Chapter 42: A Taste of Truth.

Selene

The bistro is sunny and stylish, all pale wood and trailing plants, the kind of place where Denver’s brunch elite gather to be seen pretending not to see one another. Laughter drifts between tables, glasses clink, silverware scrapes softly against porcelain. The air smells like espresso, citrus peels, and rosemary potatoes crisping in olive oil.

I barely notice any of it.

I’m a bundle of nerves wrapped in a linen dress, trying to keep my shoulders relaxed and my breathing steady while my mind races several steps ahead of my body.

John pulls my chair out for me. It’s instinctive—smooth, practiced. He waits until I sit before lowering himself into his own seat, movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. Not rushed. Not tense. Like he’s settling in for a negotiation he’s already decided he won’t lose.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

His voice is calm, warm, but searching.

“Thank you.”

I smile because it’s expected of me, because it’s polite, because he deserves it—but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. The nausea that plagued me earlier has retreated for now, leaving behind something heavier. Denser. A knot of truth and worry coiled together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

A waitress appears, bright-eyed and efficient, asking if we’re ready. John orders coffee and a mimosa. I follow suit, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. She leaves, and the space between us fills with silence so thick it almost hums.

John doesn’t look away from me.

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly. “What do you need to tell me?”

No preamble. No small talk. No easing into it.

I exhale slowly through my nose. “I think you already know.”

He studies my face for a moment, then nods once. “You’ve been with him.”

There’s no accusation in his voice. Just confirmation.

I nod. “Yes.”

His gaze drops to the table. His jaw tightens—not dramatically, not explosively—but enough that I see it. His fingers tap once against the wood. Just once. Then they still, curling inward as if he’s pulling himself together.

“Did you love it?”

The question hits me harder than I expect.

My breath hitches. My mouth opens. Then closes again.

I don’t answer.

The silence stretches, loud in its own way. It tells him everything I don’t say out loud.

John leans back in his chair. His posture stays calm, almost relaxed, but his eyes flash—sharp, assessing, alive. “And now what?” he asks. “Do you plan to keep him on one coast and me on the other? Like two vacation homes you can fly between when the mood strikes?”

“That’s not fair,” I say quickly.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

He pauses, considering his next words. “But maybe it’s not wrong either.”

I blink. “What?”

He watches me carefully, then folds his hands together on the table. “I’m not walking away from this. Or from us, Selene. I don’t want to play games.” His voice lowers. “But if you think for one second I’ll back off just because he showed up and I was late to the party…”

He leans forward now, elbows near the edge of the table. “You’re mistaken. I know I was wrong—keeping him calling, wanting me to tell you he wanted to speak to you. I won’t pretend I handled that perfectly. But I won’t apologize for wanting you. And I won’t apologize for the fact that I think I’m in love with you.”

A nervous laugh slips out of me, half disbelief, half relief. “So let me get this right,” I say. “You’d be okay… sharing me?”

He shrugs, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Would he?”

I don’t answer.

“I saw the way he looked at us when I kissed you,” John continues. “He’s not built for balance.”

“And you are?” I ask.

“I’m built for winning,” he says quietly. “But I’m also not afraid to play the long game.”

The waitress returns then, placing plates in front of us—avocado toast stacked artfully, eggs gleaming, potatoes golden and fragrant. I flinch like she’s interrupted something sacred and unfinished.

John doesn’t touch his food.

He just watches me with that steady, devastating focus that has always undone me. Like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved but still enjoys studying.

“I meant what I said,” he continues. “I want you. All of you. Even the messy parts. I’m not walking away from this.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You want both of us? Fine. Then be honest about it. With yourself. With us. With what this actually means.”

I frown, irritation flaring despite the vulnerability in his words. “I am being honest,” I say. “Why do you think you’re sitting here?” My voice sharpens just a little. “I’m in love with you both, John. I want you both. I’m not choosing one over the other. So if you want to be with me, you both need to accept that.” I pause, then add more quietly, “And what if I don’t even know what this means yet? Or how to navigate it?”

His expression softens. “Then I’ll help you figure it out,” he says. “Over time. Or over another mimosa.”

I laugh—really laugh this time—and feel something in my chest loosen. “This isn’t exactly a conventional brunch.”

He grins. “Nothing about you is conventional, Selene. That’s why I’m still sitting here.”

My stomach twists again, but this time it’s not nausea. It’s possibility. It’s the terrifying, intoxicating flutter of what this could become.

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I think the three of us need to meet. Together. Go over everything. Figure out how this will work.” I hesitate, then commit. “From now on, it needs to be three-way conversations. Negotiations. No more side deals.”

John considers this, then nods. “That’s fine with me.” He studies me. “You’re right. We all need to know where we stand.” He tilts his head slightly. “So when you think of us together… what do you envision?”

I let out a breath. “Honestly? I haven’t gotten that far. I’ve been more focused on this conversation. On whether you’d still want me.”

His answer is immediate. “Selene, I’m not walking away from this. Or from us. I told you—I’m besotted. I want you. And if this is how I have you, then I’ll find a way to make it work.”

His certainty settles over me like a hand at my back, steadying, grounding.

I pick up my fork at last, my appetite slowly returning—not just for food, but for whatever comes next.

And for the first time since this all began, I don’t feel like I’m about to fall.

I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something real.