Callum notices immediately. His eyes narrow, tracking my face, then his gaze shifts to where Silas sits on the couch, perfectly composed.
Recognition crosses Callum’s face, then he grins. Evan is watching too, and when our eyes meet, understanding passes between us.
The energy in the room has changed. It’s subtle. The kind of thing only we would feel.
But I feel it.
Ben doesn’t. He’s talking about work, some deal he closed last week, and the triplets engage as if nothing happened. Like Silas didn’t just back me against a wall upstairs and tell me that he’s finally giving in to the feelings he’s suppressed for months.
My mom calls us to the table twenty minutes later, and we all move into the dining room. The turkey sits in the center, goldenand perfect, surrounded by sides my mom’s been cooking all day.
I sit between Callum and Evan. Silas takes the seat across from me. Ben sits at the head of the table, and my mom sits at the other end.
Plates get passed. Food gets served. My mom asks about the company, and Silas answers while Callum steals a roll off my plate.
Then Ben reaches for the wine bottle. “Tania, you want red?”
“Actually,” Callum’s already moving, grabbing a different bottle from the counter behind him. “She prefers white.”
He pours without asking and sets the glass in front of me.
Ben’s hand freezes on the red bottle.
He looks at Callum. Then at me. Then back at Callum.
His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something. He doesn’t.
Instead, he pours himself red and sits back in his chair. But I see it—the pause.
Evan shifts beside me, his knee brushing mine under the table, grounding me.
Conversation picks back up, but all I can think about is Ben sitting there, oblivious.
But even if he is not oblivious, everyone at this table knows the truth about our relationship except him. His three best friends. His sister. His mom. We’re all lying. And that is not fair to him, because Ben is one of the most wonderful human beings on this planet.
By the time we finish eating, my shoulders are tight, and my nerves are frayed completely. We clear plates together—my mom and I—while Evan and Callum sprawl on the couch.
“I’ll get the dessert plates.” My mom heads toward the dining room. “Ben, can you help me cut the pies?”
They leave the kitchen. Silas brings in the last of the dishes.
His fingers linger on mine when he hands me a plate. I glance at him, and he doesn’t look away.
This is different now. He’s different. We’re loading the dishwasher when Ben appears in the doorway.
“Dessert’s ready.”
We return to the dining room, where Mom has cut the pies and plated them.
I take a bite of the apple pie, and the cinnamon hits my tongue first, then the butter from the crust.
“Delicious,” Mom declares. “You really made these?”
I nod.
“With some help,” Evan reminds me.
“We weren’t really that much help,” Callum adds.
