Page 208 of What We Bury

He drinks, draining his glass.

“Holden.”

“Mm.”

“When did you know you could do this? The sharing. Specifically.”

I could lie. I don’t.

“The morning after I had her with Milo. We woke up and found her curled up on Knox’s lap, both of them asleep on the couch. I stood there looking at them together, felt the jealousy hit, then felt the relief underneath it. She needed him. She needs all of us for different reasons. As fucked as sharing her is—I’d commit a federal crime for that woman without asking what the crime was.”

He nods. Slow.

I finish my drink and pick up the rest of the glasses in the tray.

“Come on. We’ve got ends left, and the visor’s going to use your spleen for a doormat if we forfeit.”

We walk back. Milo lights up like Christmas morning when he sees us coming. Micah takes the beer I offer, and his eyes find Eli’s. Eli looks back. Neither of them says a word, but the look holds two seconds longer than any look they’ve traded all afternoon. Micah’s grip loosens around the bottle by a fraction.

It’s progress.

We lose. We lose badly—21 to 6, and the woman in the visor shakes each of our hands with a grip like a bench vise, telling Milo, without a flicker of sarcasm, that he has “a lot of enthusiasm.” Milo decides this is the finest compliment he’s ever received, declares us moral victors and league champions five weeks early, and tries to trademark BALLS OF FURY on his phone during after game drinks.

We pile out into the long Sunday light. Milo’s already re-telling Knox’s shot, embellishing. Micah’s half-smiling. Eli’s walking a little closer to the group than he has all day. “Sage’s?” I ask when we reach the parking lot.

There’s a chorus of agreement as they head for their cars.

All but Eli.

He stands by his car and watches the rest of them turn out of the lot, wanting written all over his face and nowhere to put it.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” I ask.

He hesitates. Then he shakes his head.

I shrug and open my car. “Talk soon.”

“Holden,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

“Tell Milo I said thanks for organizing today. Turned out okay.”

I give him a half smile. “Tell him yourself, Eli. You’ve gotta choose. Either you’re in. Or you’re out. We’re not helping you live outside us anymore.”

FIFTY-SIX

SAGE

Amy says sorry three times before our coffees even land, and on the third one I put my hand flat on the table between us.

“If you apologize for him one more time, I’m charging you. A dollar an apology. I’ll have a beach house by Tuesday.”

She laughs and wraps both hands around her mug. We got the good booth by the window, with a piece of chocolate cake between us I ordered “for the table” and have been eating single-handedly. Outside, Sunday moves past at half speed.

“He’s at Pinecrest today,” she says. “Golf. Some members’ thing.” She turns her phone face-down, then thinks better of it and holds the button until it buzzes itself silent. “Which means I get you, and a whole afternoon, and I’m not letting him grovel from forty minutes away.”

“Good,” I say carefully. “I’m glad he’s trying. But I need to be honest: the last few times I’ve seen you two together, he’s made you smaller. I hate watching that. He needs to understand how amazing you are and treat you that way.” I fork off a chunk of cake and hold it out to her.