“Time’s up,” he says, and the bed moves as he climbs off it.
I blink my eyes open and sit up, leaning back against the headboard. A tight pain slices across my chest, and my thoughts are heavy as I watch him get dressed.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” He walks off without another word, and I give myself a silent pep talk, willing myself to get moving instead of giving in to the need to curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep.
Somehow, I get up, get dressed, and make my way downstairs. Dinner is already in mid-flow, the kids bantering with their dads, when I walk into the room. Galen hops up, walking to the stove to retrieve my dinner. “I’ve got it,” I say, appearing beside him. “Don’t let your dinner go cold.” He takes one look at me and frowns. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he puts the plate down on the counter, sliding his arm around my waist. “Are you okay?” he asks, lowering his tone.
“I’m fine.” I flash him a fake smile, and his frown deepens.
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
Tears stab the backs of my eyes. He knows. Maybe they all do. I shake my head, forcing my tears to subside. “Don’t get involved. This is between us.”
He looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it. “Come on. Let’s get some food into you.”
I let Galen lead me to the table, pull out my chair, and set my dinner on the table in front of me. Lifting my silverware, as if on autopilot, I force food down my tight throat, listening to the chatter and laughter around the table as if I’m a bystander.
After, I lie, telling them I have a migraine, letting them fuss over me before I’m sent to bed, pretending I don’t see the anger on Saint’s face or feel the flood of relief as I curl up in bed alone, crying myself to sleep.
4
Harlow
“I come bearing gifts,” Jazz says the following day, stepping into my office uninvited. She waves a paper bag at me. “Lunch from the deli.”
“I thought you were teaching a class?” I ask, looking up from my laptop. While we run the business and leave most of the classes to the trainers we hire, we both make a point of teaching a couple of classes a week, for no other reason than we enjoy it.
“I got Monica to cover for me. You looked like you could use food and a talk.” She closes the door and walks to my desk.
“I’m that obvious?” I ask, putting my pen down.
“I’m your bestie.” She places a bag down in front of me before taking a seat across from me. “It’s my job to notice when you’re upset. What’s wrong?” She opens her own bag, extracting a wrap, an apple, and a bottle of water.
I hired Jazz four years ago, just after I bought the building. At first, we were just coworkers, but over time we’ve become the best of friends. I don’t trust easily, and I’ve never been the kind of woman who has tons of friends. I had girls I hung out with in college, but I never called any of them friends, and I don’t see any of them or keep in contact with them anymore. They were mere acquaintances. That’s all. I find it hard to relate to other women sometimes. In part, because my lifestyle is different than most and there is a lot of prejudice, judgment, and jealousy from other women when they discover I’m in a polyamorous relationship. Also, I was married and not interested in attending parties or hooking up with frat boys so that set me apart from other college students.
Diesel’s Denise was the first woman since Sariah that I could call a good friend. Until Jazz. But even though I’m close with both Denise and Jazz, I haven’t confided in either of them about this, and I’m not sure what that says about me. Maybe no one will ever replace Sariah in my life, because if she were still alive, there is no doubt I would’ve confided in her immediately.
“Lo.” Jazz reaches across the desk to grab my hand. Her eyes are full of compassion. “You can tell me anything. You know that. I will never judge you or betray your confidence.”
“I know that.” The words feel choked over the lump in my throat.
“Is it Bishop?” she asks, squeezing my hand. “Is he sick again?”
I shake my head. “No, thank God. He’s doing much better since the operation, and Galen and I took him to the cardiologist for a checkup last week. Everything looks good.”
Last year, Bishop collapsed at kindergarten and had to be rushed to the emergency room. We discovered he had a congenital heart defect, one that had gone undiagnosed since birth. He had an operation to repair the small hole in his heart, and his doctor has told us he should live a long, healthy, and happy life. He will have to be monitored frequently, but as long as he is taking care of himself and getting regular checkups, there shouldn’t be any reason to worry.
God knows we all did enough of that last year. We were terrified.
“Is it Galen then? Does he still feel guilty?”
I squeeze her hand before withdrawing mine, opening my bag, and removing my lunch as I speak. “Even though he’s processed everything that happened with Bishop and come out the other side, I think Galen will always feel guilty,” Galen was in bad shape during that time. He was worried for Bishop, and the situation brought buried memories to the surface. For him, it was a lot like watching helplessly as his sister suffered. Even after Bishop recovered, and we knew he was going to be fine, Galen frequently woke from nightmares. I spent a lot of nights comforting him in the early hours, and we spent hours upon hours talking about it until he worked through his feelings.
“While his sister Mya had a different heart condition,” I continue, “there is nothing any of us can say to make him agree it’s not his fault. He will always carry that, but at least he has found a way to live again. He was depressed and scared for so long.” I pause for a moment, remembering how worried about him we all were. But Galen is tough, and he has made his peace with it now. “The doctors can’t even say for sure if it’s genetic. It could be coincidental that Bishop had a heart condition and so did his aunt. The most important thing is, he is healthy and well. It hasn’t scared him or altered him in any of the ways that count.”
“So, what is troubling you?”
I decide to fess up—if I don’t talk to someone about it, I’m likely to fall apart. More than that, I need her advice on what to do. I take a sip of my water, and she takes a bite out of her wrap as she waits patiently for me to explain. “When I first got pregnant, we made a joint decision not to find out who the biological father was. It was the same when Luna and Aurora came along. It doesn’t matter whose DNA flows in their veins because they are all of our children. Every one of my husbands is an amazing father, and everything was fine until Bishop got sick, and it forced us to relook at things.” My heart is heavy as I recall one of the more difficult times of my life. I take a bite of my wrap as I grapple with my emotions.
“In what way? Did you need to know for a blood transfusion or something?”
“It was more that we realized we needed to know in case there were other genetic issues we needed to be aware of.”
“Like Caz’s mom having Parkinson’s.”
I nod. “Exactly.” We found out about Mrs. Evans just after Bishop was diagnosed and it was a no-brainer by then. We won’t take risks with our kids’ lives, and it’s better to know the full familial history so we are prepared for any future situations.