Three is a War

by Pam Godwin

  My chest hiccups with a choppy inhale.

  “You’re unhappy, Danni.” Cole rises from the couch and prowls toward me. “And you’ll be even more miserable in Florida.”

  “What makes you think I won’t be miserable here?”

  “I’m not saying it won’t be hard.” He stops beside me and rests his hands on his hips. “If you had to choose between us right now, could you?”

  My heartbeat explodes, and I look away.

  “I take that as a no,” Cole says softly.

  “That’s why I need to leave.” Dread coils in my belly. “I can’t do this again.”

  “You don’t get to walk away,” Trace says in a deep, unflinching voice.

  “You’re going to stick it out.” Cole matches his tone. “You have a decision to make, and you’re going to finish this. Because if you don’t, if you forfeit your greatest chance at happiness, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  I know he’s right, but… “What you’re suggesting is insane.” I lean my head back against the window and stare at the ceiling. “We can’t all stay under the same roof. We tried that the first week you came home, and it ended in a bloody brawl in the backyard.”

  “We worked some things out since then.” Trace rests his fingertips in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Like what?” I narrow my eyes.

  “The only way we’ll survive this is if we’re honest and open with one another. No more secrets. No more sneaking around.” Trace glowers at Cole. “No more fistfights.”

  “Only an hour ago, you were aiming a gun at Cole’s chest.”

  “You’re right. It was an unreasonable way to handle an argument. I guess you could say we’re a work in progress.”

  With my back to the windows, they cage me in with the width of their shoulders while leaving a foot of breathing space between us. But that invisible space is tenuous and airless, waiting to be erased.

  “We’re going to try this again.” Cole folds his arms across his chest. “And this time, we’re doing it our way.”

  I love when they talk in terms of we, like they’re a team. Using it in this context, however, implies I have no say in whatever they’re planning. It makes me tense. “If you intend to team up against me—”

  “Your way didn’t work.” Impatience seeps into Cole’s voice. “When you were with one of us, the other one was left alone to stew and fester in jealousy.”

  My mind jumps to a threesome, triad, or whatever it’s called when two men share a woman. Except they would never be okay with that, and I don’t think I could handle it emotionally. On the surface, it sounds like a dream, but the reality wouldn’t be good for them. Their happiness is more important than a sexual fantasy.

  “What are you proposing?” I swallow.

  “Not what you think.” Trace pulls in a slow breath and releases it. “Look, Cole and I have gone through a range of emotions and expectations since he returned. In the beginning, jealousy drove most of our actions. Then came the rivalry. Suspicion. Bitterness. When you left, we reached a point of resoluteness.”

  “Meaning?” I hold my breath.

  “We understand the stakes,” Cole says. “I know he’s not going to give up and vice-versa. And we know the ultimate decision is completely out of our hands. We’re going to stay in his house, focus on you, and when arguments arise, we’ll talk through it. Together.”

  It sounds wonderfully ideal. And unrealistic. How can I spend time with one while the other one is present? They haven’t mentioned sex, but it’s a complexity we can’t avoid. It’ll start with meaningful glances and subtle gestures of affection. Then it’ll build and invade until it refuses to be ignored. I tried the celibacy thing, the co-dating thing, the bed-hopping thing. I’ve resisted, surrendered, sneaked around, and run away. None of it worked. Because I’m right back where I started.

  They’re proposing that we stay here together, under the same roof, until I make a decision. The difference this time is better communication. I can get behind that, but it doesn’t solve the problems we had before.

  I suck at managing more than one relationship. It brings out the worst in me. I’ve never suffered from mental illness, but since Cole’s return, I wonder if I’ve developed bipolar disorder. Narcissism. Maybe sex addiction. I guess it could be worse. Severely distressing events can breed all sorts of nutjobs—psychopaths, serial murders, scientologists. Bottom line is I’m not good at bouncing between them.

  “What’s putting that look on your face?” Trace captures me in a penetrating stare.

  “All the reasons why your proposition won’t work.”

  “Such as?”

  Shifting toward him, I slide a hand down his chest while meeting Cole’s eyes. “What would you do if I kissed him right now?”

  “Nothing.” Cole stands taller. “I won’t like it, but it’s better than the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “You choosing Florida, a new life, and eventually another man who will never bring you the happiness you deserve.”

  I drop my hand and step around them, pacing toward the island in the kitchen. “Where’s my phone and my car?”

  “The phone is on the kitchen counter,” Trace says. “Your car will be delivered tomorrow, along with the Maserati.” He hardens his tone. “It’s after ten o’clock. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

  “My parents expect me—”

  “In two days. You’re going to stay the night and think about everything we’ve told you. If you’re still set on leaving tomorrow, you’ll have your car.”

  It’s a logical argument. But he’s always logical. And compelling. And impossibly gorgeous, studying me with those intelligent eyes.

  This is a bad idea. The worst. Yet the next question is already falling out of my mouth. “Where would I sleep?”

  “Follow me.” Cole turns and heads toward the slight gradient of stairs that leads to the bedrooms.

  Trace extends an arm, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. I assume they have a guest room made up for me, but when I join Cole at the end of the hall, the room he unlocks with a passcode is not what I expected.

  A massive king-sized bed sits in the windowed corner. Given the unmade bedsheets and picture frames cluttering the furniture, this isn’t a guest room. I recognize the photos of me in the dance studio, Cole and me at my house, and Cole with my sister’s family. There are others, however, I’ve never seen before. Like the photos of me at the casino.

  The camera angles suggest they were taken with the surveillance equipment, and I’m surprised by the high quality of the zoomed-in images. There are some of Trace and me dining together at Bissara, mingling at the casino bar, and holding hands in the lobby.

  I didn’t know he was capturing and saving those images, but that’s not what makes my pulse speed up. It’s the sight of them intermixed with Cole’s pictures. I recognize other things, too—Cole’s sneakers on the floor by the bed, his watch on the side table, and the headboard that looks almost identical to the one he bought me years ago.

  As Trace’s scowling shadow follows me around the room, I shift to look at him and Cole. “Whose bedroom is this?”

  “It used to be mine.” Cole leans against a chest of drawers and straightens a picture frame.

  Trace watches me intently. “Now it’s ours.”

  My mouth opens and closes, forming words that have no sound. Breathe, dammit. I can’t tell them how insane they are if I’m hyperventilating.

  I gulp, and gulp again, filling my lungs with air. “Our bedroom?”

  “Yours. His.” Trace clasps his hands behind him. “And mine.”

  “What?” I swing my head around, my skin heating as I take in the intimate space. “No, we can’t—”

  “It’s just a room.” Cole crosses his arms, frowning.

  “A bedroom with only one bed.” I point needlessly at the mattress that now seems a lot smaller than it did a few seconds ago. “You need to explain whatever th
is is, because right now, I’m jumping to conclusions that aren’t possible.”

  “Cole and I discussed multiple ways to approach this.” Trace paces around me, rubbing his jaw. “If we all have separate bedrooms, one of us will come into your room at night without the other one knowing. Or maybe we won’t, but we’ll lie in our beds, wide-awake, worrying about it.”

  “You have all this high-tech security.” I wave a hand at the keypad beside the door. “Just set something up that would trip an alarm and notify you when someone entered my room.”

  “We’d turn it into a competition.” Cole’s brown eyes glow beneath heavy brows. “We’re trained to penetrate every security system ever designed.”

  I cross the large, open space and hold my arms out. “Then put three beds in here.”

  “And sleep like twelve-year-olds at summer camp?” Cole grimaces.

  “Or we could behave like adults.” Trace perches on the foot of the mattress. “And sleep in a bed that’s plenty big enough, without making an issue out of it.”

  How do I not make an issue out of this? My stomach tightens with nerves. “The three of us in a room together is a ticking time bomb. All of us in the same bed after five weeks of being apart? That’s a sure path to total disaster.” I lower my voice. “I don’t want either of you feeling uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Cole says to Trace, “but when I fall into that bed tonight, I’m going to sleep harder and deeper than I have in months.”

  “Same here.” Trace’s blue eyes bore into mine, like he’s digging for a weak spot.

  “I’ve slept like shit.” Cole catches my gaze, his tone soft yet urgent. “I want to be next to you, smell your hair on my pillow, and hear the sound of your breaths while you sleep.”

  “We’re trying to give you transparency and reestablish your confidence in us,” Trace says. “No matter our failures and shortcomings, you know you can trust us to lie beside you while you sleep.”

  I want that. So much. But they’re so jealous and possessive the idea feels strange and forced. It reeks of deception, like they’re manipulating me into spending time with them. They’re certainly not suggesting we share a bed because they want to.

  But my gut tells me the simplest answer is the right one. They miss me as much as I miss them, and they can’t fathom spending another night alone.

  And poof goes my will to argue. And my reason. I think my nerves bit the dust, too.

  This is the quintessence of love. It’s what makes two friends-turned-enemies share a bed with a woman, even when there are plenty of other beds in the rest of the house.

  As I wilt and cave, I hold onto my last thread of sensibility. “One night.”

  Cole’s eyes gleam, and a twitch bounces Trace’s scowl.

  “The first hint of jealousy, and I’ll find another room to sleep in.” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. “I need something to wear to bed.”

  Trace points at the closet across the room.

  On my way there, I slip into the en suite bathroom. With the door locked, I empty my bladder and scrutinize the bottles on the built-in shelf in the shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body soap—all the brands I use. I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and peek in the cabinets. Makeup, hair products, everything I kept at Trace’s penthouse.

  When I exit the bathroom, the bedroom is empty, and the deep timbre of their voices echoes from the direction of the living room. I’m thankful they’re giving me privacy, or at least the perception of it. God knows how many cameras are installed in this house?

  In the walk-in closet, I find the wardrobe I left at Trace’s place, including new clothes with the tags still attached. Given the impeccable organization—garments hung by color and season, drawers labeled, and shoes perfectly aligned on the racks—it’s safe to assume Trace oversaw this part of the plan.

  How long have they been plotting to bring me here? Did it start the moment I walked out of the penthouse? Is that why they let me go so easily? Or did my move to Florida push them over the edge? I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m here now with no choice but to face the nerve-wracking decision of what to do next.

  I can leave tomorrow and start over like I planned.

  Or I can stay.

  If I stay, maybe it won’t work out. But finding out if it does might be the most important thing I’ve ever done. My gut tells me I’m supposed to take this journey, with them, no matter how painful or scary. Maybe I should let my gut lead the way.

  I change into fleece pajama pants and a plain cotton t-shirt. Then I pad out of the room and down the hall, the slate tiles warming my bare feet.

  The floors are heated, and I bet the lake views from every room are stunning. The detailed craftsmanship, woodwork, and design throughout the estate is extravagant. And every square foot belongs to Cole. He never said he needed money and I understand why he couldn’t tell me about this place, but the secrets still bug me.

  I find them in the kitchen, pulling covered dishes and vegetables from the fridge. Moving seamlessly around each other, they seem completely at ease sharing the same space. Trace changed into gray lounge pants, and Cole wears black workout shorts. Both are bare-chested, beautifully sculpted, and… Fuck, I’m staring.

  “You need to eat.” Trace meets my eyes and smirks.

  “I need a beer.”

  And a sanity check. Are they actually preparing a meal together?

  If this is the Twilight Zone, I hope it isn’t the case of be careful what you wish for. I used to watch the show with my dad and remember the episode about the man who wishes for power and wakes up as Hitler. Then there was the guy who creates a world populated with clones of himself, only to realize he hates himself. If I had a wish, it’s to see Cole and Trace come to a truce. I want that so badly I’m tempted to stay just to encourage the synergy that’s currently swirling around them.

  Cole removes a Bud Light out of the fridge, pops the cap, and slides it across the counter to me.

  “Thanks.” I look over the spread of food—taco meat, hard shells, and all the fixings. “Did you have the ingredients delivered?”

  Trace laughs, and the delicious sound liquefies my limbs.

  “What’s so funny?” I grip the counter for support and chug the beer.

  “No one delivers out here.” Cole says. “We’re lucky to see the postman on a regular schedule.”

  “Where did the food come from?” I circle the island and grab a tomato and paring knife.

  “There’s a Walmart twenty minutes up the road.” Cole hands me a cutting board and slides a tray of taco shells into the oven.

  “Really? In the middle of nowhere Missouri?” I dice the tomato, smiling at the image of Cole pushing a cart in a superstore.

  “Ninety percent of Americans live within fifteen miles of a Walmart.” He opens another Bud Light and swallows a large gulp.

  Trace grinds a block of cheese against a grater. “Did you know eight cents for every U.S. dollar is spent at Walmart?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “Are you looking to expand your empire and buy them out?”

  “It’s not for sale, and if it was, it would be way out of my price range.”

  We finish preparing the meal and eat at the island. I choose the seat on the end, so I can watch them together. When they’re not ignoring each other, their conversations focus on fishing, casino business, and the upcoming baseball season. At some point, the lighthearted discussion switches to my favorite topic, and I spend the next ten minutes regaling them with Beyoncé trivia.

  “Her song Bootylicious put that word in the Oxford English Dictionary.” I finish off my second beer and switch to water.

  “I’m calling bullshit on that one.” Trace takes a sip of scotch from a crystal tumbler.

  “Look it up.” I flick a finger at his phone, where it sits beside his empty plate.

  “What’s the story behind her name?” Cole stacks our dishes and carries them to the sink.

  “It came from he
r mother’s maiden name.” I stand to help him. “Celestine Ann ‘Tina’ Beyincé.”

  “Bootylicious.” Trace reads from his phone, his expression perplexed. “Of a woman…sexually attractive.” His gaze lifts, sliding all over me before meeting my eyes. “You were right.”

  I tremble beneath his imposing glare. “I’m never wrong when it comes to Beyoncé.”

  “Your entire face glows when you talk about her.” Cole hands me a rinsed plate to put in the dishwasher, his grin dented with dimples. “Keep talking.”

  “She wrote Crazy In Love in two hours. With a hangover.” I load the top rack while scraping my mind for more facts. “Her middle name is Giselle. She was on Star Search in 1993 at the age of twelve. She’s allergic to perfume. I can go on and on, but I’d rather talk about you guys.”

  “We will never compare to Beyoncé,” Trace says dryly, but I don’t miss the playful flicker in his eyes as he approaches.

  He nudges me out of the way and helps Cole finish the dishes.

  I move to the far end of the island and wipe down the surface. It’s crazy how similar they are in some things, like the whole dominating, hyper-alert, intimidating manner in which they control their environments. But they’re so very different in other ways.

  Cole rinses the dishes, completely unconcerned about the water splattering everywhere. Trace immediately cleans it up, scowling at the other man. Cole drinks beer and rides a motorcycle. Trace drinks Scotch and wears suits. Cole lets his hair fall, messy and tumbled, right out of the shower and hopes for the best. Trace has a process, involving product and finger-raking until every strand is textured and styled to perfection. Cole smiles easily, and Trace doesn’t smile at all. Cole reacts first and apologizes later. I’m lucky to get a reaction or an apology from Trace at all. But none of those things are important in the big picture.

  What matters to me are traits they both possess. They’ll dance with me when I ask, whenever, wherever. They’ll hold me when I need it, tightly or tenderly. And they love me, even when I fuck up.

  During the course of our relationships, however, there’s been a crucial, missing element. Honesty. In that regard, I’m just as guilty.