by Kent, Julia
Alpha.
“Not my circle chair!” Laura groaned as Mike pointed his phone at it. Black. “That used to be a really nice mauve.”
“It’s toast now,” Mike muttered.
“Laura, a restoration and cleaning company should really get in here before you take anything home,” Dylan interjected, arms crossed, brow furrowed, voice uncharacteristically stern and bureaucratic. “You shouldn’t inhale any of the soot from the fire.”
“Mike said he’d wash everything three times before I wear it,” she answered, voice echoing from the tinny speaker. Dylan shot him a look of pure evil. Mike’s saucy grin was his only answer.
“Suck up,” Dylan hissed.
Mike thought that over for a second. “I’ll own that.” Deeper grin. Dylan’s eyeroll felt like a victory.
Two hours later he and Dylan were straining to carry out a slew of choices Laura had made, from clothing to heirlooms to the cat beds, although he had repeatedly offered to buy her whatever she needed.
“Why does she want all this?” he asked Dylan as they crammed it into the back of the jeep. “Her coconut shampoo? Seriously?”
“It’s comfort. Control. Fire victims need it, so it’s good to do this for her. I’ve seen people cry over a dirty seventy-nine cent can opener. When your house catches fire and you survive, things take on more meaning.” Mike eyed a hand-knitted lap throw Laura had screamed about when found intact. Her grandma had made it. She wanted it for the baby’s crib.
“Her things, you mean.”
“Right. It’s not the same if you swoop in and just replace it all with a four-figure trip to Target.” Surveying the load, Mike started to understand. Laura hadn’t asked for appliances or expensive electronics. She wanted photo albums and video cartridges and clothing. Personal stuff you couldn’t really replace easily.
And the damn gallon jug of coconut shampoo.
“Gotcha.” Mike relished the drive back to the cabin, knowing she was there. Dylan had put dinner in the oven before they left, a slow-cooking roast, and tonight would be the first night they would all spend together.
As a family? The thought went through his mind so fast, like a blink, that he didn’t dare dwell on it. If he did, it might not happen.
Please let it happen. For the first time in months, the drive up the mountain felt like he was really coming home, Dylan singing along to some ’80s Christmas song, the late-autumn sun warming his skin as the prospect of creating a true home with Dylan, Laura and their baby warmed his heart.
“I still think you are nuts. And not warlock waitress nuts. Crazy. Cray cray. The baby needs to have a father on the birth certificate.”
Laura sat on the sectional sofa, butt sinking deep into the soft leather, a warm red down comforter keeping her toasty. Getting up would be harder than getting comfortable, but she had Josie to help. And, soon, Mike and Dylan. Snuggles moved a foot along the top of the sofa, chasing a patch of sun.
“Well, hello to you, too, Miss Merry Sunshine,” Laura cracked. She gratefully accepted the cup of decaf Josie offered.
“They’ll be here soon and this is the first chance I’ve had in a week to talk openly with you. Those two seemed to have had a schedule for making sure one of them was always there in the hospital.”
“They did.”
Josie’s face was agog. “All so I couldn’t talk alone with you?”
Sip. “I don’t think that’s why.” Sip. “Just, you know, because we’re—” What words were supposed to come out next? Together? Were they back together? Laura didn’t know where they stood, actually. Five days in the hospital had been long enough to learn that she was fine. The baby was fine. The polyhydramnios had actually improved a bit, though it wasn’t gone. She would need constant monitoring for the rest of the pregnancy, but they hadn’t found any problems with the baby that explained it. Being extra-big with added fluid would make it harder to move around, and could make the delivery a bit risky, but they’d ruled out birth defects.
Which had been the best news Laura had received in— well, ever. Diana had reviewed her chart with Sheri and the supervising obstetrician, Dr. Kalharian, and they’d agreed on a schedule for follow-up care.
Her orders: go home, rest, hydrate, recover.
Easier said than done, because she’d had no home. Until Mike and Dylan had offered her one. Josie, too. Deciding had been hard and easy at the same time. Josie was the easy choice, and her friend seemed to assume Laura would pick her.
But her heart, her gut—her womb—told her to go heal in the mountains.
She figured out pretty quickly that the guys would respect her, would treat her like a queen, and would wait on her hand and foot if she stayed at the cabin. Dylan had told her, with a quiet serenity and troubled demeanor that was so unlike him, about his and Mike’s...fight? Breakup? What word do you use when there isn’t one to describe the relationship in the first place?
So many strands of the relationship between the three of them had been snapped by someone deciding not to tell a simple secret, the kind of information that really wasn’t a deal breaker, but that can become one if withheld for too long. Dylan and Mike really cared about her—she knew that, and knew that by screaming at them that day at Josie’s months ago, she’d created a rift that needed mending.
And yet she absolutely was not the only one with some guilt to work through. The guys hadn’t told her they knew each other, and she was still uneasy, in a tiny place deep inside, about how they had come to her, orchestrated that wonderful first night. Getting over that had been hard, but not impossible. Could she find a place for their other secret?
Staring around the room, she suspected she could. The vaulted ceilings, the knotty pine, the startling view of the snow-covered ski trails, and the cozy fire burning in the fireplace all made her feel like she could—
“—eat shit?”
“Huh?”
Josie stared at her. “I still don’t get why you didn’t tell Mike and Dylan they could just go and eat shit, but I respect your decision.” Her tone of voice made it clear she did not. “How’s little Josie today?”
“You mean little Laura?”
“Whatever.” Bzzzz. Laura found a text from Mike: “Need anything at the store? Ice cream and pickles?”
She read it aloud. Josie softened. “That is really sweet.”
Laura typed back: “Nope. Thanks! <3”
“You’re going to regret that at midnight when you want salted caramel ice cream.” Josie stood and reached for her purse.
“You’re leaving?” Panic fluttered in her chest. Or was that the baby kicking again? Touching her belly, she shook her head slightly, to herself. Nope. Panic.
“Four—er, five,” she pointed to Laura’s midsection, “is a crowd.”
Reckoning. This would be it. Mike and Dylan would come back and they’d wash her things and she would need to find a rhythm here as she recovered, the three of them settling in to— what? What, exactly, were they to each other? And then there was the issue of—
“—who the father is.” An expectant look covered Josie’s face.
“Huh?”
“The baby is sucking your brain right out of your head, Laura.” Josie laughed. “It’s like you’re not listening to anything I say.”
“And that’s new because...” she joked.
“Ha ha.” Josie shrugged into her leather coat. She looked like Captain America when he was little. “You’ll talk to the guys about the birth certificate issue?” They’d cooked up a scheme they thought the guys would accept. Even Laura realized that as sweet as it was to share the baby, and for whichever man wasn’t the bio dad to act as if he were, the practical legalities needed to be respected. Someone’s name needed to be on the birth certificate.
“I will. I promise.” The two hugged, Laura clinging a bit longer than she normally would. As if crossing over into a new life, a new world, she felt unmoored, time starved, and unsure. The baby grounded her in that moment by kicking he
r, hard, in the cervix.
“See you tomorrow.” Click. The front door closed and Josie walked out on the porch, the same porch where, nearly five months ago, Laura had slunk out, Mike bringing her her purse, her fear so overwhelming it had almost crushed her heart.
Almost. And then...why hadn’t they told her? Why? They were billionaires. Her baby’s father was a billionaire. Josie had joked about child support (“You could get more than you make in a year. Hell, in a decade, per month. Can I get the other one to impregnate me?”) and Laura reeled from the implications of all.that.money.
Some dish Dylan had in the oven simmered and filled the cabin with a luscious aroma that made her belly start to eat itself. She was hungry.
The guys were on their way. Her stomach dropped. Because this time she’d be alone with them and it was time for some long overdue conversations.
Why was it always, indeed, so complicated?
A palpable tension sat between him and Mike on the car ride up the mountain, a third partner who wasn’t nearly as appealing as Laura. Unresolved emotions, unspoken words, and a sense of uncertainty made the air thick, kept Dylan’s nerves on edge, and finally forced him to blurt out, “I was a total douche. I should never have made us wait to tell her about the money, and I almost blew it, and now here we are with maybe—kinda—sorta—a chance with her, and I don’t want to fuck it up again.”
Cringe.
“If you’re a douche, I’m a bigger one. Mega douche. Thor the Douche,” Mike bantered back, his voice jovial, but his face serious. Eyes on the road, he seemed to feel the change in the car. They were talking. Really talking, once again.
“How do we make this right with her?” Dylan’s words had an urgency, a plaintive tone he could hear in his own voice and hated.
Mike shrugged. “I think this time we actually listen to her and Josie and do what Laura wants.”
“That easy?”
Mike picked up Route 2 and they prepared for the long drive. “If it were easy, we wouldn’t have fucked it up.”
“Twice.”
“Yeah. Twice.” Mike blinked, revving up to sixty-five mph. “Dylan, I’m sorry about the glass and all that.”
“It’s OK. You sent that cleaning crew and replaced everything.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Mike’s jaw flexed and twitched, his stubble glinting in the sunshine.
“I know. And it’s OK. As long as we’re OK.”
Mike laughed, a sputtering sound of surprise. “We’re fucked, man.”
“Yeah. We’re about as far from OK as you can get.”
That made Mike swallow and blink hard. “True. But as long as we’re not OK together, I think we’ll be fine.”
“What if it’s not your baby?” Dylan said rapidly, as if saying the words fast would somehow make them less provocative.
“What if it’s not yours?” Mike’s answer was a growl.
Silence. A dark cloud of confusion and suspicion, with an undertone of something sinister he’d not felt with Mike, ever, slithered about in the Jeep. Dylan decided to let down his defenses and simply said, “I don’t care. I care, but I’m not invested in whose she is. I’m invested in loving who she is.”
Mike’s head jerked back in surprise. Shoulders relaxing, he drew in a deep breath. “Same here.” He took his eyes off the road for a second and gave Dylan a look that made him fight to hold back tears. “I just don’t want to be left out of the greatest love I can imagine.”
Nodding, Dylan tapped him on the shoulder with a gentle fist and said, “Impossible. Because that love can’t exist without all three of us.”
“Four. Four now.”
Four.
Laura woke to the sounds of laughter in the kitchen, deep men’s voices guffawing and teasing, the room’s light telling her it was past sunset and somehow she’d fallen asleep in place, curled up and warm. Her stomach growled and her mouth felt like cotton, parched. A glass of water on a coaster, inches from her hand, was a pleasant surprise. A few quick gulps and she finished it off, yawned, stretched and—ouch!—sciatica flared up, necessitating that she stand and stretch more.
Little muscles in her hips and along her ribcage needed to be treated with kid gloves, stretched slowly and with great care, or she’d have a stitch in her side and a major spasm. Pregnancy really wasn’t for wimps, all the blessings aside.
Walking with a slight waddle, she made her way into the kitchen. Mike was making a salad, Dylan checking on a roast, and both turned to her, smiles at the ready, so amused and playful she almost burst into tears at the hope it all inspired.
“She rises!” Dylan exclaimed, drying his hands on a dish towel and planting a kiss on her cheek. Mike kept his space, reaching for the empty glass in her hand. Without asking, he filled it from the water dispenser on the fridge door and handed it back, full.
“Thanks,” she said, looking around, blinking. Both men kept stealing glances of her belly. Obvious and trying not to be. She did a shimmy and said, “Lap dances, $25.”
“You undercharge,” Dylan said, mirth in his voice but something more sensual in his eyes. Her pulse quickened and blood flowed to places that had been deeply neglected by a man’s touch.
“OK. $50. I’m lap dancing for two, after all.” She wiggled her belly. Mike groaned and Dylan winced. Topic change.
“Whatcha cooking?” She nosed over Dylan’s shoulder. A big slab of delicate meat surrounded by carrots, potatoes, onions, and something unidentifiable. “What’s that?”
“Celeriac.”
“Sell airy what?”
“Celeriac. It’s kind of like the root of a celery plant. Sort of. It’s really savory and complements the meat nicely.”
“Mmmmmkay, Rachel Ray.”
He looked offended. “I’m Gordon Ramsay all the way, babe.” Arms reached around her, his face nonplussed as he couldn’t make it, the belly in the way. “Don’t you forget it,” he joked, pulling back, bemused.
“More like the rat in Ratatouille,” Mike said, droll and patient.
“You two are getting Kraft Mac n Cheese if you don’t stop.”
Her stomach growled audibly. Dylan pointed at it and said, “The baby speaks! She defends me!”
“Are all audible bodily functions a commentary on you, Dylan? If so...” Mike bit his lips, holding back.
“Let’s just eat!” Laura declared. Her stomach growled again. “I’m starving!” No one had cooked her a homemade meal in, well—not since Dylan’s meatballs. It felt good to be pampered, cared for, taken care of.
And the food was divine.
So was the company. Somehow, the three of them fell back into an easy banter, talking and laughing with abandon, yet comfortable with silence. So much to say. So little pressure to say it. Time might heal all, she thought, if they never said a word. Just living and being and coexisting might do the trick.
Not really. She could hope, though. Food, though— food had a universal language that said, “Dig in. Eat. Relax. Enjoy.”
And she did.
Beep! Something that sounded like a clothes dryer went off. “Oh! Your quilt!” Mike said, jumping up from the table and walking down the hallway.
“My quilt?”
“Your grandma’s quilt. Mike’s washing it a few times. Part of your stuff we hauled home.”
A grateful warmth filled her. Blinking back tears, she said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Mike.”
She reached for Dylan’s hand and squeezed. “No. Thank you. You saved me. Saved us.”
He shook his head, eyes serious. “I almost ruined us. And I hurt you deeply.” Hearing it from him made a difference; she had tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, but it did. Mike returned to the table, a look of puzzlement, then alarm, on his face.
“Everything OK?”
“We’re getting serious,” Dylan muttered.
Mike’s face shifted to dawning understanding. “Oh. Got it.” He pushed his plate back and leaned forwa
rd on the table, chin in hand. “Is this the part where I get down on my knees and beg Laura to forgive me for being such a ridiculous, cravenly afraid asshole?”
“That’s my role!” Dylan protested. “I look really good eating humble pie. Lately, it’s my specialty. Shows off my good side.” He tilted his face to the left, a sad smirk coloring the discussion.
“You can both play that role,” she joked. Except she wasn’t joking. They all knew it. “No,” she added, shaking her head. “All three of us can play that role, because I did to you what you did to me.” She winced. “With higher stakes.”
No one argued. That made her feel even worse. Here we go, she thought. Cards on the table. Hearts on sleeves. It was now or never, and clichés aside, if she wasn’t brutally honest with herself and with them, she could never, in good conscience, forgive herself.
Which was the most important person she needed to extend forgiveness to.
“Can I say something, Laura?” Mike interrupted. He stood slowly, with great deliberation, inch by inch rising to stand over her and Dylan, the table miniscule and unimportant, the air filled with intent.
“Sure,” she squeaked.
He looked at Dylan. “I need to say this to you, too.” Dylan looked askance, uncertain and a bit worried, mirroring Laura’s own internal state.
Mike sighed. “I love you both.” He bent down and touched Laura’s belly. “And I love her, too. We have lots of words we could utter and exchange, decode and expunge, but none of those words matter as much as these: I’m sorry.” He looked deeply into her eyes, then Dylan’s. “I love you.” Again, at both, careful and measured, meted out equally. “I love this. I’ve missed this.”
His hands swept over the table, gesturing at the room, trying to capture the love and laughter and comfort in his hands. Laura knew he couldn’t, because it wasn’t a thing. It was something the three of them created when they were together, an alchemy they couldn’t force. It just was. “I want it all, for the rest of my life.” He bowed his head, releasing Laura’s swell. “I don’t have any better words.”