by Anna Zabo
“Hi,” I whispered.
Simon tilted his head and snorted.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to be enough. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You damn well better be.” Fury there, cold and hard. Simon lowered his arms. “Two weeks, Ian. You wouldn’t be here if Lydia hadn’t run into you.”
My heart ticked up a notch. He was right about that. “Eventually—”
“Eventually?” Simon ground the word out. “I don’t know what the hell I did for you to treat me like shit.”
Man, that was a punch to the gut. “You didn’t—you didn’t do anything.” I’d been dumb enough to fall in love.
“Then what the hell, Ian?” His voice pitched up, both in volume and tone, and he waved his hands in frustration.
I looked away. I couldn’t take the pain in his eyes, the crack in his voice. Mistake, that, because what I found was my dragon, the one I’d given him. He’d painted it, the entire sculpture, the darkest shade of black I’d ever seen. Not one spot of white bisque remained. If I thought his words had hurt— This was far beyond that blow. I took one step and then another, until I was leaning over the table, my heart in my throat and my lungs too tight to breathe.
There’d been so much detail there, now covered over. The dragon that leapt toward the sky wasn’t the one I’d painstakingly created. Something else sat there now, ugly and twisted and false.
“Our relationship.” Simon’s words were cold and low.
Simon didn’t think himself an artist. Oh, he was. Only a fellow artist could have rammed the blade in and twisted it so neatly.
“That’s unfair,” I said.
“No, it’s not, and you know it.”
I couldn’t argue, because in the end, Simon was right. I hadn’t wanted to face this. Tried to avoid it. I’d run. I’d been caught. “Look.” I stared at my hands. “It’s not you—”
“Don’t you dare, Ian. No platitudes. I’m thirty-five years old. The ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ routine got old in high school.” He’d come closer. I pushed myself off the table. God damn him. I was trying. I didn’t want to hurt him more or make this harder than it already was.
“You want the truth?”
“I always want the truth.” He met my stare. “Always.”
“I can’t do this.” I gestured between him and me. “I tried, but I can’t be this side fling you have.”
He stepped back, his expression shifting to confusion.
“I mean, you’ve got the perfect life, Si. A beautiful wife who understands you. A great community. An adorable snotty cat. I don’t fit into that picture. It was like a dream being with you. This wonderful, incredible time we had. But it’s not real, you know?” My heart hammered against my ribs and I couldn’t keep the tears from slipping past. “I’m not a part of your life. I can’t be a part of it. But I want to be and— I didn’t know what else to do.”
The anger had drained away from Simon like blood, leaving him pale and watching me. He scrubbed his face. “Wait. What are you trying to tell me?”
Everything tumbled in my head. I glanced at the dragon, its glory covered, and tried to find the words. “I know we just met, and everything moved so damn fast, and you’re fucking amazing . . . and . . .” I swallowed and met his wide-eyed gaze. Simon had his hand over his mouth. “I fell in love. Which is stupid to do in a week.”
Simon didn’t move, so I kept going.
“Thing is, I want to be with you. Not be a fuck buddy or a friend with benefits or whatever the hell we were. But that’s impossible because you have a life already. So I . . . ran. Which was dumb. And cowardly. And I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take the thought of you dumping me when our time ended, so . . .” I wiped my eyes. There. That was all I had. The tears were gone and I felt hollow.
“Oh.” Simon breathed out the word. “Damn it, Ian.” No heat. He backed up and leaned against his washing machine, and took a deep breath. “I wish you’d told me some of this. I should have asked too, which is my fault.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
When he met my gaze this time, some of the Simon I’d known from two weeks ago gazed back, not the furious man, but the hurt and yet understanding one. “Yes.” Another huff of painful laughter. “Did you think I was lying when I said I loved you?”
“Yes . . . and no.” Man, the pain on Simon’s face. “I mean, I’m sure you meant what you said, but it’s not like you love me like you love—” I glanced up to where I’d last seen Lydia in the kitchen.
Simon closed his eyes and twisted his lips. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mumbled. When he opened them again, he sighed. “Do you know how long it took me to realize I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Lydia?”
I shook my head.
“Three days. We were married a month later, and everyone said it would never last because it happened so fast.”
I didn’t know the point of this. “But it did. You guys are perfect together.”
He let out a laugh. “Oh, we’re not. No one is, Ian. We love each other to pieces but we also talk to each other. We’ve always been poly, so we knew all the pitfalls of relationships since we’d been through them. You have to communicate if you have any hope of surviving. That’s true of every relationship, but up the number of people, and it’s essential.”
Still didn’t get where this was going. “I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought you did, and it’s my fault for not checking to make sure. We could have avoided all of this if I had.” He waved his hand around, then dropped it back on his thigh with a slap.
I stared at him.
“I’m guessing that you think polyamory is all about sex, right? Fuck a bunch of people with permission and have guilt-free flings. Yes?”
I hadn’t thought about it. “I suppose so? I mean you said you were swingers. All the poly guys I dated were into it for the sex, so . . . yeah.”
He nodded. “Well, to be honest, it can be that. But it doesn’t have to be. It’s not what I enjoy, because flings exhaust me. I need the emotional connection beyond the sex.”
I studied him as his words sank into my brain. A wash of calm flowed over me. “Si, what is it that you’re trying to tell me?”
“That I absolutely can love you like I love Lydia. I want that. I’m not in it only for the sex, Ian. I want a relationship. With you.”
All those words scuttled around my head. I took them in and tried to pry them apart. “You . . . have that already. With Lydia.” I couldn’t be a part of that, could I?
“Yes, I know.” The smile I so loved surfaced for a moment, but seriousness stole it away. “I want that with you, too.”
“But—you’ve been married ten years!” So much history there. I could never hope to match it. “You know her so much better, and—” I shrugged helplessly.
Simon crossed his arms again, but it didn’t seem standoffish, since he was lounging against the washing machine. “Love’s not a competition, Ian. I’ve known Lydia longer, yeah. Doesn’t mean I can’t love you. With a little time and a hell of a lot of communication, we can make things work.”
The calm I’d found vanished into a buzzing in my veins and heart. He meant every word. He loved me. Wanted what I wanted—had wanted that all along. I had so many questions, though. “How does it all work? Between you and me and Lydia and . . . all that.” This wasn’t just us. It had never been just us, but emotionally a relationship was far different than a fling.
“Well, after our last time together, I had been planning to invite you over to figure that all out. Or at least start the conversation to see if you’d be interested in something serious.”
But I’d up and vanished on him. I shoved a hand through my hair. “Is it too late to say I’m sorry and I shouldn’t have disappeared like that?”
A chuckle. “No.” He pushed himself off the washer and beckoned with his index finger. “Come here.”
As commands went, it
was mild. Still, warmth tingled through me, and I was moving before I’d thought about it. When we met, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.
God, I’d missed him. His heat, his scent. The beating of his heart. I pressed my face into his shoulder, and he stroked my back. I didn’t realize I was crying until he murmured, “It’s okay.”
I laughed, then hiccupped and pulled back enough to wipe my eyes. “I have no idea what you see in me.”
“You’re charming, insufferable, talented, witty, and fucking incredible in bed.” He caressed the back of my neck. “You’re a certified geek and you like comics. You’re not going to hate me for getting lost in painting. Plus, Lydia thinks you’re adorable.” He paused. “I could keep going, you know.”
I was already flushed with embarrassment. “Maybe later.”
A huff at that. He cupped the side of my face and kissed me. His lips were warm and sweet, and he coaxed mine open with his tongue. I’d been the aggressor before, and he didn’t kiss like I did, but he possessed me nonetheless—my soul, my heart. I was terrified and elated and I had no idea what was going to happen.
Only that Simon wanted me like I wanted him. We could figure the rest of the complicated picture out. I melted against him and let him kiss me into oblivion.
Eventually, he pulled back. “We ought to go upstairs.”
Lydia had been cooking. No idea how long we’d been talking, but it had to have been long enough to overcook about everything. I winced. “I bet I ruined the meal.”
He caressed my jaw with his thumb. “Doubt it.” He nudged me toward the stairs.
I turned and caught a glimpse of the dragon. “What are you going to do now?” I nodded toward it.
“Wait and see.” Amusement graced his voice. I’d missed that so much. “Sometimes black is a fantastic base to build up the most brilliant work.”
Hope bloomed inside me and something far warmer and deeper too. The love I’d felt before—tempered this time with caution and understanding.
Lydia waited upstairs. The final piece of this strange puzzle we were building.
When Ian and I emerged from the basement, Lydia’s whole body softened and a smile lit her face. “Better?”
Ian answered before I could. “Yeah, I think so.” He glanced my way for confirmation, and I nodded. “We have a lot to talk about,” he said. “The three of us.”
“Oh, good.” Her exhale was one of relief. “Why doesn’t one of you open the wine, and the other can help me put dinner on the table?”
Practical. That was Lydia. She knew tasks smoothed over awkwardness. I took the wine so Ian would have a few moments alone with her.
While digging the corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer, I studied the label. Quite a nice bottle, and another indication Ian had been hurting. You didn’t bring a forty-buck bottle of wine to someone who was only a fuck when his wife asked you to dinner.
Lydia and Ian would never be lovers—Ian didn’t blink at women and that was fine with both of us—but the fact he’d come here because she’d asked, with the bottle of wine in my hand, and that he’d invited her to watch us have sex back then, meant he cared about her too. Quite a lot, I suspected.
I certainly needed that. So did she. And if this were to work in the long term . . .
Oh my God.
The reality of the situation crashed down around me, and my hands stilled. I let out a breath and stared at the wall across from the island. We were going to try to make this work. Not at all the outcome I’d expected when Lydia had told me she’d run into Ian and pretty much ordered him to dinner. I’d figured we’d yell, he’d storm out, and it would be over. Guess I didn’t know everything.
Here I was, the one who hated miscommunication and I hadn’t bothered to verify Ian and I were on the same page. Too blissed out of my mind with sex and submission. When I’d whispered “I love you” to him and he’d replied, I’d not followed up, not told him it was more than sex.
This was so much more than sex.
“Si, the wine, please.” Lydia’s voice.
Right. I finished uncorking the bottle, grabbed three glasses and headed to the table.
She’d cooked chili. Easy enough to hold on the stove for a while, and if Ian had stormed out, the leftovers would have frozen well. Ian sat, his hands tucked under his thighs, and seemed entirely overwhelmed and uncertain again. I poured his wine, filling his glass. Not proper protocol to serve him first, but fuck that. He was our guest.
He stared at the level. “I have to drive home, you know.”
“Do you?”
Lydia swallowed a laugh. Ian raised his head. “I— Do I?”
I gave a shrug and started filling Lydia’s glass, but she halted me before it reached half-full. “I have deadlines, so it’s back to work for me after this.”
Which would leave me and Ian alone, if he wanted to stay. Before I filled my own glass, I spoke. “I can take half your wine, Ian, if you’d like.”
He swung his attention to Lydia. “Are you heading back to the shop so Simon and I can have makeup sex?”
She did laugh at that. “I do have deadlines. Haven’t gotten as much done as I’ve wanted to recently.” Her gaze shifted to me. “Simon needed me.”
Ian studied his plate.
She cleared her throat. “But, I also want to give you two the space to work out whatever it is you have to work out.” A sly-ass smile.
Ian nodded, and his lips lifted to match hers before he wet them with his tongue. “Then I’ll keep the wine.”
Someone thought he was getting laid tonight. I poured my own glass. Whether Ian got his wish was yet to be seen. I wasn’t quite over being pissed.
We passed around the chili and bread and settled into eating.
Ian relaxed after the second sip of wine. When he set down the glass, he looked between Lydia and me. “How does something long-term between us”—he gestured between me and him—“work for all of us?” Another wave, this time including Lydia. “I mean, we’re not lovers,” he said to Lydia. “And I’m still gay.”
She set down her fork. “Well, you’d be Simon’s partner and I’d be Simon’s partner and we’d be metamours.”
“Wait, there’s a word for it?” Ian’s voice wobbled.
“There’s a word for everything,” Lydia said. “But mostly, we’d be friends.” She paused. “I hope. I like you, Ian. You’re a dumbass sometimes, but so is Simon.”
I chuckled. “I am, it’s true.”
“Okay.” He pushed the chili around. “That makes sense.” He took a bite, another sip of wine, and seemed to steady himself. “Lyds, if you were a guy, I’d totally be into you.” He reddened to his ear tips. “If we’re gonna be honest.”
Lyds? I raised an eyebrow to Lydia—who’d never had a nickname in all the years I’d known her.
She gave me a smile and a shrug. Okay, I guess Lyds would stick then. Something for her and Ian. Tingles in the back of my skull. This might work. This could work. “Honesty is the best idea in a relationship like this,” I said.
A thoughtful glance at both of us from Ian, but he didn’t say anything. He was obviously chewing on something other than dinner.
I nudged Lydia’s leg with my foot. “How do you feel about all this?”
“Fucking relieved,” she said. “You two are great together when you’re not being dipshits.”
Ian started at that, and I snorted. I loved my wife.
She polished off her wine. “Si, the week you two were together was the happiest and most centered I’ve seen you in ages. It’s a good thing.”
My turn to have a warm face.
“Don’t fuck it up again, guys? Please?”
I couldn’t tell if it was laughter or embarrassment Ian was trying to hide. He took a long drink of his wine and sat back in the chair. “I— So what happens next?” Quiet words. “If Simon and I stay together, and I’m in his life and yours, then what?”
Lydia pushed her plate away. “Well, last t
ime we got near this point, it was me and Vince.”
“Dexy’s father?” Ian asked.
Lydia nodded. “We’d been seeing each other for eight or so months . . . and yeah, we were in love.” She pursed her lips.
“We were ready to fold our families together, ready to take that next step,” I said.
“So, what happened?” Ian reached across the table and almost instinctually, Lydia took his hand. I held my breath, because there it was. Might not have been sexual, but damned if that wasn’t love too.
“We’d talked about getting a big place together, the four of us, and figuring out what we were going to tell the town and all that. Started discussing some legal things and maybe having a commitment ceremony. Then, he went down to Seattle for a couple of days to meet up with some old college buddies. While he was there, he met a woman at a hotel bar.”
“Just . . . like that?” Ian sounded incredulous.
She sighed. “More or less. They’d talked for a while—they both shared an interest in nineteenth-century scrimshaw, and it’s rare enough they exchanged numbers. Texted back and forth while he was there, and met at the Seattle library to pour over books. He didn’t realize he was seriously crushing on her until he was halfway back to Bluewater Bay. By the time he got home, he was shell-shocked and worried and came here.”
I picked up the story. “Eventually, we all decided if he was that torn up, maybe it wasn’t time for him to commit to Lydia—or to blend our families.”
Lydia gave Ian’s hand a squeeze. “Six months later, he proposed to her.”
“Holy shit.” Ian slipped his hand from Lydia’s and picked up his wine. “I’d be livid.”
“I was . . . and I wasn’t,” Lydia said. “After he came back from that trip, I knew it wasn’t going to work, no matter how much I loved him and when I met her, I understood.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “She was, in fact, exactly the right woman for him.”
Ian took that all in, his eyes narrowing, as if he were thinking. Considering. I saw his next question when he turned his gaze to me. He didn’t have to ask it.
