It’d been two weeks since my aunt arrived in town, and no one knew when she was leaving. If you asked, her answer was, when I feel like it. She and my parents were acting like they hadn’t invalidated my entire existence, saying hi to me in the hallway and shit. Oh, so you can’t speak? they’d say. No, I said, unfortunately polygamists don’t speak.
A lot had happened in those two weeks: My mom’s supervisor was fired for giving a DEI training three years ago. My dad’s old boss at the National Archives was fired too. The administration floated the idea of taking control of Gaza, the President said he would make himself chairman of the Kennedy Center, tariffs were announced then delayed at the last minute, measles were back even though there was a shot for them. I felt like I was trapped inside one of those revolutionary war massacre paintings, American flags towering over piles of bodies, dragging myself through the bloodied landscape with the gnawing feeling that I belonged elsewhere: in a still life with flowers or something. Instead, I was stuck in this bizarre patriotic portrait, watching it rendered in the worst way.
Even as the government was being gutted, my mom was determined to stay at HUD. My dad was convinced this made her a traitor, but I was afraid she’d be fired, and we’d be financially screwed. This was how most nights went in our house: My dad would remind her she was working for a dictator. My mom would remind him he was delivering food like a teenager. Then she’d warm up his dinner, which he ate silently watching the news. Then they went to bed.
Things were falling apart, but I had no clue how to hold them together. I was not the kind of woman who was skilled in triaging abroken household; I was the teenage boy leaving his dirty boxers on the floor. The house was falling apart with us: My aunt had broken the bathroom door so now it was propped against the wall. One of the kitchen lights had exploded. For days, it was dim like a dank cellar. Our neighbor’s massive dog kept headbutting our fence, and now it looked like it was missing teeth. My dad went to scream at the dog as if the dog understood. From their bedroom window, my mom watched the drama unfold in her bathrobe like she was watching a stranger lose their mind in the street. Terrible as it was, I knew exactly how I was going to write that scene for my novel.
Tristan was in the library readingResistance, Rebellion, and Deathwhen I walked in. I assumed the library would look like Hogwarts like the rest of his campus, but it was kind of dusty with ratty furniture. For two people who weren’t supposed to be seeing each other, we’d met up a ghastly number of times (early-early in the pink morning, late nights, the odd weekend hour). I often wondered if he saw Nia after seeing me or was ever coming from being with her. Based on his busy academic schedule, he must’ve been.
As I approached his table, I imagined him and Nia the night before at a French bistro for Valentine’s Day. Two-person seating only. Cheap red wine swirling in Nia’s glass, her mouth lush and plum-colored, leaning in for a kiss. Tristan and I had become masters at compartmentalizing. But in some dingy back-alley corridor of my mind, the thought of all our separate bodies colliding in this perverse, secret way was undeniably hot.
Seeing me, Tristan stood to kiss me on the side of my mouth. We must’ve looked like another unremarkable couple swapping lipless kisses after work. My world felt inverted then, like I was watching myself through a looking glass. Jay was once the one I shared this routine kind of romance with. I was starting to think I’d taken it for granted, how easy our dynamic had been. The other night I sent him a heart emoji for Valentine’s Day when I was high. He said,Thank you!
Why was he treating me like a coworker who Slacked him a spreadsheet? He didn’t even send an emoji back. But now that the fires were over, we hardly spoke. It was these stretches of silence that cut into me, the knife pushing deeper whenever my phone rang and it wasn’t him.
Tristan and I walked to the same café as before. This time there was no snow, just a bitter, cold wind. We ordered pricey toast topped with microgreens and fried eggs, which were as expensive as everyone said. Tristan paid. He always paid, though his program stipend couldn’t be much. I felt guilty but said nothing.
When we sat down, I asked, “When does your semester end?” We never talked about what summer would be like with us, whether he’d be going home or staying in the city.
“May. But that feels like fucking forever.”
Slowly, I said, “And what happens when you get married?”
“What do you mean what happens when I get married?”
“Will I never see you again?”
He cocked his head, amused. “Who said I was getting married?”
“You did!”
“Yeah, in like ten years. I have to finish my PhD first.” He said this like it was his own version of manifest destiny.
A guy kept twisting to stare at us from a table in the corner. I ignored him, but it bothered me. It was a reminder that Tristan and I shouldn’t be out together. To all the people complaining about polyamory seeming like a lot of work, folks, I can tell you being the other woman is way more work.
“Do you see this?” I asked.
Tristan followed my gaze. “Oh, that’s Miles.”
He went over to Miles. They exchanged a few words, and Tristan was back in his seat.
“He’s in my program.”
“You don’t care about being seen?”
“It’s not like we’re doing anything right now.”
I looked at Tristan like,Are you insane?He didn’t notice and left for the bathroom. Miles approached our table. As he got closer, it struck me that he hadn’t been staring at me and Tristan together but at me alone.
“You’re gorgeous. Could I get your number?”
“Are you serious?”
Miles laughed. Perfect straight teeth, big dark gums. “You’re not his girl, right?”
“No, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?” He reached in his pocket. “Put your number in my phone.”
