my soul.
“It’s late, Chris. And I’m not your honey.”
“Please, Brooke. It’s important.”
Rolling my eyes, I cracked the door. Only an inch, though. Maybe less.
“What?”
He took a step forward. “Let me in.”
“No.”
“Brooke, I’m not having a conversation standing in the hallway,” Chris moaned. “We can talk inside. I lived here for Chrissakes.”
“Lived, yes,” I said coldly. “For once we agree on something.”
He looked at me, and I saw his eyes change. He was always innocuous. Annoying as hell, but generally harmless. But now…
Now I saw something els
e. Something wild and untamed. A desperation, behind his eyes.
“Brooke, I—”
Mid-sentence, the sneaky fuck shouldered the door with everything he had. It slammed backwards, straight into my head.
Hard enough that I saw stars.
Thirty-One
BROOKE
“ASSHOLE!”
I shouted the word in pain and anger, throwing my entire weight back against Chris’s abrupt assault. At the same time, I scrambled for the door chain with my free hand. I should’ve engaged it before I’d opened up for him, but I wasn’t thinking.
“I… just… want… to… TALK!”
I pushed even harder, but the door wasn’t budging. Not an inch, not even a fraction of an inch. Then I looked down and realized why:
My ex had his foot jammed in the doorway.
“CHRIS!” I yelled, in my scariest, most heated voice. It was the voice that had always frightened him. That one that had always gotten him to back off… until now. “Get the FUCK out of my apartme—”
“Something wrong?”
Our eyes had been locked, but suddenly we both turned to look back over his shoulder. There was man standing there now. A man I recognized as someone who’d only recently moved into the apartment across the hall.
“No,” Chris said quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. We were just in the middle of—”
“Get your foot out of her fucking doorway,” the man said calmly.
I took stock of the burly stranger. He wasn’t tall, but he was wide. Older, but not ancient — maybe in his early fifties. He was still well-built, top to bottom, wearing a loose-fitting pair of shorts and a tight, sleeveless T-shirt.
He also had tattoos up and down both arms. One of them, fuzzy with age, I recognized as the Marine Corps logo.
So apparently did Chris.
“Don’t make me say it again, son.”
Chris pulled his foot back and put on the fakest, most phony of all smiles.
“It’s cool man,” my ex said cheerily. “I used to be in the building. She and I lived here for a while, back when…”
The big marine ignored Chris entirely. He dropped his laundry basket to the floor and flexed two big, tattooed hands.
“Sweetheart,” he said, addressing me directly. “Do you want him here?”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“Then he has five seconds to leave,” the man said simply.
Chris appeared confused and utterly bewildered. I had to choke back a laugh in spite of things, it was really that funny.
“I— I uh, was only trying to—”
“Three seconds,” the man said.
He took a step toward Chris, which was really little more than a half step because they were already so close. Chris immediately backed down. He looked at me, unable to hide the terror in his face, then turned back in the direction he came.
“I’ll… I’ll just see you at work tomorrow,” he said, trying to save face. “We can talk then.”
As my ex scurried back down the hallway, the man regarded me heavily for a moment. I could see him eyeing me over, but not on a physical level. He was taking stock of me as a person. As a neighbor.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathed, shoulders slumping. “I am now. Thanks.”
“No thanks needed,” he said crisply. “I’m Mike. Big Mike.”
Big Mike extended a big hand. I shook it gratefully.
“I’m Brooke. Pleased to meet you big Mike.”
“Likewise.”
Big Mike picked up his laundry basket, then shifted it to his opposite hip. “That guy comes back? You knock on my door. That door,” he pointed with one thick finger.
“I certainly will,” I smiled.
“If I’m not at home, my wife will be. Her name’s Ana. She’s tougher than I am, by far.”
I laughed for the first time all day. “I’ll bet.”
“Goodnight Brooke,” said Big Mike. He spoke with a thick, familiar accent that I knew could only belong to one place: Brooklyn. “You ever need a beer or an ear, you just come on by.”
“I will,” I promised.
My new neighbor gave me a friendly wink, then stepped across the hall and nudged open his own door. Before pushing through, he turned back.
“By the way,” he said, “you should probably steer clear of that guy, whoever he is. There’s something about him that’s… wrong,” Mike said.
I swallowed dryly. A cold shiver was already working its way through my body.
“Something in the eyes.”
Thirty-Two
BROOKE
I called in sick for the next two days, which was really a no-brainer. I’d banked more than enough personal time, and Chloe would just figure I was taking the time to wrap up the article.
Besides, I wanted to avoid seeing Chris at all costs.
I spent the first day and night feeling sorry for myself, and going over the events of the day before. I did a lot of soul searching. A good amount of beating myself up, and then consoling myself for not having really meant to hurt anyone in the first place.
I snapped out of it by treating myself to a greasy but delicious breakfast the next morning. It felt amazing just getting outside in the cool crisp air, where nobody knew me and the weather had no pity for me and the rest of the world didn’t owe me jack fucking shit.
Returning to my apartment, I was rejuvenated and relaxed, my mind oddly clear. I sat down at my desk, booted up my machine, and began hammering away at the keyboard. For the next several hours I used every note, every outline, every last ounce of creativity and willpower to write the wittiest, sexiest, most fantastic article on the poly lifestyle ever recorded.
Then I pulled the cork out of a bottle of wine, and poured myself the biggest glass of my life.
Being done with it all felt almost like giving birth. The draft sat there on my screen, staring back at me. The cursor blinking, as if daring me to go further.
I saved my work, rolled my chair away from my desk, and grabbed my phone. It was already dark outside. My hand actually felt light again as I pulled up our group text-message — the one between the guys and I.
Fuck it.
I scrolled back a bit, reading the old conversations and just reminiscing. Our four-way banter was filled with sarcastic quips and snarky comebacks, not to mention page after page of scorching hot sext-messages. The latter were mostly from the guys, detailing all the unspeakably hot things they planned on doing to me night by night.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Then I typed a short, simple message:
For what it’s worth I’m sorry… for everything.
My thumb hovered over the SEND button. Before hitting it, I added:
You guys were the best thing I ever had going.
I pushed down, and the phone beeped once. The little message indicator blinked over to the word ‘delivered.’
There, I’d said my piece. I’d done what I could.
For a good three or four minutes I just stared at the phone. I was waiting for it to beep, willing a response to appear on the screen. I convinced myself I would’ve taken any response really. Even if one of the guys told me to just piss off, at least it’d be something.
I stretched all the way out in my chair, wondering what to do with the rest of my night. As I curled my wrists, arms extended toward the ceiling, I noticed it:
The little message response bubble had started blinking.
Holy shit.
They were just three tiny dots, but they meant the whole world. Three little dots, telling me someone was responding, someone was typing. It had to be a long one, too. Those three tiny dots were blinking for what seemed like forever.
C’mon, c’mon…
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared… the message response bubble blinked away. There was no message left in its wake. No response at all.
My heart sank.
At least they almost sent a message, a consoling inner voice said. Th
at’s gotta mean something. Right?
I got up and crawled into bed, curling into a ball. I almost started feeling sorry for myself. Almost slipped back into the same mindset of yesterday, when the weight of my unexpected loss seemed absolutely crushing.
You know what? Fuck this.
My body shot upright. I blinked a few times, then bounced from the bed and stood up.
I’d given them time, given them space. But I’d also given them myself. Every emotion, every word and murmur and midnight whisper I’d exchanged with all three of my lovers… all of it had represented exactly what was within my heart. The whole time I’d been with them, everything I’d done had been because I wanted to do it. Not because of some stupid magazine article.
No, the name might be fake, but Hannah was real. Totally, utterly, irrevocably real.
Hannah was me.
If they wanted to be mad, they could. If they wanted to shout at me some more, I was fine with that too. But I wasn’t walking away so easily. Hell, Hannah sure wouldn’t have.
I glanced to a darkened window, where a mixture of sleet and freezing rain was pattering against the glass.
It didn’t matter. I knew exactly what I had to do.
Thirty-Three
BROOKE
At the top floor of the old building, the ancient elevator rumbled to a jerky, death-defying stop. I pulled my key. Yanked open the rickety gate, to the high-pitched screech of metal on metal.
As I stepped boldly into the studio apartment, a blast of welcome heat washed over me. I could smell food — pungent and delicious. Spread out over the little counter I saw meat, cheese, spices…
“You’re having taco night without me?”
Adam and Dante were staring back at me incredulously, blank looks on both their faces. One of them had a slotted spoon. The other, a paper plate in each hand.
“Look, I know you’re still mad,” I said, taking another couple of steps forward. “And you’ve got every right to hate me for lying to you...”