Page 23 of Our Elliana

Over the subsequent week, I take each man to bed with me based on nothing but my whims. A desire for intensity equals Tristan. More whimsical yet relentless means Jackson. When I’m in the mood to be in total control, it’s Noah. Yet even he, as my most unseasoned lover, has learned how to make me come without requiring as much coaxing or instruction as in the beginning.

I’ve been building connections little by little with my housemates as I get to know them better. This has extended itself beyond the bedroom, too. I notice that Tristan likes to keep to himself either in his room or in the kitchen while Noah has to work a lot of hours away at the firehouse. Jackson, meanwhile, is a fidgeter.

If he’s not tapping his fingers or bopping around as if to music inside his own head, he’s flicking the pendant of his necklace on stuff. As I study it though, I realize it’s not a pendant, but a brushed nickel guitar pick that resembles military dog tags. He wears it on a long piece of twine and constantly drags the thing along any available surface.

In the span of a single half hour, I observe him skimming it across five separate mediums. His shirt. The spines of books I have lined up along my downstairs bookshelf. The sides of his leather boots. The TV remote. And once, with deliberate suggestiveness, the zipper of his jeans.

Yet in the midst of this, Jackson stacks all the dishes in the dishwasher and runs it after every meal. And while he never makes his bed and often has his belongings strewn about his room, he vacuums and dusts the entirety of my house every day. So, I can’t condemn him for how he utilizes all his extra energy.

Jackson has a genuine flair for music, and I might even tell him so if he’d stop pestering Tristan. He’s lowkey about it, but I catch him invading the chef’s personal space more than once. Tristan keeps glaring daggers at him, and while I’m annoyed with their insistence on all this dick measuring, I steer clear.

I have no plans to get spritzed on during this testosterone-fueled pissing contest.

On his days off, Noah stays outside trimming the hedges alongside the house. I suspect the other two’s animosity to be a symptom of that. When he’s not doing chores, he does jumping jacks and other calisthenics out on the patio in my backyard.

He also performs sprints up and down the stairs as if in training for a marathon, showcasing that he and Jackson have their inability to stay still in common.

Near the end of our eighth day of cohabitation, Tristan again gives evidence of his proficiency in the kitchen at dinnertime. He’s stirring sauces, slicing vegetables, and moving as gracefully as a choreographer as he builds the meals from start to finish. He has a collection of pots and pans on the stovetop as well as something sweet and chocolatey in the oven.

I can’t wait to try it all.

Jackson has been leaving Tristan be all afternoon long when he wanders by the half wall next to the kitchen as if at random. With his acoustical guitar, he leaps right into the beginning riff of Guns ‘N Roses’ “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”

The loudness of it startles Tristan just as he’s retrieving his chocolate dessert from the oven. He jars the pan, making the confection fall into itself like a popped balloon.

“Goddammit,” Tristan roars at Jackson. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Jackson, for his part, seems genuinely confused. “What?”

“Why sneak up behind me right when I was trying to handle this souffle? It’s wrecked now, thanks to you.”

A souffle? Oh, shit.

“I didn’t sneak up behind you. Doing covers is how I warm up for my songwriting.”

“Do your own goddamn songwriting somewhere the fuck else, then.” Tristan appears as incensed as a moment ago, but he’s dropped his tone into something far quieter and more menacing. He’s like a skillet reduced to a low simmer but capable of boiling the second the fire’s turned up.

I’m about to intercede when Jackson peels off to advance upstairs, and any serious confrontation is avoided. But I don’t enjoy what’s happening. The last thing I want is for Jackson and Tristan to disrupt the harmony of my home.

I have to admit that in the fantasies that made me choose to bring these guys here in the first place, I pictured this utopia of companionable lovers who would provide me orgasm after orgasm.

I didn’t ever take their personalities into account, so I guess that’s on me.

But what am I supposed to do now that I have to deal with the equivalent of oil and water?

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