Page 17 of More Than We Know

Guilt and excitement war in my stomach as I watch her lean up to kiss Quentin hello. I shouldn't feel this thrill when his eyes meet mine over Sarah's shoulder.

“We managed to keep ourselves entertained,” Quentin says.

Sarah grins, looking between us. “Well, I'm glad you two are getting along.”

She moves to pour herself a glass of wine, and I can't help but notice how beautiful she looks, even frazzled from being in traffic. Her short blonde hair is slightly mussed, like she's been running her fingers through it in frustration, and her fitted t-shirt hugs her petite curves in all the right ways.

“So,” Sarah says, settling onto the barstool next to me, “what were you two talking about?”

“Just getting to know each other,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Your husband's quite the conversationalist.”

Quentin catches my eye again, and the ghost of our earlier flirtation passes between us. “Kat's pretty interesting herself,” he says.

And just like that, we fall into easy conversation, the three of us sharing stories and laughing together. But there's an undercurrent now of tension that wasn't there before. Every time Quentin's hand brushes mine as he refills my wine glass, every time our eyes meet across the kitchen island, I feel it.

Sarah seems happy, watching us interact with a soft smile on her face. She has no idea that while she was stuck in traffic, her husband and I were dancing around the possibility of something more, something that includes all three of us. And maybe I shouldn’t assume, but I don’t think she’d mind. I have a feeling that the idea of all three of us being together would be something she’d love.

I’ll have to talk to her about it later, though Quentin may beat me to it.

So I stay quiet for now, sipping my wine and trying to focus on the present moment. On the way Sarah's knee presses against mine under the counter, on the sound of her laughter at Quentin's jokes, on the warmth of their home and their company, on the way I don’t feel like so much of an outsider here anymore.

“Well,” Sarah says once there’s a lull of silence. “Shall we begin the festivities?”

CHAPTER 10

QUENTIN

The festivities Sarah alluded to are much tamer than I imagined they’d be—at least for now.

Sarah and Kat sit cross-legged on the floor, arguing playfully over their Scrabble tiles while I watch from the couch. They're both a few glasses of wine in, and their cheeks are flushed with alcohol and laughter. Sarah keeps shooting Kat a triumphant look whenever she plays a particularly good word.

A twinge of something—jealousy?—tugs at my chest. I’m tempted to ignore the feeling, but I force myself to think about it and get to the root of the problem. If there’s any sort of negativity popping up now, I can’t ignore it lest it fester into something deeper.

Okay, so I’m jealous of the affection my wife is giving and receiving from someone else, which makes sense in theory. It’s that primal, possessive part of me fighting for dominance over rationality. But I’ve given her full permission to explore this, and I like Kat as well.

I reflect on the feeling, examine it, and come to the conclusion that my wife is getting something from Kat that she doesn’t get from me. It’s affection and intimacy, sure, but it’s a different kind. One that I can’t give her.

But that’s the basis for most human relationships, isn’t it? Every relationship, romantic or otherwise, gives us a unique type of love and connection. My relationship with one person might be based in our shared sense of humor and fun, while my relationship with another might be forged through our shared ideals and hobbies.

Sarah and I have more in common than not. She’s not only my wife, but my best friend. But I’m realizing now that Kat gives her something I can’t, something undefinable but obvious when I see the two of them together.

And that’s okay.

It makes sense for my first reaction to be jealousy, especially when monogamy is such a central element to the culture we’ve been immersed in our entire lives, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that there’s enough care and affection to go around. Sarah having feelings for Kat does nothing to detract from her feelings for me.

Kat leans over the Scrabble board and places a soft kiss on Sarah’s lips before pulling away and sliding her line of letters into place.

“Triple word score,” she says in a low, taunting voice, as if her kissing Sarah seconds before was a way to soften the blow.

Sarah groans dramatically and flops backward onto the carpet. “You're cheating. Quentin, she's totally cheating.”

I laugh. "Don't look at me. I'm just a spectator.”

“Thanks for the help,” Sarah pouts, but her eyes are filled with playfulness.

Kat reaches for her wine glass and takes a long sip. “You always were a sore loser,” she says with a wink.

The game continues, and eventually, after they’ve put it away, they both migrate to the couch. Sarah settles against my left side, her head resting on my shoulder, while Kat casually curls up on my right. The weight of them both against me feels right in a way I can’t quite explain.

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