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I’ve never managed a relationship with one man. I’ve never gotten further than the back seat of a car. I have no idea how this is supposed to work with four, and every one of them is looking at me like I’m the one who’s supposed to know.
Four of them. Okay.
“One kiss,” I say. “That’s all that was. It’s not a yes to anything else.”
“Understood,” Lenart says.
“And I want to know you. Each of you. Separately. Like actual people, not a committee.”
“Then you’ll need a calendar,” Merek says.
I go take a shower, because I’m not doing the rest of this in damp jeans. When I come out with a towel around my hair, I find my clothes in a laundry basket outside the bathroom door, folded and dry and still warm.
I put on my own shirt and my own jeans. I leave his shirt folded on the dresser.
When I pick up my phone, I have a calendar invitation.
It’s called Tara, and the organizer is Lenart. When I accept it, my week fills up in front of my eyes.
Tuesday, 7:00 p.m.: Dinner. Lenart. There’s an address in the Pearl and nothing else.
Every operating night, Wednesday through Sunday, 11:50 p.m.: Ward renewal. Lenart. Recurring until August 1.
Every morning, 9:00 a.m.: Breakfast with Merek (you live here).
Tuesday, 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.: Deliveries. Tav.
Wednesday, 8:15 p.m.: Roof. William.
That’s it. Just Roof.
I walk out into the living room, holding up my phone. They’re all still here. Merek is on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. Lenart is in the deep leather chair with his legs crossed. Tav is sitting on the floor with his back against the bookshelves, because none of the furniture will take him, and Billy Bob is asleep across his lap. William is standing by the windows.
“Nine a.m.,” I say to Merek.
“I’m up anyway.”
“I’m not. I work until three in the morning. Five nights a week. Then I put my hand on a rock at midnight. You want me at breakfast at nine o’clock, you’re going to get me face down in the eggs.”
He thinks about it. “Fair.” He pulls out his own phone and taps at it. Mine buzzes. Breakfast with Merek (you live here) is now at 11:00 a.m.
“You also don’t get to say I live here.”
“You’re here,” he says, “and it’s lunchtime. I’ll make you breakfast at lunchtime.”
I give up on that one and turn to Lenart.
“You booked yourself into every ward renewal until August.”
“I’m present at every renewal regardless,” he says. “Now it’s on your calendar.”
“And Tuesday’s just Dinner.”
“It’s dinner.”
“Is it a date or a performance review?”
He looks at me for a long second. “You’ll know by dessert.”
