“That’s a bet I wouldn’t take.”
We started down the first aisle, stacked with all kinds of glassware.
“Wow, this is a lot of stuff,” I said.
“At least it’ll be reused instead of ending up in a landfill.” My mom picked up a green glass vase. “This is pretty.”
I agreed. “You should get it.”
“I don’t need more stuff.”
“But if it makes you happy…”
I knew why my words hung in the air: it had been a long time since my mom was happy, and a pretty green vase wasn’t going to change it.
We rounded the corner into the next row of shelves, which were stacked with pottery.
“You’re going to have to tell us more about this man at some point, Maeve.” She picked up a rustic-looking plant pot. “It’s not right that you’re living with someone we’ve never met.”
“I know.” Some families might be that way — everyone living their own lives, lots of privacy — but we weren’t like that. We were friends. We told each other things, let each other into our lives.
Or we thought we did anyway. Before June and Chris.
My mom held onto the pot and we continued down the aisle. “So? Why haven’t you?”
“It’s complicated.”
She sighed. “I can’t do complicated, Maeve. I don’t think any of us can.”
She was thinking about June. About June’s relationship with Chris, which had deteriorated and turned violent and angry in the last year of June’s life.
“Not that kind of complicated. Just… complicated. I’m not sure you’ll understand.”
How was I supposed to tell her that I was living with — sleeping with — three guys at once? That it worked and we liked it that way and it wasn’t just a fling?
And how was I supposed to introduce her to the Butchers without scaring the shit out of her?
“Try me.”
“Promise you’ll hear me out?” I asked.
She frowned. “When have I ever not heard you out?”
Okay, fair. We didn’t always agree, but she’d always listened.
I took deep breath. “I’m not living with one guy, I’m living with three of them.”
“There are roommates?”
“Um… not exactly.” I licked my lips and tried again, my heart hammering in my chest. How could I be an adult in every other aspect of my life and suddenly feel like I was six years old having a difficult conversation with my mom? “I’m living with all of them. Likelivingliving with them.”
She turned her gaze on me. “You’re sleeping with them, you mean.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Among other things.”
“So it’s… polyamorous?”
I wasn’t surprised my mom knew about polyamory. She wasn’t that old. Plus, she was a professor. Her mind was young, and she was up on cultural and social shifts.
