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“Do you like teal or gold better?” Percy asks, sticking his head out of the bathroom, where he’s been rummaging around for a good two minutes. 

“What?”

He emerges, clutching two bottles of nail polish. “Do you want teal or gold?”

I laugh. “Neither.”

“Why not?” Percy frowns, looking almost disappointed as he settles cross-legged on the couch next to me. I’ve spent the last hour watching trashy Real Housewives reruns with the volume turned down low while Percy’s made tea and teased me about my extensive reality television knowledge. It’s not the first time I’ve stayed over for an afternoon doing whatever I would’ve done at home (although there is noticeably less wine here). 

I’m not sure how to answer Percy without sounding like Richard, who side-eyes me whenever I so much as use concealer to cover a zit, so I set down my teacup (he has actual, proper teacups) and extend my hands towards him, fingers splayed. “What the hell. Teal, please.”

He grins, and pulls my hand so it’s resting on his knee before opening the polish and getting to work. His brow furrows as he paints my thumbnail and a fair bit of the skin around it, and he huffs. “I’ll be back.”

He returns from down a hall that I assume leads to his bedroom, though I haven’t ever asked, and flops back down on the couch. He crams a pair of gold-rimmed glasses with dirty lenses on his face, squints, takes them off to clean them using his t-shirt, and puts them back on again before getting back to work on my nails. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say. It seems like something I would’ve noticed after coming over nearly every day for a month. I’ve got Percy’s Sonic order memorized from picking up food along the way to his house, and I can list Florence and the Machine’s albums in order of his most to least favorite. He’s got a stack of composer biographies on his coffee table, and the hand soap in his bathroom always smells like lavender. It’s weird to learn new things about him when I feel like I already know him inside and out. 

Percy doesn’t look up from my nails. “I have contacts in most of the time.” 

“They look good on you.”

He does look up this time, doing the lovely tilted-head smile that I’ve become familiar with. “Oh. Thanks.” His hair falls in his face when he looks down again, and I watch as he finishes a shaky coat on my right hand and moves on to my left. “God, I haven’t done this since middle school.”

I grin. “Did you paint your nails black and write sad poetry?”

“No,” he says, and I make a noise of disbelief. “Maybe a little bit.”

“So you’ve never had the proper middle-school experience of playing spin the bottle way too young and sneaking unhealthy numbers of Capri Suns at sleepovers.”

“I’ve been missing out,” Percy says dryly. “I don’t think my life could be complete without a bad kiss that tastes like strawberry kiwi.” 

“You haven’t truly lived until you’ve watched Pretty Woman surrounded by a bunch of other sugar-high fourteen-year-olds.” 

“I think this serves pretty well as a sleepover experience. There’s trash TV and manicures.” 

I nod sagely. “All you need is a hazardous amount of body spray and you’re set.”

Percy smirks. “Are you saying this from experience?”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Mister Newton.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

I give him the finger, which messes up my nail polish, and he grabs my hand again, laughing. “I hate you, actually.”

“I am in no way responsible for the questionable choices of middle school Monty,” Percy says solemnly, redoing the polish. “I cannot be blamed for his sins.”

I groan, and spend the rest of the time required for his painting squirming and parroting lines from Real Housewives as they’re spoken, much to Percy’s amusement. When he’s finished, he leans back but makes me keep my hands on his knees so I don’t smear the polish. 

“How long does this take to dry?” I ask when it’s been five minutes and he’s made no move to indicate I can go back to drinking my tea. “I haven’t done this in a long time either.”

“Really? I thought you would’ve, since you were so enamored with your costume,” Percy says. 

“No, I don’t really…” I can’t come up with a way to phrase it. “I don’t do stuff like that at home.”

“Why not?”

I shrug with a sigh. “Richard isn’t the biggest fan.”

Percy’s face twists, but he makes an attempt at rearranging it into a neutral expression. “Oh. Is there a reason for that?”

“I don’t really know,” I lie. Richard hates when I do anything feminine because he thinks it makes him look bad.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Percy offers. He smiles. “I mean, I think I did alright.”

I take the out, staring down at my nails. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“Anyway, top five musicians, go.”

“What?”

“I don’t know anything about your music taste,” Percy says. “You always let me pick.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you complaining?”

“No! I’m just a firm believer that someone’s favorite music is a window to their soul.”

“You are such a nerd,” I say, grinning. Only Percy could say something like that with complete seriousness.

Percy blushes. “Shut up.”

When I return home that evening with takeout, the apartment is blessedly quiet. I still never know when exactly Richard returns, as it always seems to change, but I must have beat him this time. I set the food on the kitchen counter and take my share with a glass of wine to the couch. I entertain myself with more Real Housewives as I eat dinner, but it’s distinctly less fun without Percy to watch it with.

When Richard comes home and joins me, he immediately complains and takes the remote to change it to something else. I don’t care enough to argue, pulling out my phone instead. In my aimless scrolling, I am reminded that Doja Cat will be nearby on tour next week. I’ve wanted to see her in concert ever since she announced tour dates, but going by myself didn’t sound nearly as fun. However, I think as an idea strikes me, I may not have to go alone .

“If I bought tickets to see Doja Cat, would you go with me?” I ask.

Richard looks away from his show, clearly not expecting me to speak. “What?”

“Would you see Doja Cat with me?”

He scoffs. “No.”

“Okay.”

I wasn't expecting him to say yes. I certainly didn’t want him to. But now he can never say that I didn’t ask. I turn back to my phone, already typing up my offer to Percy.

“What did you do to your nails?” Richard asks suddenly.

I pause, but don’t look up. “I painted them.”

“Why?”

“I…wanted to?”

Richard makes a poorly concealed sound of disapproval. “It makes you look gay.”

“Thank you for the astute observation, darling,” I say flatly. “What’s next? Is my hair looking brown today?”

I don’t have to look at Richard to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Don’t be a prick.”

I’m strongly tempted to snap at him that I’m not the one being a prick in this conversation. I almost do, but I decide that I would much rather text Percy than pick a fight with Richard. Richard isn’t going anywhere anyway.

me: what r u doing next weekend

percy: nothing?

percy: why do you ask

me: do u want to see doja cat with me

me: i got two tickets but richard wont go :/

me: interested?

percy: absofuckinglutely

That’s all I need to hear to buy the tickets.

The next week, Richard is surprised when he emerges from the shower in the morning to find me already awake. He pauses in the doorway, watching me shove clothes into a suitcase.

“Where are you going?” he asks slowly.

I don’t stop for him. I told Percy I would pick him up in less than an hour but I’m only halfway packed and the drive to Percy’s house isn’t the shortest. “I told you—I’m going to see Doja Cat.”

“Alone?”

I know a trap question when I hear one. If I tell the truth, he’ll get pissed. If I lie, he’ll call it out and be even more pissed. He just wants to hear me say it. But I don’t pause. I don’t have anything to be guilty about. “No,” I say, “I’m going with Percy.”

“ Henry —” Richard starts.

“I asked you to come!” I cut in, turning to face him. “You said you didn’t want to, so I asked Percy.”

Richard crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything at first. I wonder how far he’s willing to take his I’m not jealous argument. “You didn’t ask me if you could do that.”

“When have I ever needed your permission?”

“You’re using my money to run off to a concert with some guy —”

“We could have afforded those tickets four times over, Richard. You don’t care about the money. You care that I’m going with Percy. You’re not subtle.” I roll my eyes and turn back to my suitcase. “I don’t have time for this. I need to leave soon.”

Richard steps up next to me, trying to catch my attention again. “You can’t just—”

I cut him off. “I goddamn well can. I’m an adult, Richard. I can do what I want.”

I’m sick of having variations of this fight with him. I don’t know why he suddenly cares so much when he’s never hovered this much before, but I especially don’t want to put up with it right now. I skirt around Richard to grab my things out of the bathroom. He’s still standing there when I come back and tries to start the argument again.

“How do you think I feel about you running off overnight with another man?” he demands, waving a hand in my face. I ignore the slight jump in my pulse.

I throw the last of my stuff into my suitcase and zip it up. “I don’t care.” I grab my keys off of the dresser and start for the door with my things. “Don’t you think if I was having an affair I’d try to be a bit more subtle about it?”

Richard pursues me. “Henry,” he says, earning no response. “ Henry .”

“Relax,” I say, still refusing to stop or look at him. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Henry,” he repeats. “Henry, look at me when I’m talking to you .”

Richard suddenly grabs for my arm. I’m not expecting the touch, or for him to sound so much like my father out of nowhere, and I flinch. I startle so badly that I back into the wall, hitting my head and surprising both myself and Richard. I feel my face heat as he stares at me.

“What the hell was that?”

“I—”

“Did you think I was going to hit you or something?” he asks, like the idea is laughable, then scoffs. “I’m not your fucking dad.”

It’s my turn to stare. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to feel except for the sinking feeling in my stomach. I open my mouth a few times but nothing comes out.

Richard seems to realize that he’s crossed some sort of line, but not so much that he’s going to apologize for it. Instead, he takes a step back and crosses his arms defensively. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” is all he says before stalking off to our bedroom.

Once Richard is gone, I slide down onto the floor. I’m not sure what else to do. It feels a bit harder to breathe than it should.

My father has never come up with Richard. I never told Richard about him, though I’m not completely surprised that he pieced it together. I’m sure there were a few hookups in high school where I didn’t care enough to hide the bruises and anyone who has ever seen me in the same room as my father could probably get the sense that we’re lacking in father-son bonding. But I assumed that, even if Richard had known, there was no reason for it to come up. Now I see that I had just never gotten him angry enough.

There’s something particularly painful about having it used against me.

Before I can sink too deeply into my shame spiral, my phone buzzes with a message.

percy: plans still on for today?

Shit. I realize with a start that I’m even more behind than I was. I force myself to my feet and shoot a quick text back.

me: on the way

When I make it to Percy’s house, I don’t even get the chance to text him that I’ve arrived before he comes running outside with a wide grin, a small suitcase in hand, and Florence at his heels. I roll down the window and do my best to return his smile. I’m moderately more composed after my fight with Richard.

“You can throw your things in the back if you want,” I say, gesturing behind myself.

Percy opens the trunk to load his suitcase, then opens the door for Florence to hop into the backseat. He slides into the passenger seat and fixes with a grin so broad that it makes mine feel a little more genuine.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply. “Are you excited?”

Percy nods. It’s a little adorable. “I haven’t been to a concert in ages. Thanks for inviting me.” He reaches a hand out. I’m not sure what he intends to do and I don’t find out because I startle so obviously that he freezes. It’s not a full-blown flinch, but Percy certainly notices.

“Are you okay?” he asks, smile faltering but not quite falling.

“Yeah, I’m just…” I trail off, coming up short of an excuse. Percy watches me with something a bit too much like pity. I turn my attention back to the wheel. “We should get going,” I say instead. “We’re already running late.”

Though I still feel his heavy gaze, Percy doesn’t press. “Alright.” He takes the aux cord and plugs his phone in as I pull out of the driveway.

“What makes you think you get aux privileges?” I demand, though my words lose their bite.

Percy smiles sheepishly. “You always give it to me so I just sort of assumed…”

“The audacity,” I scoff, making Percy laugh, and it draws a real smile out of me. I don't actually care. I almost like that Percy feels that comfortable making himself at home in my car.

After a moment, some of Percy’s sappy indie music starts playing.

“You know,” I say, “I’m a little surprised that you wanted to see Doja with me. She doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Oh, she’s not,” Percy admits. “I wasn’t super familiar with her but going with you sounded like fun.” He gives me a warm smile, then tacks on: “Besides, you already bought the tickets. It would be a shame to waste them. I’ve heard the name at least.”

I decide, just in case Percy ends up hating this, that I’ll be taking the true order of events to my grave. Instead, I pull up Doja Cat on my phone (earning a scolding from Percy for not watching the road) and pass it to him. “Plug mine in,” I say. “I’m going to fix that right now.”

With a bemused chuckle, Percy does as I ask. He connects my phone to the aux and Kiss Me More starts to play as we drive.

The drive to the venue is about an hour, and we pass the time singing along. Or rather, I sing along, and Percy laughs at me as I proclaim that I’m Mother Earth, Mother Mary rise to the top, divine feminine with the windows rolled down, drawing the stares of the people in the car next to us. He’s still grinning when we arrive at the hotel to drop off our things, and a thought that threatens to derail the entire weekend occurs to me.

“Hey, Perce,” I say, not turning from where I’m tossing the extra blanket I packed onto the bed. “Your epilepsy won’t get set off by strobe lights, will it?”

“Nope,” he says. He ducked into the bathroom as soon as we got here to line up his epilepsy medication and some sort of shot (maybe testosterone?) on the vanity, and he emerges with his bag slung over his shoulder, stopping in the entranceway to the main room. His eyes land on the singular bed. “I’d have said no to coming if it would.”

“Oh, good.” I watch him stare at the bed until he looks away, and wince. I hadn’t thought anything of sharing a bed when I booked the hotel. Maybe I should’ve asked? Back in high school I shared a bed with my friend Jeanne all the time. 

I mean, we also hooked up quite a bit, but it’s not like that’s the aim here. I’m very married, and Percy is very not interested.

Percy is rambling about a concert he went to when he was sixteen and rearranging the two cardigans he packed in the dresser drawer over and over when I finally blurt “I can sleep in the bathtub if you want.”

He turns. “What?”

“You don’t have to share the bed with me. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, it’s not—” he flushes. “Normally Florence sleeps down by my feet, and I just didn’t want you to get dog hair on your blanket.”

“Okay, that’s super sweet, but washing machines exist.” I jab a thumb in Percy’s direction. “Now stop dicking around with your sweaters. We have a show to attend.”

We walk the four blocks to the venue (with a small detour for a coffee for Percy) and get in with twenty minutes before the show starts. It’s a hassle to get Florence through security, despite her service dog vest, and Percy looks like he’d rather chop his own hand off rather than explain that they’re legally required to let her in to a third guard, so when we’re finally through, I buy him a stiff drink and let him take the aisle seat. 

“ Jesus fuck ,” he shouts over the opening act as he takes a sip. “Is this rat poison?”

“I hope not.”

He throws the rest of it back, then wheezes. “I think it is.” 

I laugh. “Am I meeting drunk Percy tonight?”

“Very, very soon.” 

Drunk Percy, as it turns out, is quite the poet. 

Doja is halfway through Talk Dirty, and he’s seemed to have taken it as a suggestion, because he’s shouting absolutely filthy limericks over the music as he comes up with them and grinning like a menace. He’s dancing very badly. The entire display is absurdly endearing. 

I’m not quite as deep in the drink as he is, but I’m buzzing with the music and a strange warmth in my chest that only intensifies with a shot and Percy grabbing my hand to get me to sway in time with him. Which is not in time with the beat. But I don’t mind.

During Kiss Me More , which Percy has remembered half the words to from the car ride, he slurs “I feel like fuckin’ something” right on cue, and I start laughing so hard I almost fall forward into the next row of seats.

“What?” he asks, indignant, and slings an arm around my shoulders to lean on me. “Just because everyone wants to kiss you —” 

“Excuse me?” I shout, still laughing. 

“Just because you’re you doesn’t mean you get to laugh at me —” He turns back towards the stage, and in an impressive falsetto trills “ It’s just principle .” 

I let out what can only be termed a giggle. “What the fuck are you saying?” 

He hiccups and presses his face to my shoulder. “I have noooooooo clue.” 

Ten minutes later, a girl even more wasted than Percy sidles up the aisle and waves to him like she recognizes him. “ Ohmygod, hi. Hi, you have a dog, hi.”

Percy, who’s still clinging to me, doesn’t hear her at first, and I have to nudge his head in her direction. He sees her, and grins, gesturing to where Florence is pacing in front of her. “Hi. Hi, hi, hi.” 

I shout, “Do you two know each other?” and they both shake their heads violently in near-perfect unison.

“I want to,” the girl yells, and leans on Percy, waving her hand in front of their faces. “Do you want a drink?”

Percy laughs. “I’m good. Very good. Very drinked. Drunk.” He turns back to me, and announces, in a tone that I think is supposed to be confidential, “She’s nice.”

“She’s hitting on you,” I say, fighting back another laugh. 

“Oh. Oh!” Percy claps a hand to his forehead in an almost-comic display of surprise, and turns to the girl, gently pushing her off of him. “You’re soooooooooo drunk. And I’m sooooooooooooo gay.” 

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” She looks at me. “Oh my god, y’all are cute .” Another girl comes up the aisle and grabs her by the arm, looking concerned, and they have a conversation I can’t hear. She sticks out her bottom lip like a little kid. “I have to go. Byeeeeeeee.”

“We’re not together,” I shout after her, waving my left hand to show off my wedding ring, which is of course when I realize I must’ve left the ring at the hotel, because it’s nowhere to be found. Percy drapes himself over me again, and I make an executive decision to blame the way my heart kicks on the cocktail I’ve been nursing. 

“Byeeeeeeeeee,” he says, to no one in particular, and sighs, knocking his hip into mine. “ Thick in the thighs, thick in the waist .”

I finish the cocktail off, and hip-check him back, grinning. “ Thick in the right motherfuckin’ places. ”

After the show, we stumble back to the hotel hand in hand, giggling and walking into each other and tripping over cracks in the sidewalk. Percy is clingy when he’s drunk, and he’s very drunk. Not that I’m complaining. Maybe I should be? 

“Why aren’t you married?” he asks, suddenly serious as we crash back into the hotel lobby. Or, I crash back in. It’s beastly inconvenient to have a table right by the entrance. 

I blink. “I am married.” We’re not at a point in the night at which I’ve drunk enough to forget about that , as pleasant as that may be. “I’m married to Richard.”

“But you don’t—” Percy frowns, deep in thought, then holds up our linked hands. “No ring. You wear a ring when you’re married.” 

“I forgot it,” I reply, pulling him towards the elevators, then stop. “Do you want chips?” 

“Okay?”

“Okay.” I fumble in my pocket for our room key, then remember he has one too. “Go up to the room, I’ll get you some.” 

“Okayyyyy Monts,” he says, squeezing my hand before dropping it. He presses both the up and down button for the elevator, and then swears as I round the corner in search of a vending machine. 

Five minutes of searching and another five of wrestling a crinkled dollar bill into the machine later, I return triumphantly to our room ready to deflect any further questions about my marriage by pretending I didn’t hear them. It takes me three tries to get the key to work, and when I push open the door, some Hozier song of Percy’s that I might recognize sober is playing from inside the bathroom. As I pass, Percy nearly knocks me over in the cramped doorway. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he says, dropping the pile of clothes he’s holding. He bends to pick it up, then wobbles, and I catch him by the arm. 

“Steady on, darling,” I tease. 

He straightens back up to look at me, eyes almost comically wide, and I am suddenly aware of just how close together we are. He’s in nothing but an oversized and ancient-looking hoodie and his boxers, his glasses crooked and his hair falling out of a messy bun, and he seems alarmed by something, though I can’t imagine what. 

Percy hiccups, and reaches up to rub a thumb across my jaw. “You’ve got something.”

“Oh?” 

He pulls his hand away, and it’s covered in glitter. “Oh my god, Monty you’re a fairy.”

I laugh, stepping back. “Somehow I don’t think that’s as much of a compliment as you mean it to be.”

“No, Puck ,” he insists, then grabs my hand again and pulls me into the room proper and down onto our bed. “No, because I’m so so glad you were Puck.”

I don’t know where he’s going with this. I roll onto my side to watch him as he lays on his back and gestures at the ceiling. “Why? I quit.”

“Becaaaaaaause,” he says, rolling onto his side too. “I got to meet you. And you kick fucking ass.” 

I grin. “I suppose.”

“No, because you’re like my best friend. You know that right? You’re my whole favorite person.” Percy rolls again, so we’re almost nose to nose, then throws an arm around me to pull me into a hug. 

I settle into it, into the warmth of his body, the sound of his music still playing, the safety that’s thrumming out from everything around me. Florence hops up onto the bed and lays in the crook of Percy’s knees. The lights are still on, and I’m still in my clothes from the concert, but I don’t want to get out of bed or pull away. This is good. This is right. 

“You’re my favorite person,” I say, my face pressed into Percy’s shoulder, and I mean it.  

In the morning, I wake up still entangled with Percy. The lights shut off automatically in the night, so it takes me a minute to get my bearings in the semidarkness. We moved around some in our sleep so that I’m practically spooning him, my face pressed between his shoulder blades. Florence is asleep by our feet. I’m still in my concert clothes. When I lift my head I notice some of my glitter smeared on the back of Percy’s hoodie. He’s breathing steadily, still dead to the world after last night.

I should get up. I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and I have a pretty confident guess of who it is, but I can’t bring myself to pull away from Percy to answer. Despite the fact that my clothes are chafing at this point, I smell like I spent all night drinking and dancing, and I could really go for a few painkillers, I don’t want to disturb this delicate peace. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up next to someone like this. Sure, Richard and I share the bed more often than not, but he’s typically gone by the time I wake up. When he is there, we certainly never wake up spooning. I can’t imagine what either of us would do if we did. It would be too weird. It doesn’t feel weird with Percy, though. It feels easy. Natural. Comfortable in a way that it isn’t even with my past hookups. I wonder if this is what it’s usually like having a best friend.

Eventually, the headache building behind my eyes is too strong to ignore. I carefully detach myself, though Percy seems to be sleeping so soundly that I don’t really need to worry. I assume that I’ll be okay to turn on the bedside lamp to find my way around. Once I do, though, Percy lets out a hissing sound and rolls over, pressing his face into my pillow.

I can’t help but laugh. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Percy makes a sound that resembles no human language.

I dig Advil out of my bag. I take some and leave the bottle on the bedside table for Percy. “There’s Advil for your inevitable hangover. I’m going to shower, and then we can get breakfast?”

Percy makes another unintelligible noise and waves a hand, which I take for a go ahead .

When I get out of the shower, Percy is up and at least semi-functional, halfway dressed now in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He’s sitting up in bed squinting at the television and nursing a paper cup of water.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement in my voice.

“Ugh.” Percy lets his head fall back with a gentle thunk against the headboard. “Never let me get that drunk again.”

I laugh. “I don’t know. I kind of like drunk Percy. He’s fun. And very creative.”

“Oh, god .” He puts a hand over his eyes as an adorable blush spreads across his face. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Do you not remember?”

“It’s all pretty fuzzy.”

“You composed some very colorful limericks—”

“Nope. Stop. Please , stop,” Percy says, going even redder.

As much as I enjoy embarrassing him, I do. I sit beside him on the bed, nudging his shoulder with mine. “Alright, I’ll spare you. Do you want to get breakfast downstairs before we go?”

Percy nods. “I’m starving.”

After gathering the few things we unpacked last night, we go down to the lobby to return our keys and partake of the free breakfast. Percy makes coffee and piles eggs and bacon (which he also sneaks a piece of to Florence) onto a plate while I struggle with the waffle maker. Eventually, he has to come over and help me.

“Making waffles is an art,” he says solemnly as he slides one onto a plate. “Not everyone can master it.”

I roll my eyes, nudging his hip with mine as I take the plate. “I appreciate your skills, Perce.”

When we sit down, I finally check my phone as I eat my waffle. I have multiple messages and a missed call, all from Richard, all asking what I’m doing and where I am and when I’m coming home. I let out a sigh, almost against my will, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“You okay?” Percy asks.

“Just Richard,” I say with a wave. “He wants to know when I’ll be home.”

“Oh,” Percy says softly. “Well…it’s sweet that he cares,” he offers weakly. I’m not sure he even believes it.

I laugh drily without really meaning to. “Sure.”

Percy frowns. “Monty, I don’t want to overstep but…”

I raise an eyebrow. That’s never a good way to start.

“Do you think that you and Richard might have some things to work out?”

You don’t know the half of it . “What makes you say that?”

Percy gives a small shrug. “I don’t know, it just seems like you’ve been pretty unhappy with him lately. Maybe…you should talk to him?”

I almost laugh again. But Percy sounds so sincere and is looking at me so intensely with those big brown eyes that I make myself stop and consider it. The last thing that I want to do right now is talk to Richard even more . But then I think about the flowers and the dinner. Maybe all Richard needs is some time and space to come around again. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that Richard could be reasoned with now. After all, I haven’t been the most agreeable husband either.

“Maybe you’re right.”

The drive back home is quiet. Percy reclaims the aux for his music but spends most of the ride asleep anyway. When he isn’t, he’s reading. I ask about the book and he says that it’s his favorite: The Picture of Dorian Gray. I make a mental note of that. We don’t talk much, but I find that comfortable silence with Percy is easy too.

When I drop Percy off at his house, he pulls me into a tight hug in the driveway.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says. “I had a lot of fun.”

“We should do this again sometime,” I venture.

“Do I get to pick next time?”

I pretend to consider it. “Maybe.”

Percy laughs. “Get back to me.” He takes my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before dropping it. “Lunch later this week?”

I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

Percy beams and waves as he turns to head inside. I watch him go, feeling that strange warmth settle inside my chest again.

When I get home, Richard is in the kitchen getting himself a beer. It’s pretty early in the day for drinking, but I can’t judge.

“There you are,” he says when he sees me. “You didn’t answer my calls.” He holds up his phone as if I’ve forgotten what its use is.

“I was driving. I told you that I would be back today.”

“You didn’t say when.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Richard rolls his eyes. “How was the concert?”

“It was fun,” I say carefully. I don’t know why he cares.

“Yeah? You had fun with Percy?”

“Oh my god.” I turn to leave the kitchen. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Hey, no, come on.” Richard grabs my hand and pulls me back to him. He puts his arms around my waist, our faces so close that I can feel his breath on my face. “Don’t get pissed.”

“Don’t get jealous,” I retort.

“I’m not jealous,” he says, already sliding a hand up the back of my shirt. “I’m done.”

I put a hand on his chest, pushing back without pushing away. “Really?”

“Sure.” He’s already distracted, looking at my mouth.

I do push then. He steps back, frowning. “Good. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I don’t know where I’m getting the courage right now. Maybe it’s the remnants of that strange warmth in my chest, the sincerity in Percy’s gaze when he suggested this, the fact that I told myself that living with Richard would be better.

I can tell he’s impatient, but he leans back against the counter and takes another sip of beer. “What’s up?”

I take a deep breath and a preemptive step back. “What you did yesterday…don’t do it again.”

“What did I do yesterday?”

I stare at him. I can’t tell if he’s being coy or if he genuinely can’t remember. He almost looks bored now. “You know, when you got in my face,” I say slowly, waiting for some kind of recognition. “You started waving your hands around and…grabbed me. Don’t do that again.”

He looks really confused now. “Why?”

I laugh, disbelieving. “Richard, you can’t be serious.”

“What?” he asks, and his frown deepens. “Did that scare you?”

He makes it sound like I’m being ridiculous. “It didn’t—”

“Did you really think I was going to hit you?” he demands. “I told you that I’m not—”

“Don’t,” I cut in.

“Do you really think I would do that? What kind of person do you think I am?”

I huff. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what’s this about, Henry? Because it feels like you’re saying you think I would hit you. When have I ever done anything that suggested that?”

“Nothing! I just asked you for one thing —”

“I already do so much for you,” he says. “I’ve never hurt you. I take care of you. I pay for your whole life. And this is how you treat me? You think I would stoop that low?”

We stare at each other for a breath. The air is charged. I want to turn and run. I want a drink. I want to be where I was this morning, curled up in Percy’s safe, steady warmth.

“Fine,” I say eventually. “Whatever. I knew this was a dumb idea as soon as he suggested it.”

“He?”

I realize my mistake too late.

“Did Percy tell you this was a problem?”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“You’re spending too much time with him.”

“You said you weren’t jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. But if he’s going to keep causing problems like this—”

“Richard—”

“I don’t want you hanging around with him anymore,” he says, leaving no room for argument as he pushes past me and out of the kitchen.