Chapter 9: Terms

I woke up in a strange bed with Damian's arm across my waist.

For one second I thought it was three years ago.

Then I saw the lamp on the floor, and the casserole dish on the counter, and I remembered everything I hadn't told him.

He was already awake. He was watching me.

"Coffee's terrible," he said. "I'm not a good host."

"You've never been a good host."

"Fair."

He gave me the mug and sat on the edge of the mattress.

"I want to set terms," he said.

"Terms."

"For the nine. I'm not asking you to drop him, and I'm not going to make you pick. I'm saying every time you grant him one, I get one answer."

"An answer to what?"

"Anything I ask, and it has to be true." He held my eyes. "Or one evening. Yours, mine, no phone."

"That's a trade."

"It's a marriage. I'd just like to be a participant in it."

I should have said no.

I said, "Fine. But you don't ask the question about why."

"Which question?"

"The one you want to ask."

He smiled for the first time in three weeks, a small, tired one.

"I can wait," he said. "For a while."

My phone buzzed on the floor with a message from Perry, and I read it with the coffee going cold in my hand.

Wish 93. My birthday is Thursday. Roof garden at St. Brendan's, 6pm. Cake from Dorothy, no gifts. I want you there all night.

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