by Cara McKenna
He flipped through the photos he’d snapped, smiling, then glanced across the way at the real thing—that glowing, grinning, captivating woman he somehow got to call his, looking slinky and sultry and smart all at once in her little black dress.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her this happy,” said a woman at Vaughn’s back. He didn’t need to glance and confirm—Clare’s mother had a distinctive, distinguished voice, full of authority. She’d intimidated the shit out of him the first couple of times he’d had dinner with the two of them, but they’d grown fond of each other quickly. She was a ballbuster, a real force of nature, but if you could go to the mat with her in a lively debate and hold your own, she wasn’t so tough to charm. You make her laugh, she’d told him once at a restaurant, when Clare had been using the restroom. I never understood why she ended it with her last boyfriend, but when I think about it, I don’t remember him once making her laugh the way you do.
As he watched Clare now, that compliment made him glow. “She should look happy,” he said, pocketing his phone. “She worked her ass off for this.”
Clare’s mom clinked her glass against Vaughn’s. “Amen.”
Clare had pulled this show off with a lot of hustle and countless all-nighters, finishing it amid the stress of a job search. She’d landed a position with a stock photo company, which she’d started only two weeks earlier. Some actual studio photography, but mostly image enhancement. Not her dream job, but miles closer to where she’d like to get, plus she was using her degree.
“You feeling proud, Ms. Fowler?” he asked her mom.
“Don’t make me keep telling you—call me Desiree. And yes, very. She deserves every smile she wears tonight.” She took a sip of her champagne. Vaughn was nursing a glass of seltzer—he’d partaken in a splash of the bubbly stuff to toast Clare right before the doors had opened, but he was driving. Clare had charged him with making sure she didn’t get too tipsy and embarrass herself, but there was little chance of that. She was too busy fielding her admirers’ questions to empty her flute.
Clare’s dad had come as well—he was chatting with Vaughn’s father, in fact. They were off in the corner, hovering by the cash bar, each with a beer in hand. Vaughn didn’t need to be in earshot to guess what they were talking about—his dad was miming throwing a football in slow motion, so the topic had to be the Steelers’ chances this coming fall.
Vaughn wandered with Desiree from photo to photo, and though he’d seen them all before, Clare’s talent still took his breath away. You felt like you knew these people, the way she captured them. Little moments frozen in time, curious expressions, busy hands, freckles, wrinkles, scars, tattoos . . . every tiny mark that made a person unique. He lingered for a long time before Clare’s self-portrait, feeling bewitched, trying to catch each and every murmured compliment that slipped from the nearby guests’ lips.
“This is your roommate, isn’t it?” Desiree asked, drawing his attention to his left.
“Yeah, that’s Mica.” Mica, perched on Linnea’s fire escape back in May. Eyes black, dangling Christmas lights bright white, a ribbon of blue-gray cigarette smoke jetting from his lips. Vaughn shivered. Clare had an uncanny knack for capturing people’s essences, and that single image triggered too many emotions to count. Vaughn’s best friend, in all his charismatic, untouchable, infuriating glory . . . The man he’d wanted to punch more than once, wanted to fix, wanted to do unnerving and unanticipated things with—and had. The man who’d led him to Clare, as well. A man who might walk through the door at any moment.
Vaughn made his way to each and every photograph, eavesdropped on the other guests. Eyed the entrance, always scanning for Mica but never finding him. He chatted with Clare’s friends; with both their fathers, still hovering by the bar; met an old professor of hers and a couple of former classmates. Again and again, his eyes jumped to the door, and again and again, the new arrival stepping in from the balmy night wasn’t Mica. At eight thirty, Vaughn checked his phone, then looked across the bustling room to Clare. She was talking with just one guest at the moment, and Vaughn seized the opening, picking his way through the crowd toward her.
Clare caught his eye over the shoulder of the man she was chatting with, and smiled in a way that said, Just a sec. He nodded, lingered nearby. He studied the photo of Clare’s chef acquaintance as he waited, rewarded when she slipped free and greeted him with a quick rub on the back. Pleasure warmed him, just being seen with her. Being hers, openly, officially, in this room full of her admirers. Her achievement felt like his in a way, and filled him up with pure, selfless pride.
“Hey,” she said. “Hanging in there?”
“Of course. I’m having a great time. But what about you, Ms. Popular?”
Her cheeks grew round with a suppressed grin. “I’m happy. Very happy. I was just talking with a journalist who writes for the Post-Gazette’s Local Arts section.”
Vaughn glanced over his shoulder, noting that the older man did indeed have a pad in one hand and a digital camera dangling from a strap around his wrist. He was eyeing Clare’s self-portrait intently.
“Hey, now. Think you’ll get a glowing write-up?”
“Here’s hoping. You look nice,” she said, smoothing the collar of his shirt.
He laughed. “That’s, like, the fifth time you’ve said that tonight. Should I take a hint?”
“Certainly not. I like you in jeans and sweats just fine. But the change is novel. Makes me wish I had a wedding I could bring you to. You dress up real nice, Vaughn Tucker.”
“You’re not too shabby yourself.”
Her expression changed, growing cagey or shy as her grin faded. “Did you, um . . .”
Vaughn nodded, knowing what she was getting at. The thing they’d discussed last night in bed, between lingering kisses and lazy yawns. Want me to talk to him? Vaughn had asked her. Feel him out? She’d said yes, he should. She was down; Vaughn was down. Mica was leaving for LA in two days. It was now or never. Or if not never, now or next summer, at the earliest.
“And?” she prompted, fingers drumming her dwindling flute.
“I asked him this morning. Well, not asked. I told him you—and me, both of us—that we’re down for another night like back in the spring. No strings, just three friends. Just sex,” he concluded in a near whisper.
And it would be just sex. Clare was over Mica, well and truly. Her bruised ego had healed up quick, though they’d spent the summer focusing on just the two of them, their own deepening romance. But as the weather grew hotter, so did their pillow talk, and idle, filthy remembrances of the three-ways had gone from fantasy fuel to a distinct possibility, the more they talked about it, in and out of bed.
As for Vaughn and Mica, they’d been a little strained, for a time. Not long, just until it was clear Clare wasn’t hung up on Mica anymore, but there’d been a space between them this summer. Not a bad thing, necessarily. Vaughn suspected his friend needed that space, had put it there himself, in order to keep his complicated feelings for Vaughn in check, out of respect for Vaughn’s no-longer-single status. Thoughtful, really, coming from someone as self-serving as Mica could be.
“What’d he say?” Clare asked.
“He played it cool, but I think it’s a go. He sort of glazed over,” Vaughn said, recalling it. Mica’s expression had stayed casual, but the focus had abandoned his eyes, as though he’d flashed back to those sinful spring evenings the moment Vaughn acknowledged them. “He said let’s talk tonight, after the show.” And he’d licked his lips, always a hint at the man’s baser intentions.
“Looking like that,” Vaughn added, giving Clare a thorough up and down, “he’d be a robot to say no.” And Mica was far from robotic. He was the most hot-blooded man Vaughn had ever met. “You sure you still want it?”
“Yes,” she said, softly and with certainty, squaring her shoulders. “For both of us, yeah, I want it. I
know things with him and me didn’t have the most mutual conclusion . . . but I don’t care about that anymore. He was what I needed, when I needed him, and it was fun for what it was. And he brought you and me together, most important of all. And the three of us . . . well, it seems like you two needed me, maybe, to take care of some unfinished business from your trips.”
Vaughn swallowed, feeling hot for a dozen clashing reasons. “Sounds about right.”
“But I’m over him, romance-wise,” she said firmly. “And you two are solid. He’s leaving, and we both still want him. If he wants the same, we’d be fools to pass up the chance.”
He nodded.
“And if he doesn’t? Oh well. You and me are plenty hot enough just on our own.”
“No doubt.” Though Vaughn would be lying if he said there was nothing more at stake tonight than passing disappointment. Nothing that underpinned his and Clare’s relationship, or even his friendship with Mica. But something.
A part of him wanted—needed—a repeat of that last threesome. The sexual side of his and Mica’s relationship . . . it wasn’t some external add-on, a thing that could just be disconnected, ignored, overridden. It lived inside their friendship, woven in just like their shared memories, their shared hobby, their trust and their bond, dozens of talks out there in the desert, opening up about things neither had with anyone else. The sexual side of them made things stronger, even if fear had left Vaughn feeling it was more like a toxin for so long.
Being with Clare had changed all that. Talking with her about the things the three of them had done, and seeing the way it excited her, had made him grateful for those encounters. It replaced the burn of shame with a blush of lust. He’d refused to integrate those sexual encounters into his concept of himself, always blaming them on the alcohol, or simply on Mica. But he’d wanted those things, too. He’d enjoyed them, but hadn’t been ready to admit it, not until he’d met someone he respected as deeply as he did Clare, and discovered that his darkest secrets didn’t repulse her. Quite the opposite—
“Oh.” Her little exclamation pulled Vaughn from his thoughts. Her brows were high, eyes trained over his shoulder. “He’s here.”
Vaughn turned, and his stomach dropped into his good shoes. He’d just seen Mica this morning, but nonetheless . . .
And you took your sweet time. No shock there.
He’d dressed up, or as much as Mica ever would—corduroys and a black henley. Even if he was the most casual man in the room, it didn’t matter. People as beautiful as him elevated whatever they wore, made cotton look like cashmere. His dreads were down, brushing his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He approached Bree, who was chatting with some friend of hers and Clare’s. They’d never met, but she listened to whatever he said, glanced around, and gestured in Clare and Vaughn’s direction. Mica made his way over, expression cool and unreadable. Vaughn shivered, shocked by how much he had invested in Mica’s verdict regarding tonight.
On his way, Mica snagged a glass of red wine from a passing server, gifted her with a quick smile. Vaughn heard Clare blow out a long breath at his side.
Mica stopped before them, holding up his glass. “Opening night.”
Clare tapped it with her flute. “Thanks for coming. Hell, thanks for hanging on a wall. You’re over there, by the way.” She pointed to where Mica’s portrait was displayed, currently being discussed by a small group of guests. Mica spared a second’s glance, but his interest seemed to be locked tightly on the two of them. That’s his magic, Vaughn marveled. The way he could make you feel like the only one in the room, the most fascinating person in the world. His attention was addictive, as Clare had learned the hard way.
“Good crowd,” Mica said.
“I know. I can’t believe it.”
“Remember me when you’re famous,” he said, and sipped his wine.
Clare paused—blushed, if Vaughn wasn’t mistaken—and spoke quietly. Pointedly. “You’re hard to forget.”
Mica’s gaze dropped for half a breath—to her glass or her cleavage or her dress . . . Who could say? He smiled. “That’s nice to hear.” The two hadn’t seen each other since the final three-way. The night Clare had snuck out in the wee hours. Hadn’t spoken since he’d blown her off, the day she’d lost her job. Vaughn always went to her place.
With the sharpest, hottest bolt, Vaughn remembered the sight of their two bodies on his bed. Jealousy and lust mingled, and he needed to see that again. Needed to watch his best friend serve and worship his girlfriend in the darkest ways, all the while knowing he was the one who got her for keeps. Closure would never look half as hot as it might tonight.
“You’re leaving on Sunday?” she asked Mica.
“Yeah. My flight’s at noon.”
“Pittsburgh will be sorry to see you go.”
“It’s a cool town. I’d stay longer, except the soon-to-be rightful owner of my room probably wouldn’t appreciate it.”
Vaughn had found a new renter for the second bedroom, a fellow EMT he expected would be a great fit. The new lease was signed. They both worked odd, clashing hours, so it’d be a nice mix of social time and solitude. He’d be able to have Clare over when Andy worked overnights and have the whole place to themselves. And he was ready for the change; Mica might be his best friend, but their relationship was intense, and living together had been a dynamic, and sometimes exhausting, endeavor.
“Vaughn talked to you,” Clare said carefully to Mica, and panned the vicinity to be sure no one could overhear. “About us all . . . saying good-bye.”
Mica nodded. “Tonight?”
“Now or never, really, if Vaughn’s working all night tomorrow. Did you . . . Do you want that, too? No pressure.”
For once in his life, Mica was direct. “You were upset with me, the way things ended.”
She smiled, looking sheepish. “For a little while, sure. I liked you. You probably knew that. I needed a reality check, and I got one. And no hard feelings. If we . . . If anything did happen tonight, it’d just be sex.” That final word was a whisper.
Another of those wolfish smiles. “You say that like sex isn’t plenty.”
“You know what she means,” Vaughn said, ending his silence.
Mica nodded once. “Just making sure.” He paused, breaking eye contact—a rare gesture for him. When he did reconnect, it was Vaughn’s gaze he met. “I’m not usually one to think too hard about an offer, but what you two have, it matters. I want to be sure I’m not going to fuck it up.”
Vaughn could only blink, taken aback. This was a layer of sensitivity he’d not thought his friend capable of. He had absolutely zero doubt that Mica would be the other man, if he wanted somebody bad enough—be the one a person cheated with, that was. Ethics weren’t his strong suit. To hear him say those words left Vaughn upended. Luckily, Clare spoke for the both of them.
“We’ve talked a lot about it,” she said quietly, and glanced around again to confirm their privacy. “We’re sure. Just for fun. Think of it as an epic farewell.”
Or maybe an epic “until next time,” Vaughn couldn’t help but think. Next time Mica was in town, or if Clare and Vaughn stayed together, and she ever wanted to try her hand at climbing, some summer. There had been a time when he’d been so frightened of that conflicted side of their friendship, he’d stayed in a toxic relationship just for the excuse of fidelity. But Clare had changed everything. He knew now, when the sexual side of things with Mica ended, a dark but rich facet of their complex relationship would be severed, and now the thought of that brought some measure of sadness, instead of relief.
“I’ll think about it,” Mica said, and drained his glass.
Clare’s brow furrowed as Vaughn felt his own do the same.
Mica smiled. “Lemme check out the show. What time’s this place close?”
“Nine,” she said.
“I’
ll tell you at nine, then.”
You just have to make it a game, don’t you? Vaughn thought, more amused than annoyed. How very Mica. If he couldn’t be the one in pursuit, he’d make you chase him.
And with that, Mica left them, edging his way toward the nearest photograph.
Vaughn caught Clare’s confounded expression and rolled his eyes. “If he can’t be the hunter, he has to be the prey. I’ll work on him.”
She nodded, looking confused, but luckily two of her girlfriends arrived then, making a giddy beeline across the room to assault her with hugs. Vaughn said hello and then excused himself, making his way to the bar, where he ordered two bourbons. He wouldn’t finish his, but goddamn, he needed to taste that just now. He paid and carried both to where Mica stood before Clare’s self-portrait.
“You just hate it when it’s easy, don’t you?” Vaughn asked, keeping his tone hushed and even.
Mica smiled, not looking away from the photo. “What does that mean?”
“You want me to beg?”
“She’s beautiful,” Mica announced, gaze locked on Clare’s printed image.
“I know.”
“If I was capable of staying with somebody, I would have managed it with someone like her.”
“Well, we’re not asking you for that. Just inviting you to join us, one last time.”
Mica turned and spotted the two glasses, accepting the one Vaughn offered. “I remember back when it was her, inviting you,” he said, and took a taste.
Vaughn did the same. On your behalf, he corrected in his head, knowing Clare had been Mica’s toy back then, but he held his tongue. “So do I.”
“Funny how things come around.”
Vaughn stepped closer, near enough for their shoulders to brush. He kept his attention on the photo and spoke softly. “I’m not going to see you for another year, probably.”
“Probably not.”