Page 240 of What We Brave
"Don't you have an early shift?"
"The earliness is relative."
Blake's already collecting plates. "I vote movie."
What I actually want is to go downstairs and crawl into our new bed and lie there feeling the space, feeling them beside me. But Reid's already scrolling through options and Blake's running water in the sink and this is what we do. This is our Wednesday night.
Any other night, this is exactly what I'd want to do. But we have that big new bed downstairs waiting for us, and I can't think about anything but the three of us crawling into it.
But movie night is a thing now, so I curl up on the couch. Reid on one side, Blake on the other.
"Not another action movie."
"What's wrong with action movies?"
"Nothing, if you're twelve."
"Die Hard is a cinematic masterpiece."
"Die Hard is aChristmasmovie and it's May."
"Die Hard is ananytimemovie?—"
"Oh my God." I take the remote. "I'm picking. You both lose privileges."
They grumble but settle. I find something light and forgettable.
"This one."
"What is it?"
"Does it matter? We're going to talk through the whole thing anyway."
Blake laughs — low, surprised. "Fair point."
We do talk through all of it. Commentary and jokes and a full-blown argument about whether the lead is charming or just insufferable. Blake's arm settles around my shoulders. Reid's hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing lazy patterns he's probably not even aware of.
And the whole time, this quiet thing sitting in the back of my brain like it's been waiting for a seat:
I want more than this.
Not more than the couch. Not more than the movie. More than the careful way we touch each other. The way we rotate beds and take turns and keep everything balanced and fair and controlled. So balanced. So fair. So controlled it makes my teeth ache.
I want what happens when you stop being careful.
I've been with them separately. I know how Blake kisses — like he's memorizing me for a test he's terrified he'll fail. I know how Reid touches me — like he's mapping territory he still can't believe is his. I know what each of them sounds like. What makes each of them come apart.
But both of them. Together. At the same time.
I think about it more than I should. Haven't said a single word about it.
Why not?Because I don't know how to bring it up without sounding like I'm requesting a performance? Because I'm afraid they'll be weird about it — about touching each other, about sharing that space? Because I'm terrified that wanting both of them at oncemakes me exactly what my mother spent fifteen years praying I wouldn't become?
Stop it. That's her voice, not yours.
The movie ends. We start another one — worse, truly terrible, the kind of bad that loops back to entertaining. We mock the dialogue, predict twists, quote ridiculous lines at each other.
By the credits, it's nearly midnight.
