76. Max

Ilook from Darcy to Dex. My Dangerous Ds, both so young, so achingly beautiful. They were both supposed to be conquests—trophies I hankered after and then claimed, moving on when I'd had my fill.

What a fucking joke that was. They have me in a chokehold so strong that their power over me is complete. I'm a useless mess around them, but they don't seem to understand that.

Still, I haven't completely abandoned my self-respect, and while I can still cling to the vestiges of my agency, I should draw some lines in the sand. Starting with this.

I've grown greedier, you see. The goalposts keep shifting. Initially, I wanted to provoke a reaction in Dex. To make him admit he was queer, make him understand all the things about himself he'd previously denied. Then I wanted to unravel him. To take all his firsts. And I did, and it didn't help.

Because now I want him all.

I lean forward and take both their hands.

‘This has come sooner than I expected,' I say, trying to keep my voice even, ‘but you're right, Dex. We should talk about our feelings and our hopes for this relationship, and it makes sense to do it now.' I drink them both in. They're wearing twin expressions of concern, doubt, and they crucify me, so my first priority is to assuage those doubts.

‘I've fallen very deeply in love with both of you,' I tell them with foreign words that feel both revelatory and right. ‘You're both very, very dear to me, and so is this. I can't quite articulate how special our relationship is, new though it may be.'

Their faces light up to such an extent that it's humbling.

‘Oh, thank God,' Darcy says in a rush, grabbing at the back of my neck with her free hand and pulling me in so she can brush her mouth against mine. ‘I thought you were going to dump us both for a second. Didn't you, Dex?'

He doesn't answer, because he's too busy gazing at me like he could stare at my face for all his tomorrows and never, ever grow tired of what he sees.

‘I'm not finished,' I say. ‘I know this is special. You know it, too.' I pause, my eyes fixed on Dex. I squeeze Darcy's hand more tightly to show her I've got her. And then I say, ‘So it deserves more than sneaking around in the shadows and playing platonic friends at our City lunches and keeping these feelings to the privacy of our homes. It deserves oxygen and you damn well know it.'

Darcy lets out a little gasp, as if she can't believe I've called Dex out on this, but it's time. We've been sneaking around for two months now, and if there's one thing I don't do, it's sneak around like I've done something wrong. If I do something, I own it.

I stroke her knuckles, but my eyes are on Dex. It's been effortless with her since the start, but with him it's been a constant push-pull. Anyone who saw us together (if he ever fucking let anyone see us together, that is) would assume I'm the dominant one in the relationship. That's true in bed, at least.

But from where I'm standing, he's been in the driving seat from the word go, and every time I've pushed him, it's been as someone desperate to see him put his foot on the gas. Behind closed doors, our relationship is perfect. It's loving, it's exciting, it's intoxicating.

Something like that deserves to flourish out there in the world, no?

He is a deer caught in the fucking headlights, though he can't possibly have failed to see this coming. I refuse to look away from his ridiculous eyes, which right now reflect everything from adoration to terror.

Finally, he finds his words. ‘You're right.' He falters, glancing at Darcy, who gives him a little nod of encouragement. Her lips are pressed together like she's trying not to cry. ‘It's so special—it deserves everything.'

His concession makes me gentle. ‘I know it must always feel like I'm railroading you, but that's not it. I love you. I want to be able to walk into any bar or restaurant with my arm around you. I'm so fucking proud and delighted to be with you—I want to shout it from the rooftops.' And if he doesn't feel the same way, that tells me everything I need to know.

He allows me a small, pleased smile then. ‘I know. Me too.'

‘Do you?' When Darcy meets him at work for a quick coffee, I know he kisses her in Loeb's lobby. I know he slings his arm around his ravishing, appropriate girlfriend as he saunters out into the sunshine with her. I know, because she's told me. And I can only imagine the looks they get—looks of approval. Envy. Because they're a beautiful couple in the exact way that society expects.

Passersby will glance at the extraordinarily handsome, dark-haired guy in a suit, his arm around the gorgeous red-head. Her head is probably thrown back in laughter—it usually is—and he'll be smiling down at her adoringly. They make the kind of couple that you automatically look at and think they should have babies together. They'd make such beautiful babies.

I know this, because that's how I feel when I look at them, too. They're radiant. Darcy's so good for him. She nurtures him. Emboldens him. Her levity is the perfect counterbalance for his seriousness. And even if what he and I have is extraordinary, what they have is the culmination of everything he's been raised to aspire to.

Take me out of the equation, and you could argue that Darcy's an audacious choice for him. I can't see him telling his father his girlfriend dances naked at a sex club, although if his sister can hide the fact that her husband owns the club, I'm sure Dex could fudge the details of Darcy's job.

Still, you see what I mean. He's told me about his previous fuck buddies. Safe, over-achieving, impeccably groomed career women who want him for his patrician looks and job title and platinum Amex. Darcy's a breath of fucking fresh air compared to them. Thank fuck he's had the good sense to hitch his wagon to hers.

But that leaves me so far off left field on the spectrum of appropriate life choices for Dex that I'm pretty sure I'm sitting in the equivalent of a dung heap.

And I need him to choose me. Us. I need him to find his backbone, and make the conscious decision to fuck everyone who doesn't have his best interests at heart, and put on a giant pair of wellies, and take a flying leap into the dung heap with me.

So when I ask him if being public is something he really wants, I'm trying to dig under those layers of manners and work out what the actual fuck he really wants.

‘I want it in that I fantasise about it, all the time,' he says, screwing his face up like he's articulating his thoughts in real time. ‘I want to be that person, so badly I can't tell you. But then I imagine the steps I'd have to take to actually get there, and it's like asking me to jump out of a plane without a parachute. I totally freeze—it's completely terrifying.'

I have many, many things to say to this, but I force myself to be silent as he stumbles on.

‘The idea of walking into, say, the Arts Club or Harry's Bar and having you stand up and cup my face in your hands and just kiss me in front of the entire place—I imagine it, and it makes me so proud and emotional that I could cry just thinking about it. I want that so fucking much.'

He reaches over now, cupping my face for a moment, and I wonder if he's even conscious he's doing it. But there's no doubting the sincerity in his devastating eyes.

‘But it's also so horrifying it makes my balls shrivel up,' he confesses, and I spit out a shocked laugh. ‘Not you—but all the judgement. Being looked at and talked about and called names. It would be exactly like standing up in the middle of one of those places and stripping naked while everyone watches.'

Darcy's rubbing his back, and she lays her head against his shoulder. ‘That's so awful. I totally get it. And you're not the only one who's scared. It makes me feel a bit sick, too. I love you both so much, and I'd be so insanely proud to walk into a room with you two on my arms. I'd be like, hi, bitches. But the idea of having to explain to random fucking people every day that I'm with two guys, and knowing everyone's thinking, wow, she must really like dick, is completely mortifying. I'd argue the queer stuff is more normalised in society than the throuple stuff.'

I'm smiling at Darcy's humorous take on our situation, as well as her declaration of love, and so is Dex. But she's right, of course. There are two issues at stake here. Dex is queer and still in the closet. And the three of us are in the type of relationship that our society is not yet remotely equipped to handle.

‘I love you, angel,' he tells her, brushing his lips over her temple. ‘And I get that. It's scary for all of us.'

‘You're right, both of you,' I interject. ‘But you're wrong about one thing, Dex. You'd have a giant fucking parachute, and that's me and Darcy.'

He looks at me, and the emotion shining in his eyes has me pushing on.

‘It's really quite straightforward,' I tell them. ‘It comes down to choosing yourself, and choosing us, over everything else, plain and simple. Yes, it'll be shitty, especially for you'—I nod at Dex—‘but what I've been telling you all along is that none of it—none of the bullshit or judgement or slurs—is more important than your happiness and your right to live your life as the person you are fucking supposed to be.'

I blink away the wetness in my eyes. It's so frustrating, this topic. Of course I can see how terrifying it is for him. Of course. But he's subjugated his desires for decades now, and I need him to be so fucking sick of it that he decides enough is enough. Only he can do that.

‘There will be people who don't understand, and people who see your choices as sick or sinful or deviant. Whatever. I'm sure there'll be some heartbreaking choices for you to make, but I'm not asking you to choose me and Darcy over your parents or anyone else—I'm asking you to finally, for God's sake, choose your own fucking happiness.'

I squeeze Darcy's hand and release it before I reach over to Dex. It's my turn to take his face in my hands and I do, cradling his jaw, marvelling at the multitude of emotions warring in his eyes.

‘I don't know how many times you need to hear this,' I tell him gruffly, ‘but you are perfect. I've told you before, and I'll keep on telling you till you get it through that thick head of yours. You're perfect as you are. Your needs, your choices. You have a beautiful heart, and everyone who has you in their life is the better for it. And if they don't accept you for who you are, they don't deserve to be in your life.

‘You get to exist in the world as yourself and not change a single fucking thing to accommodate anyone else. Understood? You're allowed to go out there, and take up space, and stand in the middle of a restaurant full of your industry peers and fucking revel in it when a man kisses you and tells you you're his favourite part of his day. You deserve all that. You deserve everything you've ever wanted, and I really, really wish you'd just finally make the decision to take it all. Because, God knows, it's overdue.'