Page 544 of End Game

Meet The Party

Griffin

My mother has known about the polycule since Thanksgiving.

Technically.

That word is doing a lot of work.

She knows Cami and I are married. She knows Cami has relationships with the guys. She knows some of the guys have relationships with each other. She watched me shut down Uncle Richard when he decided all of that must mean I had suddenly become gay by proximity.

We've talked about it since.

Sort of.

Enough that I know she isn't pretending it doesn't exist.

Not enough that I'm convinced she understands I'm not waiting for it to end.

Which is why, on a Wednesday evening when the rest of the house is busy doing their various weird little rituals, I call her.

She answers on the second ring. “Hi, honey.”

“Hey, Mom.”

Immediately, there's noise in the background. Cabinet doors. Running water. Something metallic hitting something else metallic.

“You cooking?”

“Cleaning up.”

“At eight-thirty?”

“I had book club.”

“Right.”

I have never understood book club. From what I can tell, they read approximately half a book and drink enough wine to forget which half.

“You sound serious,” she says.

My mother has always been able to tell when something is sitting wrong in my chest.

Probably because we all learned to read rooms too early.

“I'm fine.”

“That's not what I said.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I wanted to talk to you about Cami. And the guys.”

The kitchen goes quieter on her end.

“Okay.”

“I know we've talked about it before.”

“We have.”