Page 96 of The Cartographer

“Fine. If you insist on carrying out this ridiculous charade, I don’t have to be here for it.” I turn for the door, clenching my hands into fists, but when I get there, Peter’s slid in front of my means of egress and he’s not a small man. Taller than I am, about twice as broad, with his full beard and head of silver hair, not to mention the tatts that grace his meaty forearms—yes, he could kick my ass and looks entirely willing to.

“Actually, you do.”

“Peter—”

“No. You are making Matthew unhappy by making yourself miserable, and I won’t stand for it.”

I could shove by him—especially if I’m willing to dislocate my shoulder to do it, and why the hell not?—but suddenly Cris and Constance are bracketing him, their own arms crossed. Neither are as physically imposing as Peter, but their disapproval hits me a lot harder than Peter’s does. They do not look happy. Not that they’ve always been happy with me, but this is different.

Constance shoves a finger into my chest. “You are going to sit down and listen to what we have to say. If you don’t, well, you know what we’re capable of. You’ve trained every last one of us, and we’re all damn fine at bondage. If we want you to stay still, you will. There’s one of you and eight of us.”

“Nine!” my mother chimes in from the speakerphone. Jesus Christ, my mother is hearing all of this.

I could put up a fight, but it seems the most expedient and simplest way to get out of this is to give the people what they want. Or at least appear to. A little play-acting never hurt anyone. I put up my hands in surrender and head to a chair they’ve oh-so-conveniently left open for me.

“So what is this about?”

India doesn’t stand up from the couch, but this has clearly become her show. “This is about you being a dumb-fuck.”

My brows draw slightly together and up while my nostrils flare. “Okay…”

“For someone so smart, you’re being a stupid shit, you know that?”

“Perhaps you could tone down the name-calling? It’s not terribly persuasive.”

“She’s right, though. You’ve got your head pretty far up your own ass.” For the love of all that is holy, they had to involve my mother in this why?

“Would you prefer we sit crisscross applesauce and sing ‘Kumbaya’? I lobbied for the direct approach myself, but if you want to have a pity party first, we can do that.” Slade is sitting splay-legged on a chair with Pressly tucked between his knees. She’s got her pretty manicured hands resting on one of his thighs, and she looks as if she might fall asleep any second. The only time I’ve seen Pressly look so tired is—

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d rather not be doing this at all. And I can’t believe you took time out of your busy schedule,Secretary, and dragged your pregnant wife all the way across the country to lecture me.”

Press’s eyes pop wide, and she turns her face up to her husband’s while she hisses, “Did you tell him?”

Their skirmish distracts everyone, because of course Pressly is in fact pregnant with their third, and everyone wants to offer their congratulations and best wishes and mazel tovs, and on and on. Annoyingly, my friends are an intelligent and stalwart bunch, and it doesn’t take them long to come back around to why they’re here.

“Stop distracting us, Rey. This isn’t a baby shower, this is about you.” Pressly looks dead serious, so I don’t bother to send Matthew downstairs to get bottles of champagne and sparkling cider.

“What about me?”

“We all think you’re being an idiot.”

“Yes, thanks, Mother, I got that.” I’d throttle Matthew if I didn’t think he’d enjoy that.

“But you are,” says Glory. She comes over to my chair, climbs into my lap, and wraps her arms around my neck. Her hair smells like apples, and her round little body fits snugly curled up on my thighs and against my chest. “We don’t understand why, and we’re at a loss. We want to help you, and we don’t know how. You’re the one who always puts people to rights, but you can’t seem to do it for yourself. You’re fucking this up pretty good.”

I hug her and bury my nose into her mass of black hair, breathing her in and trying not to let my eyes water. What I want is for them to give up, to leave, to let me be. They don’t understand, can’t possibly, and while I appreciate their (entirely misguided) gesture, they need to go. “I am not messing anything up. I’ve been keeping tabs on all of my people, including all of you, and yes, perhaps I haven’t been my usual buoyant self, but it will pass. I’ll be fine.”

I’m always fine. No need to worry about me.

“That’s the thing, though,” India points out. “You’re always fine, and now you’re not. Even if you will be eventually, why don’t you fix it and be happy now? That’s what you’d tell us to do.”

“That is, in fact, what youhavetold us to do.” Slade is irritating. Why did India invite him?

“I’m not like you.” I wave a hand around the room, encompassing everyone, including Peter who is still guarding the door. “I don’t need a partner to be satisfied. I’ve been perfectly happy with my life. Not to mention, what would you do if I did have a partner? If I couldn’t get on a plane anytime you needed me? If I couldn’t solve your problems because I would be busy dealing with my own?”

They look around at each other again and appear to elect Constance as their leader for this segment of the program. “We’d suck it up, buttercup. Or we’d call someone else in this room. You’re not the only one who gives decent advice, you know.”

My pride is dinged by that statement, because I give the best advice and the idea I could be replaced by one of these jokers is laughable. Except it’s not anymore. They’re grown, responsible, loving people who’ve proved they’re capable of maintaining intimate relationships, and I should be proud of the part I’ve played in that. I’m honored, actually, that this group of incredible people have put their trust in me to the extent that they’ve allowed me to contribute to their happiness and well-being, the fulfilling of their potential. Have let me still be a part of their lives even after that’s been accomplished.

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