Episode II: The Good Girl Who's Pretty Sure She's Not Cheating
Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a promising public servant gets talked into questionable behavior: 22, female, straight, in a relationship.
DAY ONE
8:00 a.m.: I arrive early to work and am instantly flooded with owls and interdepartmental memos. This is the problem with politicians who stay in office too long; tenure ruins a person. Instead I end up with the majority of the work, and as usual, the head of my department is absent. I'm snippy this morning, and being that I'm a person with a rather quick temper to begin with, this is not helpful. I yawn into the palm of my hand, smothering it.
9:10 a.m.: I was up late last night, and it's killing my productivity. I'm still ten times more effective than everyone else in this department (in this whole Ministry, as I sometimes suspect) but my head is hurting, and I'm exceedingly grateful that my best friend made extra coffee this morning. I suppose I should discuss him—and my boyfriend, too, who is actually the reason I was up late—so let's call my best friend Arthur, and my boyfriend Lancelot. It's always been the three of us; though of course, as the legend goes, it ended up being Lancelot and me romantically. Not for lack of interest in Arthur (or lack of affection, I guess) but I think we always knew we needed the friendship more. Not so for Lancelot. He makes me laugh; makes me feel an odd, almost literary sort of giddiness. Of course, it only took us seven years to discover that was love.
10:05 a.m.: How many legal briefs can a person annotate before they go insane?
1:00 p.m.: The answer: thirteen.
3:25 p.m.: Give my brain to science. Tell my mother I love her. Scatter my ashes at sea.
5:25 p.m.: I'm barely functioning, and yet I'm still at work, so I figure it's time I make it clear that this is entirely Lancelot's fault. Sex—or, more accurately, the weak attempt at sex that went on for far too long—last night led, as usual, to a fight, which then lasted well into the morning. It seems we're entirely out of rhythm these days. To be honest, I'm not that interested in sex. I know he is, so I make the faces and do the sounds, but then he tells me that I act like sex is a chore. It is a chore, isn't it?
6:45 p.m.: What's a chore is the obligatory fighting, I remind myself, near collapse over my desk. I sometimes wonder if we couldn't just take sex out of the equation altogether. We're compatible, we're each other's best friends; we have history, and we have a perfect sort of happiness when he's not pawing at my knickers. Why can't that be enough?
7:30 p.m.: I get an owl from Lancelot's sister, one of my only female friends. I'll call her Morgana, which isn't quite right, but let's blame the patriarchy for the lack of Arthurian females. 'Let's go out tomorrow night,' Morgana suggests. I want to die. 'Absolutely,' I write back, with as many exclamation points and handwritten kisses as I can conjure, which ends up being three of each. Morgana and Arthur broke up about about three years ago, not long after she started playing quidditch professionally—I think the distance got to them. She's not in town that often, so I'm obligated to agree. Hopefully I actually manage to get some sleep tonight.
8:15 p.m.: I finally arrive home—not my home, which is a fairly sparse flat in central London that I generally prefer, but Lancelot's home, which he shares with Arthur.
8:16 p.m.: Arthur is sitting in the kitchen, sipping some tea. He looks dazed when I say his name. "Sorry," he says, frowning, "what?" Poor thing. He looks like he's had a harder day than I have. I kiss his temple, wiping my lipstick away. "Everything alright?" I ask him. He lies to me, says he's fine. I'm not particularly good at social cues, but still, he is always underestimating my perception. I'm not sure he realizes that I've known about him seeing someone for the past four months. I don't know who it is, but I try not to pry.
8:26 p.m.: "He's upstairs," Arthur says eventually, referring to Lancelot. I realize that I haven't seen them together in about a week, but I don't have time to think about it; I'm already dreading the inevitably poor episode of seduction awaiting me upstairs. "I love you," I tell Arthur, because I think he needs to hear it. He smiles wanly; he looks sad. "I love you," he says back.
8:45 p.m.: "You're home," Lancelot exhales, grinning when he sees me, but then his grin falters. "We need to talk." Uh oh. Is this better or worse than sex?
9:14 p.m.: "I think we're putting too much pressure on this," he says. "I love our relationship, but at the same time, I think we need … more." "More what?" I ask. He glances down, clearly embarrassed. "More, um—" "Oh," I realize, and my breath quickens. "You want to sleep with other people?" I ask. "And you," he says quickly, and I frown. "I love you," he says earnestly, "and I love what we have, but—" He trails off. I pause. I take several deep breaths. Part of me wants to be insulted by what he's suggesting, but he's right, isn't he? I'm a logical person. In fact, I'm the one who wanted to take sex out of the equation. "Okay," I permit slowly, "so how would it work?"
10:00 p.m.: We're not breaking up. He's calling it an 'open relationship,' which sounds like as good a term as any. "I want rules," I say. I like rules. I like to feel appropriately constrained. Like a hug, almost. An embrace of reason. "Okay, well how about this," he suggests, "we don't sleep with any of our mutual friends." "Done," I say, and tilt my head. "Do we tell each other?" I ask. He thinks about it. "No," he says, "unless you want me to tell you." I don't, really, so I shrug. "No bringing them to our homes," he adds. "I'm not sleeping with someone else in a bed we share, you know what I mean?" "Yeah," I agree, and start to wonder if I might actually be insane. Am I really agreeing to this?
10:15 p.m.: Apparently I am. "I'm so glad you agree," he says, and pulls me close. He presses his lips to the back of my neck as he curls around me, and he feels, as always, like home. We're not fighting, and I'm not being made to fake an orgasm, so I start thinking maybe this is a good idea after all—or at least not entirely a bad idea. I settle myself in his arms, and it genuinely feels like a weight is lifted. "I love you," he whispers in my ear. "I love you, too," I say honestly, and together, we fall asleep.
DAY TWO
8:30 a.m.: I'm in a better mood today. Not that work is any easier. I can't believe I agreed to go out tonight, but I can't cancel. Besides, I think Arthur and Lancelot are going out with their auror friends, so I might as well.
11:00 a.m.: I wonder if Lancelot is going to sleep with someone tonight.
3:00 p.m.: I think he is. Oh god, he is, isn't he? I can't concentrate.
5:00 p.m.: It's starting to feel too real. I leave early, taking some of my work with me, and I head back to my flat. 'Going out tonight, don't wait up. Have fun,' I write to Lancelot. I want to throw up, but I'm too logical to let it sicken me.
6:14 p.m.: I need a drink.
7:25 p.m.: Correction: I need several drinks.
8:25 p.m.: I finish the work I brought home with me and pour myself into a red dress with a pair of nude heels. I have some sense of fashion, I think, though nobody ever expects it of me. I clean up rather nicely, in my opinion.
8:49 p.m.: At the last minute, I rifle through my underwear drawer and pull out a pair of lacy black knickers. If Lancelot is sleeping with someone, I should too, shouldn't I? I mean, I know the arrangement was more for him than it was for me, but I think I'll feel better if I put on the Dastardly Knickers. I take off my sensible underwear and swap them, nearly ripping a hole through the lace with my heel. I place a cushioning charm on the shoes, check my reflection once, and then I'm off.
8:52 p.m.: Why am I here? I hate this. Morgana hands me a drink. "Don't speak until you've finished the glass," she says. "You may be dating my brother," she adds, "but I still expect you to have fun tonight." I don't tell her about the Dastardly Knickers, and I obediently finish the drink, keeping my personal disasters to myself.
9:45 p.m.: I spot a familiar silhouette across the room that gives my stomach a brief lurch; a sleek head of blond hair so pale it's nearly white. We'll call him Tristan, since that's the most needlessly tragic Arthurian character I can think of. "Oh no," I say, nudging Morgana, and she turns with a delighted smile on her face. "Oh yes," she says, with an unsettling amount of excitement. She brings her straw to her mouth, placing it lightly between her teeth. "I want that," she proclaims, eyeing him. "Have it," I tell her, "I certainly don't want it."
10:15 p.m.: Morgana is still plotting ways to ensnare Tristan, who doesn't exactly look happy to be there. Then again, he never looks happy to be anywhere. I'm incredibly bored. I hate him, have hated him for years; though, by now it's mostly in a nostalgic sort of way, like something to cling to as a reminder of easier times. In reality, Tristan and I had to work together quite often when we came back for our last year at Hogwarts, so my feelings towards him have shifted from uninhibited loathing to a reasonable level of persisting opposition. Either way, he's far from my favorite person.
10:17 p.m.: "What?" Morgana asks, catching my look of displeasure. "He's hot." She's still talking about Tristan; unbelievable. "So?" I counter, rightfully. "So nothing," she says, and repeats herself. "He's hot."
10:20 p.m.: I suppose he is hot, if you like your men to have a bit of a smarmy look to them. He's primarily smarmy, secondarily hot. No, wait—swap those. In the same moment that this occurs to me, I realize I am deeply intoxicated. I blink. The room spins. I think he spots me. Does he? I don't know. I hide under the table.
10:30 p.m.: I'm still under the table, as it's quite nice down there. Roomy, and safe. "Oh no," Morgana says, joining me, "my brother's here." I never swear. "Holy hell," I say. "I know," she agrees, and claps a hand over my mouth. "SHHHH," she says, obtrusively.
10:45 p.m.: Morgana slips out, intent on getting more drinks, and shortly thereafter there's a knock on the table. I lean back, squinting up. "Hello," Tristan drawls, looking horrifically smug. He calls me by my last name, the git. "Oh no," I say. "Oh yes," he declares, and hands me a drink. "Now," he says, "tell me why you're hiding." "I'm not," I lie. He smirks again. "You're the worst," he says. He's not wrong.
10:48 p.m.: "I don't want my boyfriend to see me," I explain, pulling Tristan into a corner, "because we're in an open relationship now." He looks unsurprised. "What an idiot," he says, and flatteringly, I think he's referring to Lancelot. "It's my fault," I say, "because I don't like sex." He stares at me. "What do you mean you don't like sex?" he demands. He almost sounds angry. I, for whatever reason, laugh.
11:00 p.m.: "If you don't like sex, he's doing it wrong," Tristan declares, and I shake my head. "I just don't like it," I insist. "Nobody doesn't like an orgasm," he retorts, and I shrug. "I'm not sure I've had one," I tell him, which is the first time I'm saying so out loud, but at the moment, I don't care. He stares at me. "Do you masturbate, at least?" he asks. "Ew," I say, blinking. "Jesus fucking Christ," he says, and calls me by my last name again. "Not one orgasm?" "No," I say, and laugh. "Why, are you going to give me one?" I ask, and I'm not sure how much I'm joking. I'd estimate 76% joking. He stares at me some more. "Come with me," he says, and because I'm drunk, and I can't find Morgana, and because Lancelot is dancing with someone else across the room, I agree.
11:15 p.m.: We walk away from the club and he pulls me into an alley. "Are you going to murder me?" I ask. "No," he says, "I'm going to teach you how to have an orgasm." I stare at him. "What?" I demand, and he repeats himself. "I heard you," I say, because I'm not that drunk, and he shakes his head. "Here," he says, positioning me against the wall. "Are you going to have sex with me?" I ask him again, 60% joking this time, and he vehemently shakes his head. "You're not mine," he tells me, "and I don't share. But you know the old adage," he drawls. "Give a man a fish, and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish—" "Am I a fish in this scenario?" I interrupt hazily. He grabs my hand. "Just pay attention," he says gruffly. I sigh. He's terrible.
11:17 p.m.: He nudges my knees apart, widening my stance, and then he slips my hand under my dress, approaching my Dastardly Knickers. I ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, and he shakes his head. "Nobody can see," he says, and asks me if I'm wet. "What?" I ask, dazed. He leans forward, his lips near my ear. "None of this is personal," he says quietly. "Don't get carried away." I blink. He starts talking.
11:20 p.m.: "We're in a hotel room; a nice one. Silk sheets. Expensive silk sheets, and I can't wait to see you bare on them. I want to unzip your dress slowly, carefully, but I can't wait that long—I get the zipper to your waist and then I tug it down over your hips. God, you're fucking sexy. You're so fucking sexy, and I'm going to fuck you on the fucking silk sheets. You're whimpering in my ear and I'm so fucking hard. Fuck, this is what you do to me." I shudder. "I pick you up, lay you back on the bed, spread your legs." He runs my fingers up my thigh. "I spread them as far as they go. Are you flexible? Of course you are. Look at you. Of course you are." His breath is hot on my neck. "Leave your knickers on," he says, "I want to ruin them." I moan. I moan. He smiles. "Now," he says, "are you wet?" "Yes," I gasp, and I am. I know I am.
11:25 p.m.: He takes my hand and rubs it over the lace of the Dastardly Knickers, stroking my clitoris and then using my own fingers to tease the slit of my—I blush. Even in my head I can't say it. He pulls my hand away, holds it to my lips. "Lick your fingers," he says. I stare at him; my cheeks are burning. "Lick them," he repeats, and for completely unknowable reasons, I put two of my fingers in my mouth, and I suck them slowly. "Good," he says, and now even he seems a little bit entranced. "Now I'm going to teach you how to come."
11:30 p.m.: Tristan turns me so that my back is against his chest, and I'm bracing myself with one hand against the wall. He puts one hand beside mine, the other still covering my fingers. He slides our hands under my dress and uses his hand to guide mine, slipping under the Dastardly Knickers to stroke my clit. "I bet you have the most fucking gorgeous cunt," he whispers in my ear. Cunt. I shiver. "If I could get on my knees and lick your pussy right now—" "You could," I invite, half-pleading, and now I'm about 35% joking. He laughs in my ear. "Nah," he says. "Unlike your twat of a boyfriend, I don't share. And anyway, that's not what we're doing right now." He's controlling the strokes of my fingers, slow and luxuriant. I sigh. "Talk to me again," I say.
11:35 p.m.: "I spread the lips of your cunt with my fingers and lick you, slowly, and I do this over and over until you're crying out for me. You arch your hips up, begging for more, but I don't give it to you yet—not yet. I slide a finger into you—" Here he takes one of mine, slipping it in. "Feel that?" he whispers. He tells me it's my g-spot; tells me what to do. He presses the palm of my hand against my clit and tells me to keep rubbing. Normally this would traumatize me; right now, though, I'm panting. I want more. I want more. It's a weird convergence of sex and academia, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I like it so much. Why hasn't anyone explained it to me like this before? I listen, study his voice like there's an exam at the end. And I suppose, in a way, there is.
11:37 p.m.: "When you're at home," he says, "you can play with this more. Take your time. Feel your body, explore it. Fuck," he breathes, somewhat startlingly. "I want to touch you," he explains when I stiffen, and maybe it's the alcohol, but I believe him. "You could," I say again, breathless, and about 10% joking. I can feel him smirk against the back of my neck. "Don't beg," he warns, with his usual arrogance. "It's unbecoming."
11:40 p.m.: I speed up, because for once, I actually feel something. I feel something, and it's itching and nagging and desperate and oh god, oh god, oh god—
11:41 p.m.: "Come for me," he coaxes me, shifting to place both hands on either side of my shoulders as we both brace against the wall. I throw my head back, obliging, and see bursts of white light behind my eyes. I say something unintelligible. I dissolve to dust and reappear in solid form. He grabs a handful of my hair, holding it. "Ride it out," he instructs me, pulsing my palm against my cunt. My cunt. My heart is pounding. "Good girl," he whispers. I can barely stand.
11:45 p.m.: "You were wrong," he says, looking smugly victorious. "About what?" I ask. "You said you don't like sex," he reminds me, "but you just weren't having good sex." "This is good sex?" I prompt drily, dubiously. He shrugs. "Personally, I'd rather fuck your hand than your boyfriend," he says. I make a face. "Don't," I warn, rolling my eyes, "we were doing so well." I'm chiding him. I can hear myself whining. He puts his hands up, feigning innocence. "Sorry," he says, insincerely. I can feel my lips betray me with a smile. He's such a child.
11:51 p.m.: Tristan apparates me to my front door. "Friends?" I ask him, though I think the word comes out somewhat slurred. I guess I forgot how drunk I am. "I just taught you how to masturbate in an alley," he reminds me, "so as far as terms go, 'friends' seems somewhat of an understatement." "Want to have sex?" I ask him, 0% joking, and then I blink. "No, wait, I can't," I amend hastily, because of the rules; no sex at my house. Not in my bed. Those are the rules, and I am nothing without rules. "I keep telling you," he grunts irritably, "I'm not fucking you." "Right," I say. Right.
12:10 a.m.: He leaves, and I stumble into bed. My entire body is buzzing. I ask my brain please not to remind me what I did tonight, but then I recall that I haven't technically done anything wrong. I didn't even have sex. Did Lancelot? No. Again, I politely ask my brain not to consider the possibilities.
12:35 a.m.: My brain declines my request for peace and quiet, and after a long, chaotic thought spiral, I realize that I might like sex.
1:05 a.m.: Do I like sex, or do I like orgasms? This might require additional exploration. I make a note in my diary scheduling time to look into it, and promptly fall asleep.
DAY THREE
7:30 a.m.: I'm both incredibly hungover and surprisingly refreshed. My body and my outlook are in complete disagreement, but a little hangover potion does the job, and now we're back on the same team.
8:30 a.m.: I get an owl from Morgana, who rises early for training. 'Did I see you leave last night with Tristan?' she asks, and I groan, having forgotten I probably had witnesses. 'He helped me get home. Must have been having a stroke or something,' I write back, joking. I get a little lost in my head for a minute, biting my lip as I remember the sound of his voice in my ear.
8:47 a.m.: 'Maybe he's a gentleman now. Hope not. I should find out and report back,' Morgana writes back. I feel my brow crease, feel something rise up in opposition, but that's crazy. 'Maybe we should go out again tonight,' I suggest, because clearly, I've lost my mind. She responds instantly, with enthusiasm.
12:15 p.m.: Lancelot surprises me for lunch, and I'm genuinely happy to see him; he's sweet when he wants to be. He brings a couple of sandwiches and we have a picnic on my desk, chatting about our day. Lancelot and Arthur are both aurors, though Lancelot mentions that Arthur's been paired with someone else. I'm surprised to hear this, but he skates over it, so it must not be important.
12:35 p.m.: Lancelot tells an animated story about a mutual friend of ours who can probably be best described as 'loony,' mean as that is. Apparently he ran into her this morning, and she told him there was something clouding his aura. "I asked her if she saw the grim in her tea leaves," he says gravely, and I laugh, reminded of a joke from our school days. He leans forward, catching my lips from across the desk, and I can feel my smile broaden.
1:05 p.m.: He kisses me goodbye and heads out the door with a wave, telling a joke that makes the receptionist laugh as he goes. All in all, lunch was great. In fact, lunch was very nearly almost perfect; I just wish he hadn't told me he'd be out tonight. "But tomorrow night," he promised, "it's you and me." "Right," I said back. "I love you," he said, and I stared at the blue of his eyes, at the freckles dusting his face. He's mine, and I know he's mine. "I love you, too," I said back, and I meant it.
3:00 p.m.: I should clarify that it's not like us spending the night apart is abnormal. I'm the kind of person who needs a lot of quiet time, and Lancelot is very noisy, and constantly in motion. I was probably only spending 2-3 nights a week with him before, so this is fine. Nothing has changed.
5:30 p.m.: Nothing has changed. I repeat it like a mantra. I'm a logical person, after all. Maybe not everyone would be able to compartmentalize their lives like this, but I certainly can. I'm brilliant, after all. I know that sex is sex and love is love, and they don't have to be the same. Nothing has changed.
7:00 p.m.: I get home and fix myself a salad, and I eat it while I stare blankly at my closet, wondering what to wear. I wonder if Tristan will be there. I wonder if Lancelot will be there. I wonder what Arthur's doing. I pull out my cell phone; I rarely use it, but Arthur and I text sometimes—we were both raised by muggles. I ask Arthur if he's going out with Lancelot tonight, and he says no, which I find surprising. 'Doing okay?' I ask him. He waits a few minutes before he responds. 'Sort of,' he says. I tell him that Morgana and I are going out, and that he can come with us if he wants to; they're amicable exes, and he agrees, though I'm not sure how sincere he's being.
10:15 p.m.: "Drink," Morgana says. She's wearing a little black slip of a thing and so am I (a present from her, actually) but I feel lumpy and strange next to her. "Oh look," she says, indiscreetly nudging her head towards the door, and I do. Tristan's here.
10:17 p.m.: He sees me right away. He smirks. He's some kind of smirky mutant, I think, and I can't decide if the tightening of my chest is active disgust or just another gentle pulse of loathing. "I want to unwrap that like it's my birthday," Morgana growls, and I sputter with uncomfortable laughter. "Come on," she says, and grabs my hand, pulling me after her.
10:30 p.m.: We're sitting with Tristan now, and his best friend—let's call him Percival, because I've only had two drinks but already other names are escaping me. I'm not meant for this level of social interaction. It's like a million things have converged to bring me the strangest week of my life, and I can already tell I'm going to have to bury myself deep in vice just to get through it.
10:35 p.m.: Tristan's knee brushes mine. I think he did it on purpose.
10:47 p.m.: Percival looks distracted. Morgana spots someone from her team, and then she's distracted. I'm at the bottom of what was a very, very blue drink. Tristan stands. "Bathroom," he says, directly to me. "Need help?" I say, attempting a very dry sarcasm. His lips quirk slightly. I take it I'm not very good at sarcasm. "Walk with me," he says.
10:50 p.m.: "Something's wrong," he notes, and I think we're having something akin to a friendly conversation. "No," I protest, and he glances at me, skeptical. "Still the sex thing?" he asks, and I sigh loudly. "I thought I fixed it for you," he says, grinning. I don't tell him that he actually made it worse. In fact, I say nothing. "Come on," he sighs eventually, gesturing for me to follow, "I'm starving."
11:00 p.m.: We settle into a corner at the Leaky, eating some chips. I'm eating chips with Tristan, which feels consummately strange, and becomes stranger still when I remember that Lancelot might be sleeping with someone else right now. I shove it aside, or try to, but I don't seem to be doing a very good job. "Tell me this," Tristan invites, "would you have sex with him right now if you were both at home?" I pause to think about it, and the chip goes chalky in my mouth. "My head hurts a bit," I say, "and I'm tired." It's not a no, but it's something very close to one. "Interesting," he remarks.
11:11 p.m.: "Something's going on with my parents," Tristan comments offhandedly, "and they're making me have dinner with them tomorrow night. I really don't want to." "Why not?" I ask. He shrugs, looking like he regrets bringing it up. "Let's talk about you," he says. "You mean let's talk about sex," I predict drily, and he chuckles. "You just need to learn what you like," he says.
11:20 p.m.: "So, are you seeing anyone?" I ask, because if he can be invasive, so can I. He smirks. "Curious, are you?" he asks, and I roll my eyes. I tell him Morgana's interested. "Hm," he says, and looks thoughtful for a moment. I cough, something stuck in my throat, and he looks back at me. "Come on," he says, "I'll take you home." I sigh. "I'm not sleeping with you," I remind him, and he looks gloriously indignant. "I'm not sleeping with you first," he retorts.
11:30 p.m.: "Try sleeping with someone else," he suggests outside my door. "Treat it like a learning experience—a practice test before a final exam. You love to study, don't you?" Ugh, I want to slap him. "Go away," I say, shaking my head, but as I turn to leave he reaches out, grabbing my hand. At first, neither of us says anything, and I stare at where his fingers are touching mine. It feels familiar. Less intimate than last night—or possibly more. Not sure. "It'll get better," he says quietly. I toy with a response on my tongue, though I'm not sure at first what it is. "You've changed," I decide eventually. He releases me. "I hope so," he says.
11:45 p.m.: As I get ready for bed, I consider that he might be right. I think I do need to learn a little bit more about what I like.
12:01 a.m.: I can't sleep, so I slip my hand into my knickers. They're not dastardly—they're very much Practical Knickers—but I'm alone, so who cares?
12:04 a.m.: This isn't working. I get up, take all my clothes off, and lie back down. Tristan said to explore, right? I touch other parts of myself. My breasts, my stomach, the curves of my thighs. I've never thought about my own body much; never really wondered what I like. He knows what I like, though, doesn't he? How does he know? I remember what he said about spreading my legs. What was it? Oh, right. I close my eyes. He said he'd spread them and lick me. I shudder. It's awful. It's awesome. Okay, here we go.
12:10 a.m.: I bet you have the most fucking gorgeous cunt, he said. I move my hand a little faster.
12:15 a.m.: I remember things from last night that I don't think I was conscious of at the time, like the way his breath felt on my neck, or the way his cologne smelled. Then I remember the way his hand shook slightly over mine. I wonder if he wants me. I wonder if I want him. I slip my fingers inside me, arching my hips up. Oh, I want him. I imagine telling him so. In my mind, he doesn't say no, and he's touching me, and I love my boyfriend but inside the unbreakable vault of my brilliant brain, Tristan's got his lips on the top notches of my spine.
12:17 a.m.: I come with a sputtered whimper and force my eyes shut, catching my breath.
12:34 a.m.: Uh oh.
12:37 a.m.: At least I didn't break any rules.
DAY FOUR
7:15 a.m.: I get to work insanely early, but I need to get things done. Also, work tends to clear my head. I find it soothing.
10:03 a.m.: I was doing fine at first, but then I get an owl from Tristan, and am now decidedly unsoothed. 'Planning to take my advice?' he asks.
10:30 a.m.: After thinking about it for entirely too long, I answer. Strangely, I decide to tell him the truth. 'I'm staying with Lancelot tonight,' I say, and then, after thinking about it again, I add another line. 'Everything's fine,' I add.
11:13 a.m.: 'You fucking liar,' he writes back.
11:17 a.m.: 'What is this?' I demand. 'What do you care?'
11:30 a.m.: 'I don't. Would it be so bad if I did?'
11:32 a.m.: 'You just said that you don't, and I don't have time for this. I'm really quite busy, you know, accomplishing things. You should try it some time.'
11:45 a.m.: 'Tried it. Don't care for it. So what are you two planning to do tonight? Romantic night in, perchance? Rose petals on the bed? Or is he taking you out? No, of course he's not taking you out. Silly me. I nearly forgot who I was talking about. You're definitely staying in.'
11:47 a.m.: 'For your information, I happen to like staying in. And anyway, who are you to talk? Aren't you having dinner with your parents? Not like you've got anything to boast about.'
12:05 p.m.: 'Being the paragon of chivalry that I am, I'll let you have that one. When do you get off work?'
12:07 p.m.: 'When I'm done working. What do you care?'
12:10 p.m.: (Even after writing back, I find it odd that he asked. I can't concentrate now. We need to come up with faster things than owls. We're wizards, for Godric's sake. We can teleport ourselves. Why do we use birds to communicate?)
12:35 p.m.: 'I've got more to teach you, obviously,' he writes back in answer. My stomach drops. 'I thought you said you weren't sleeping with me?' I prompt.
12:47 p.m.: 'I'm not. As I've mentioned several times, I'm not interested in sharing. But I feel it is my duty as a citizen of the world to spread as much knowledge as possible. Consider it philanthropy. Community service, even. Reparation for my heinous crimes of war.' God, his arrogance is unparalleled. He's the worst person I've ever known.
12:51 p.m.: 'If you can get away from dinner,' I say, because I'm pretty sure he can't, and strangely, I feel like toying with him, 'I'll be in the office until 8:00. If not, I'll be living my life, having sex with my boyfriend and pretending you don't exist.'
1:09 p.m.: 'Deal,' Tristan says simply.
1:10 p.m.: The morning's insanity is finally over, and I promptly realize I missed lunch. Now there's a bunch of new memos on my desk. I shake my head and get to work.
6:01 p.m.: I get a little bit distracted by the time. Tristan's probably at dinner now. He said they keep to an early schedule.
6:37 p.m.: I hate myself a little more each time I check the clock.
7:15 p.m.: I'm not even working. I should really just go home.
7:30 p.m.: 'Coming over soon?' Lancelot writes. His handwriting is loopy and messy and I have coveted it for years. Not like Tristan's, which is as showy as he is, all neat and ordered and narrow. Elegant. Annoyingly elegant. 'Around 8,' I say back, and I eat a salad at my desk.
7:45 p.m.: He's not coming. Besides, even if he did, what would we—no, I tell myself. Stop it.
7:59 p.m.: I turn out the light in my office and head to the Floo networks in the lobby. I'm relieved, honestly. Am I disappointed? I guess I am. I think it's because I was enjoying feeling like I had the upper hand, but clearly I didn't. I've never been good at people, anyway; only books.
8:05 p.m.: "Hi," Lancelot says, leaping towards me. I look around for Arthur, but I don't see him. Lancelot leads me up the stairs.
8:15 p.m.: "You work too much," Lancelot says, kissing my neck. "Let me take care of you." He slowly slides his hand around my cheek, taking my face in his hands. I kiss him. He's my boyfriend and I love him. The kiss feels and tastes familiar, and by the way he's pulling at my clothes, I'm not sure he actually slept with anyone the last two nights. Difficult to tell, but I feel better, and in the spirit of things, I promptly do away with his trousers. He looks positively delighted.
8:25 p.m.: He coaxes me back on the bed and slides his fingers into me. He frowns slightly, and I feel a pang of something—embarrassment? Vexation? Stress? I lick my lips, closing my eyes. I bet you have the most fucking gorgeous cunt, I hear, and a soft sound slips from my lips. Lancelot moves his fingers in and out. "More," I whisper, and his eyes widen.
8:30 p.m.: "Talk to me," I suggest, and he stops, frowning. "What do you want me to say?" he asks. "I don't know," I say, "just—something. Anything." "You're so beautiful," he says, staring at me. "You're beautiful." I smile, sort of.
8:32 p.m.: I close my eyes. (You're so fucking sexy, and I'm going to fuck you on the fucking silk sheets. You're whimpering in my ear and I'm so fucking hard. Fuck, this is what you do to me—)
8:34 p.m.: Lancelot lies down beside me and I clamber awkwardly on top of him, assuming one of our three positions. I like this one, for the most part. I like having a little bit more control, I guess, or he likes it when I have control and I like that, or something. It's—I can't—I shift slightly. Better.
8:40 p.m.: He's looking at me and I feel—pressure, again. Like he wants so badly for me to come. I start making noises, start moving my hips faster. He looks at me hopefully, but the more I'm faking it, the less I'm enjoying myself. I feel it again—the stress, the whole reason I don't like sex. Maybe I really don't like sex. Maybe I just—
8:41 p.m.: It dawns on me. I lower my hand, rubbing my clit—(going to fuck you on the fucking silk sheets—whimpering in my ear, and I'm so fucking hard—this is what you do)—and beneath me, Lancelot freezes, staring at my fingers as I continue to ride him. "Yeah," I breathe, moving faster. Okay. Okay. I've got this.
8:52 p.m.: I come with my eyes closed. Lancelot comes shortly after. "Bloody hell," he says, and oddly, I'm a little bit proud of myself.
9:30 p.m.: Lancelot and I fall asleep together, his arm curled around my waist. "I love you," he says in my ear. "I love you too," I promise.
DAY FIVE
7:05 a.m.: I run into Arthur in the kitchen. "Hey," I say happily, greeting him with a hug. He looks a little distracted, but he hugs me and hands me a cup of coffee. I notice that he has another cup out on the counter, but it's empty. He's staring at it, as if he's trying to decide something. "Everything okay?" I ask. He blinks, and then locks eyes with me. "Yes," he says, and it seems like he means it. I'm pleased.
7:15 a.m.: "The three of us should have breakfast together," I suggest, since I'm in a good mood. I had a good night, and Arthur and I both rise earlier than Lancelot, but he'll be up soon. Arthur looks uncomfortable. "I can't," he says, "sorry." He kisses my cheek and goes upstairs. He hesitates, glancing at the empty mug, and then shakes his head. "See you," he tells me, and heads up the stairs.
8:30 a.m.: I get to work slightly later today, since I'm pretty sure it's going to be slow. It is, and I'm relieved.
11:15 a.m.: 'I'm off with the team again, but I had fun with you this week!' Morgana writes. 'Sorry I disappeared the other night'—hm, I think, relieved, as I had thought I was the one who disappeared—'but I hope we hang out again soon!' I smile. 'We will,' I promise.
5:30 p.m.: It's been a pretty good day, and I think I can get out of here early. I wonder if Arthur is doing anything; I should see how he's doing.
5:45 p.m.: Just before I get ready to leave the office, Tristan shows up, startling me completely. "Hello," he says, leaning against my doorframe. He's wearing a slate grey suit beneath black robes and he looks unfairly good. "What do you want?" I demand, and he smirks at me; his favorite activity. "Dinner?" he asks. Entirely coincidentally, my stomach growls audibly. "I'll take that as a yes," he says, looking smug.
6:30 p.m.: We grab some tapas at a place right at the outskirts of Diagon, which I didn't even know existed. He asks if he can order for me, and I let him, though I doubt he'll actually know what I like. He makes a lot of small talk and gets a bottle of Andalusian wine that he says is from a vineyard owned by Cantabrian goblins. At first I assume he's being pretentious, but it's actually a really good wine, and the variety of food he's selected is excellent. It's nothing I would have chosen for myself, but it's inconceivably delicious, and inexplicably, I remember the time I told Lancelot about my fondness for bouillabaisse. He replied "bless you," which was adorable—but, needless to say, he has a particular set of tastes. An unwavering set of tastes.
6:45 p.m.: "Do you like it?" Tristan asks, gesturing to the food. "Immensely," I admit. He smiles, toasting me. "Salud y amor, y tiempo para disfrutarlo," he says, and I tilt my head. "To love and health," I guess, "and time?" He nods. "To health and love, and the time to enjoy it," he translates. I roll my eyes, but I smile. He's definitely a pretentious arsehole, but I'm actually having a really nice time.
7:02 p.m.: "So what's this about?" I ask him, swirling the wine in my glass, and he shrugs. "You had a hard week," he says, "and so did I. I thought it might be nice." This is not what I expected. "You thought it might be nice?" I echo, scoffing. "Since when?" He arches a brow. "Why must you distrust me so thoroughly?" he demands, almost childishly, and I sputter with laughter. "There you are," I declare, and though he looks indignant for a second, he cracks slightly; the corners of his eyes crinkle, and his mouth quirks. "I thought we could be friends," he admits. "I thought you said friends was an understatement?" I ask playfully. He shrugs. He plays coy. I play coquettish. We have a wonderful evening of pretend.
7:45 p.m.: People have come and gone, and we order another bottle of wine. Tristan tells me his best friend, Percival, has been acting slightly off, and I comment that Arthur has, too. Tristan makes a face at the mention of Arthur, and I groan out loud. "If you want to be friends with me, you have to be friends with him," I say. "Friendship canceled," Tristan announces. I laugh into my glass.
8:15 p.m.: "Won't your boyfriend be looking for you?" he asks. I shrug. "Maybe, maybe not," I say, and then I look at him, toying with a question on my tongue. "What?" he asks, waiting. I'm not sure yet. I frown, thinking some more, and he lifts his glass to his lips, taking a sip. His tongue passes slowly over them and I watch the motion of his throat as he swallows. "What?" he asks again, his brow furrowing, and I clear my throat. I'm going for it. "What did you want to teach me?" I ask him. He looks astounded, and then, slowly, he smiles. "What are the rules again?" he asks.
8:30 p.m.: "Not my flat," I remind him, and so we get a room in Diagon—not the Leaky. Too many people we know there. I don't think I'm going to sleep with him, and he insists he's still not going to sleep with me—but still, it's a rule, and I follow it. I don't know what's going to happen, but I know the rules. He throws his robes onto the chair by the door and walks in, scrutinizing the room. He has a way of making a room his, I notice; of declaring dominion over it. Not me. I am subject to the room's laws and customs. I slouch in deference to the authority of the ceiling.
8:32 p.m.: He slips off his jacket and I watch the lines of his shoulders through the outline of his shirt. "I'm not fucking you," he reminds me, and I can't decide how I feel about that. He turns, meeting my eye. "I don't sh-" "Yes, you don't share," I cut in, shaking my head. "I know," I say, impatiently. He smirks at me, as always. "What can I teach you?" he asks. Maybe it's the wine, but I feel oddly brave. "Sit," I say, gesturing to the bed. Amazingly, he sits. He says nothing. He waits. I try to manage my rapid pulse. "This isn't personal," I say hoarsely, and for a moment he stares at me, speechless. Then he nods.
8:35 p.m.: "I don't like doing this," I say, walking over to face him. He doesn't ask what; gratifyingly, he remains silent. "I don't like it," I explain, "because it doesn't feel like I'm doing it right, and I don't like to do things wrong. I like to do things right," I say, and then I can feel myself start to rant; my nerves are creeping in. "I like to be the best at things, and this—" "It's okay," he interrupts, seeming to understand what I'm babbling about, and slides back on the bed. "What are you doing?" I ask faintly, and he props himself up on his elbows. "I'm not going to make you get on your knees," he explains. I blink. "Okay," I say.
8:38 p.m.: I move to climb onto the bed but my skirt is vaguely restricting. I pause, considering it, and he sits up, slowly removing his shirt. "This is purely academic," he reminds me, though I think he's saying it aloud for himself. I kick my shoes aside and slip out of my skirt, watching him lift his hips, removing his trousers. He pauses, his hand on the band of his underwear, and looks at me. "I'm hard already," he warns matter-of-factly, as I undo the buttons of my shirt. "If I weren't, you'd have to work a little harder." I slip out of my clothes, still in my bra and knickers. They weren't dastardly before, but they certainly are now. "Okay," I say again, and climb onto the bed as he removes his underwear.
8:40 p.m.: This is only the second penis I've ever seen in my life. It's different from Lancelot's, though I'm not totally sure why or how. I should conduct a more comprehensive study, maybe, but I think I like this one. I take it in my hand, studying it, and Tristan lets out a hiss through his teeth, leaning his head up to watch. "What do I do?" I ask. He shuts his eyes. "Fuck," he whispers miserably to nothing, and then sighs. "Okay," he says, collecting himself. "Here's what you do."
8:45 p.m.: I follow his instructions. I touch him first—he shows me how—and then I lower my head. He says to start slow; I tease my tongue over his tip, slide my lips over it. I suck it lightly, though he hasn't said to do this. I think the shape just calls for it. His hips jerk up as I do it, and suddenly, I understand. I thought this was an act of subservience, but it isn't. This is an act of power. He makes a desperate sort of sound, a choked out groan, and reaches down to take hold of my hair. "Slow," he warns. I slide my lips down. Slowly.
8:50 p.m.: There are still elements to this that I don't like—it remains slightly uncomfortable, and my jaw quickly gets tired—but Tristan is devolving, dissolving between my lips, and I can't help being a little fascinated while I watch him squirm. I bet he thought he had me pinned. I bet he thought he had me figured out. I'm a good girl, but I'm not entirely predictable. I reach down, tracing a line up his thigh with my finger. He shivers, his fingers tightening in my hair.
8:52 p.m.: "I'm going to come," he says, panting, and grips the back of my neck, like he's going to pull me up. I lock eyes with him and slowly shake my head, my fingers digging into his thighs, and he groans, loud. He convulses when he comes, and I swallow it. It's surprisingly sweet, I think, and wipe my mouth. He props himself up, staring at me. "Your turn," he says, and I blink. "I thought you said—" "I know what I said," he cuts in gruffly, and pulls me against him. "Come here."
8:55 p.m.: He props himself up against some pillows and settles my back against his chest, placing me between his legs. He takes my hand; rubs it against the lace of my knickers. I make a keening, mewing sound, and he slips my fingers under the material. "Go ahead," he says, releasing me, and I touch myself, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath the blades of my shoulders. "Talk to me," I whisper, and he moves my hair, placing his lips near my ear.
9:00 p.m.: "Fuck, you're so fucking sexy. I want you so badly, so fucking badly—I want to leave teeth marks on your stomach, want to lick the curves of your thighs, want to get you on your hands and knees, want to fuck you against the wall. In the shower. On the floor. Want to fuck you all over this fucking room, want to fuck you all night, fuck you again in the morning. Want you so badly, want to be the one who makes you come—"
9:15 p.m.: I come so hard I can't breathe. I feel his name on my tongue but I bite down hard. I'm not his. He's not mine. This is nothing, this doesn't mean anything, this doesn't mean anyth-
9:20 p.m.: "I don't want to share you," he says hoarsely, "I can't share you." I turn in his arms, kneeling between his legs, and I slip my bra off, letting it fall to the floor. "Touch me," I say. There's no rules against this. I'm not breaking a single rule. "I can't," he says, but he's staring. He's lying. "You can," I say. You want to, I don't say. I think he already knows. He's got his hands curled into the sheets, his knuckles white. Restraint, I realize. "I can't," he says. I straddle him, like I did with Lancelot, but it's not awkward. I fit comfortably in his lap. We're naked and I want him and I'm not breaking any rules. He turns his head away; I take his face in my hands. "You can," I say, and kiss him.
9:25 p.m.: Almost immediately the kiss turns desperate, and I know that however badly he wants this, I want it more. I grind against him, and I'm wet and he's hard and this is still a learning experience, isn't it? Academically, I want this. I want to know the science of it, the chemistry. The anatomy, the physics. It's rigorously rhythmic, almost like music. The cadence is fast, so fast. Too fast. The fingers he's had tangled in the sheets are on my waist now, digging into the skin of my ribs, coveting my breasts. They settle across my neck, and I gasp. "I fucking told you," he rasps angrily, "I'm not going to share you." "Oh come on," I say, breathless, "break a rule." He groans. Flips me onto my back. Spreads my legs. Puts his mouth on me.
9:35 p.m.: I arch my hips up, begging for him. He knew this would happen, didn't he? Divination. Apparently all it takes is wine and tapas.
9:45 p.m.: By the time he's inside me, I've already come hard and I know it's going to happen again. He yanks my hips up, holding me, and he's positioned so perfectly against my clit that the thought of using my hands now feels unspeakably ridiculous. I suppose technically this is missionary, so it's one of the three I've done countless times with Lancelot, but my legs are wrapped around Tristan's hips and I'm arching towards him and it's never felt like this before.
9:50 p.m.: I come. He comes. We pause for a moment, slick with sweat and suddenly staring at each other, and I wonder which of us will regret what we've done first. I don't want to talk about it; I want to sleep for three days. I look over at him, see the marks I left on his chest, on his neck; look down at me, at the marks on my breasts and my thighs. What if Lancelot sees them? I sit up, suddenly haunted. "This," I say, "this was—nothing's changed." Tristan says nothing; after a moment he rises to his feet and then, slowly, he starts putting his clothes on. I watch him. He's beautiful in a way I didn't understand before. I watch the motion of his hips, his abdomen, the twisting of his torso, and I see the way he touches me; see the way he feels.
10:05 p.m.: "Wait," I say, grabbing his arm as he touches the doorknob, ready to leave without a word. He doesn't move. I give him a gentle tug backwards and slip between him and the door. He swallows, and I lean onto my toes, pressing my lips against the motion of his throat, accidentally getting my Sleekeazy's Magically Long-Lasting lipstick (worth its weight in gold, I now know) on his collar. Reality almost sinks in, nearly sticks to the back of my teeth, but then he licks his lips when I lean away, staring down at me. "Shower," he says. It's not a question, so I don't argue.
10:30 p.m.: I come twice in the shower. A week ago I hated sex—thought orgasms were a myth, frankly—and tonight I can't stop reaching for him. This is what I've been missing? No wonder Lancelot wants it all the time.
11:05 p.m.: I'm drifting off, my head on Tristan's chest. "Hope you learned something," he murmurs. "You're such a child," I retort, rolling my eyes, and he strokes my hair.
11:15 p.m.: I didn't break any rules, I remind myself.
12:07 a.m.: I didn't break any rules.
2:08 a.m.: I didn't break any rules.
DAY SIX
6:15 a.m.: I bolt upright, panting. "Saturday," Tristan mumbles into the pillow, throwing an arm across my torso. I catch my breath and nod, lying back down. He pulls me into him, and before I put much thought into the intimacy of the motion, I fall back asleep.
8:20 a.m.: I stir again. This is the longest I've slept in for a long, long time, but I'm restless now. His eyes crack open, considering me, and I turn on my side, looking at him. "What are you staring at?" he mutters. I laugh; quietly, stifled. It doesn't surprise me that he's not a morning person, but it seems wrong to garner too much humor from it. I worry that if I permit myself to laugh too hard, affection might bleed into the sound. I lean over, giving his shoulder a nudge. I say his name. "What?" he demands, his eyes closed. I reach under the blankets. "One more?" I ask. Might as well get all my sins out, I think, and leave them in this room. His eyes snap open. "Get on your back," he growls.
8:45 a.m.: I don't know what to call what we're doing. Not making love; that's too intimate. We're having sex. Screwing. Fucking? It feels dirty to say, but surely this is the time to use such a phrase. Anyway, whatever we're doing, he's aggressively inside me, my back pressed against the wall with my legs tight around his hips.
9:15 a.m.: I'm on all fours on the bed as he stands at the edge of it. This is one I've done with Lancelot, and even now—even with Tristan—I'm still not sure I like it. He seems to sense that and nudges me further onto the bed, joining me on top of it, and then he pulls me up so that we're both sitting back on his haunches. He slides his hand down my torso and down to my—cunt, I remind myself, because if I can't say it while Tristan's inside me, when can I possibly say it?—and now I like it. I love it. How much sex have I been missing? There must be hundreds of ways to do this; thousands of combinations. I want to do them all.
10:00 a.m.: When we're finally pulling our clothes on, we don't speak. I'm not sure I have any words, and he doesn't look like he does either. I wonder if I'm sorry. I wonder if I've erred horribly, if nothing will ever be the same, or if this is simply my life now. I still don't know if Lancelot's been doing this; I remind myself that I didn't break any rules, and thus if he'd done any of this then he, too, would have done nothing wrong. The thought doesn't help much.
10:15 a.m.: We're almost ready to leave when Tristan gets an owl from Percival, his best friend. "It's nothing," Tristan assures me, and scribbles an answer, sending it back. I stand in the doorway, watching him. I see my lipstick on his collar but say nothing; for some reason, I can't stand the thought of it being gone.
10:30 a.m.: He touches my cheek and calls me by my last name. "Nothing's changed," I remind him, and he nods. "We're not doing this again," he warns. I find I'm selfishly disappointed, but I do have a boyfriend, and I'm sure there's other people I can have sex with if I really want to do this again. That's all it was, wasn't it? "Never again," I promise him. He nods. I leave first, heading home.
11:55 a.m.: I take a long shower and clean my apartment, busying myself with nothing, but it doesn't quite work; I'm still seeing pale blond hair in the back of my mind, still hearing his voice. I need to talk to someone, I think, and pull my phone out. 'Busy?' I ask Arthur. 'Nope,' he says. He tells me he'll get lunch from the Leaky, and says to come over. I ask if Lancelot is home, and he says no. I try not to think about that.
12:30 p.m.: Arthur seems a little distracted, but all in all, he's better than he has been. We chat over sandwiches, and eventually I tell him the truth about me and Lancelot. I tell him I slept with someone else, but I don't say who. "I feel guilty," I confess. "Should I feel guilty?" I ask, hopeful that he'll be honest with me. Arthur stops chewing. I frown, and then he puts his sandwich down, swallowing heavily. "I have to tell you something," he says. I set my food down too.
12:45 p.m.: "I was dating someone," Arthur begins, "for about six months." That's longer than I thought, but I admit I suspected as much, and he grimaces, shrugging. "It's over now," he says, and I ask why. "Because she slept with someone else," he tells me, his voice unsteady. My stomach lurches. I wait for the impact. I know it's coming.
12:47 p.m.: "She said she didn't want something serious," Arthur says, but he explains that he doesn't think that was it; he thinks she was scared. He's a hero; he doesn't know what that's like. "I think she panicked and she needed a way out, and so she did something she knew would hurt me. She slept with someone," he clarifies, clearing his throat, "that she knew would hurt me." I say nothing. My stomach hurts. I want to vomit. Arthur looks at me. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asks. I do. I wish I didn't.
1:15 p.m.: We're still talking about it, but I can't seem to process the reality that Lancelot slept with Arthur's girlfriend. No, not slept with, I tell myself firmly; fucked. Even with what I've done in the past twenty-four hours, it still doesn't compute. "She said it was just the one time, and I didn't tell you because it wasn't my information to tell," Arthur explains, and then, quietly, he adds, "and he hasn't told me the truth, either." I'm stunned. I'm speechless. Arthur reaches out, gently closing his hand around my shoulder, and for a moment I can't believe he's comforting me when he's the one who's been hurt—and then, with a dull clang, I realize why I'm the one he feels sorry for. "When was this?" I ask, and he can't look me in the eye. "Two weeks ago," he says. Disappointment weighs on my shoulders. My relationship with Lancelot might be open now, but it was closed back then; it was ours. At least, I thought it was ours. Now I'm not sure.
1:30 p.m.: "He said no mutual friends," I say slowly, explaining the rules of our arrangement. Arthur looks miserable. "She isn't a friend," he admits, and though I have guesses now about who she is, I don't want to know. "I have to go," I whisper, and he nods.
1:32 p.m.: Arthur pulls me into a hug. "I'm so sorry," he says, "I'm so, so sorry." "I'm sorry too," I say, because the pain he suffered is not lost on me, and without warning, I realize something terrible. Maybe I was right; maybe they are Arthur and Lancelot. But maybe I was never Guinevere at all. Maybe I've been in the wrong story all this time.
3:07 p.m.: I go home and I sit on my couch, staring into space. I wonder who Guinevere really is; I wonder if she's with my boyfriend right now. I wonder if Lancelot loves her. He said he loves me; was it just about sex? I of all people should know that love and sex are not the same.
5:15 p.m.: I wonder if Lancelot and Arthur will be okay. I wonder if Lancelot and I will be okay. I wonder what Tristan is doing. I wonder what will happen to me. I wonder what will happen next.
8:07 p.m.: Lancelot sends me an owl but I don't read it, and I don't answer. I watch an old muggle film I love instead: Breakfast at Tiffany's. "I don't want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!" Paul Varjak says desperately to Holly Golightly, and I sigh. It's amazing what a contortion the film is of the original story. In the film, Holly's fleeing the country to freedom, but in the end she goes back for her nameless cat; for her foolish love affair. She finds the cat, kisses the handsome man, reveals herself to have wanted love all along, and I always thought I loved that ending. Nightmarishly, in the book, the cat is long gone; the handsome man lets her go, and Holly leaves. She wanders into the unknown, alone.
9:45 p.m.: It's not a happy ending—but it's real, isn't it? It's real. The film is a pretty story about the strangeness of romantic love, but the book, I realize, is about Holly. I wonder if this changes everything. Then again, I wonder if this changes nothing.
10:05 p.m.: I wonder a great many things.
10:25 p.m.: I lie in bed thinking about where I woke up this morning. I have to do something about all of this tomorrow.
11:18 p.m.: I have to do something about all of this tomorrow. I just don't know what.
DAY SEVEN
8:30 a.m.: I lie in bed a long time before I finally reach over, picking up the owl from Lancelot. It contains two lines. 'We should talk,' he says in line one. 'It's not what you think,' he says in line two, along with 'I love you.' I assume Arthur has told Lancelot about the conversation we had. To be honest, whether it is or isn't what I think it is, I'm not sure if I'm ready to talk.
10:05 a.m.: The problem is that I can't decide if I'm angry, or if I'm sad, or if I'm just totally numb about the whole thing. I'm not sure I want to know the truth; not sure if it'll be better or worse than I'm imagining. I definitely don't want to tell Lancelot about Tristan. I just want to talk to someone, I think. I want to talk to someone about my feelings—which is difficult for me, a deeply logical person, to admit. I sigh out loud, and then I pick up a quill.
10:25 a.m.: 'Can you come over?' I write to Tristan. It's an unfair request, and I assume he'll tell me so, but I ask him anyway.
10:45 a.m.: 'Is everything okay?' he writes back. 'Yes and no,' I say.
11:00 a.m.: 'I'll be there in twenty minutes,' he says.
11:20 a.m.: I open the door and Tristan stands there, staring at me. "Well," he remarks, "I see you're not dying." "No," I agree, "I'm not." He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. "Well, are you going to invite me in?" he demands. I step aside, wordlessly gesturing for him to proceed. "Finally," he mutters, striding in.
11:30 a.m.: "Tea?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Coffee?" I attempt, and he glares at me. "Why did you ask me to come here?" he asks gruffly. He looks irritated with me, and I don't blame him. "I'm trying to figure out how to say it out loud," I tell him honestly, and he sighs. "Coffee," he finally says, and I nod, turning into the kitchen to make some.
11:45 a.m.: He's drumming his fingers against the table as we sit there, absurdly sipping coffee together. "I want you for myself," he blurts without warning. I force myself not to react; I'm not sure I can handle this. Not with everything else that's happening. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. "I want you for myself," he begins to say again, and adds, so quietly I almost miss it, "but if I have to share you—" He trails off. I look up at him, startled. "I will," he confesses, and I can feel myself gaping at him, at the most stubborn and arrogant man I've ever known, as he bends to my demands. "You will?" I ask, disbelieving. He nods, miserably, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm on my feet.
11:48 a.m.: He takes me in his arms, and I know instantly he's going to kiss me. He's going to take my clothes off, he's going to put his hands on me; his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He's going to screw me. He's going to fuck me. He's going to make love to me. "Rules," I barely manage to remind him, because according to the laws of my open relationship, I can't have sex like this. Not here. He shakes his head. "I broke a rule for you," he says, "so break one for me." I can't help it. I relent.
12:06 p.m.: The sex this time is brutally intimate. He kisses my neck, locks eyes with me when we both come. There are no rules about this, but suddenly, I realize that there should be. Tristan should not be allowed to look at me like this; shouldn't be permitted to tuck my hair behind my ear, to slide his thumb across my lip. I shouldn't be allowed to curl my hand around the back of his neck, pressing his forehead to mine. I shouldn't be allowed to let him thread his fingers through mine like this; he shouldn't be allowed to let me whisper his name like that. I never agreed to a rule specifying that when presented with a choice between Lancelot's owl and Tristan's lips I'd choose the former, but now I realize that was a terrible oversight—because if I'd written the rules as thoroughly as I should have, I'd be breaking every single one.
5:14 p.m.: I know I've gone too far when I tell Tristan what I should have told Lancelot: that after everything, I feel betrayed. That maybe sex and love are different, yes, and maybe it's irrational for me to feel one way and yet demand another set of behaviors altogether, but I didn't want to hear that I wasn't enough. That despite my skill at compartmentalization, I didn't want to be placed in a compartment of his life. And when I'm crying into Tristan's chest—when he's holding me, and I realize I don't want him to leave—that's when I finally, finally tell myself the truth.
5:15 p.m.: I'm cheating on my boyfriend.
a/n: Some things about the story: these last two have featured major characters, but that won't always be the case. I currently have 10 cemented pairings on the docket, meaning at least 20 characters. Also, regarding the timing, this week's episode overlaps quite neatly with last week's, but gradually time will move forward.
For now I don't think I'm going to specify who was who, because I think it's more fun to let you figure it out as the diaries start to overlap. If I'm wrong and that's not fun, let me know and I'll definitely change my methods. I will say that most people were spot on with last week's characters. The one thing I will point out is that last week's narrator was raised by his father with no mention of his mother, so he is not Blaise (though Blaise will feature at some point in the future, so you would have eventually figured that out).
Lastly, dedications: bourbonrain, Siobhan, and RZZMG. Thanks to everyone for reading!