“Hi,” Wyatt replies.
Marshall nods once. “Glad you came.”
I swallow. “Me too.”
That’s… not entirely true. But it’s not a lie either.
Dinner is polite. Too polite.
Conversation sticks to safe ground. Weather. Repairs. Market gossip. The twins’ frog phase.
I focus on my plate, on chewing, on breathing normally, on not noticing the way Wyatt’s knee brushes mine when he shifts, or the way Jesse’s hand rests casually on the back of my chair, or the way Marshall watches me, trying to read something written beneath my skin.
This was a mistake.
I can feel it building. The thing I came here to prevent. The tension. The awareness. The hum under the surface that says nothing is resolved.
Finally, Marshall sets his fork down.
“Okay,” he says. “We need to stop pretending this is just dinner.”
My heart stutters.
Jesse exhales slowly, leaning back. “Yeah. Probably.”
Wyatt doesn’t move. He just looks at me, devastatingly present.
I fold my hands in my lap so they stop shaking. “I didn’t come here to… make this harder.”
Marshall’s gaze softens. “I know.”
“I came because I thought we needed to put it to bed,” I continue. “Whatever this is. So we can all move on.”
Silence stretches.
Jesse’s jaw tightens. “And what does ‘put it to bed’ look like to you?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because the truth is… I don’t know.
I don’t know how to choose without losing something. I don’t know how to be fair when my feelings refuse to line up neatly. I don’t know how to stop wanting things I was never taught I could want.
Wyatt shifts then. Sets his glass down carefully.
“Can I say something?” he asks.
Marshall nods.
Jesse glances at him, wary but listening.
I look up, startled.
“Yes,” I say.
Wyatt takes a breath. The kind that means he’s about to step off a cliff.
“What if we’re thinking about this wrong?” he says.
