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“Are human,” says Finn. “Mine were, too.”
Natalie takes his hand.
“I’m not playing the orphan card,” says Finn.
“Liar,” I say.
“Not this time. I’m saying mine made mistakes, too. They were human, same as every other parent on the planet. Your mom and dad are not the only ones who screw up.”
“I think what Finn is trying to say,” says Natalie softly, “is that if you want kids, you’re in good company.”
“We might have to negotiate on four, though,” says Finn, head to one side, looking for all the world like he’s trying to do the math. “We’d be outnumbered.”
“Most families only have two parents,” says Natalie. “Plenty of them get outnumbered. Why not us?”
“You realize how crazy this sounds,” I say. My voice seems far away. “Three of us together, raising children.”
“Crazy as falling in love with your boss?” asks Natalie.
“Crazy as falling in love with two people at the same time?” says Finn. “Oh, and one of them is a dude, and you’ve only ever been into women before? Crazy as that?”
It is crazy. All of it.
“Tell you what, maybe you’re right. Maybe it is crazy.” Finn links our hands together, all three of us. “But I wouldn’t bet against us.”
EPILOGUE
NATALIE
“Close your mouth, Moira, you’ll catch flies.”
She splutters. “Well, excuse me, but I’ve aged a decade since the last time I saw you eat a croissant. Color me surprised.” I roll my eyes.
“It’s not a decade.” Bill and Jillie’s croissants taste every bit as good as I remember. “You’re going to make me too self-conscious to enjoy it if you keep staring.”
That shuts her up. For a minute.
“It clearly agrees with you,” she observes, sipping her latte.
“What does?” The late spring air is warm enough, so we decided to sit outside for coffee today. It’s just pure good luck that Moira’s voice doesn’t carry as much out here.
“Ménage à trois.”
“Moira.” I thank God and every saint whose name I can remember that we chose to sit out here and that only one table of customers turns to stare at us.
She studies me carefully.
“I mean it,” she says. “You look good. Really good. Are you pregnant?”
“I hate you so much,” I say, covering my face.
“Hmm,” she says, tapping her fingernail to her cup. They’re blue this time—her gels, not the cup. “Not pregnant. Just getting laid on the regular. And properly, I bet.”
“I’m not discussing that with you.”
“Inquiring minds want to know,” she says, leaning in. “Like, when you’re in bed, do they?—”
Spotting a familiar face, I sit up straight and wave. “Sully!”
