“Dating?” Jenna sneers. She points to the bedroom door. “They’ve both been having sex with her, Mom. They took my sweet, innocent friend and corrupted her. I can’t even believe this is happening. I trusted you, Fletch. You were supposed to look out for her like a sister. Not fuck her.”

“Language, young lady.”

Jenna’s eyes round with surprise and her cheeks get very, very red. “Are you kidding me right now? My language is what’s wrong with this situation?”

Mr. Fletcher comes out wrapping his bathrobe around him. Hell, he’s wearing the same pajama pants that Fletch is wearing. “What’s going on out here? Are we waking the neighborhood for a good reason?”

Little Bit looks like she is about to cry, and I hate that. I hate anything that hurts her. She’s wringing her hands and pleading with her best friend. “Jenna, please don’t be mad at them. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I was just worried.”

“Worried about what?” Jenna’s voice booms off the walls.

“She was worried you might not handle it very well and freak out,” I say dryly.

“Shut up, Shane,” all five people in the hall say.

“How long has this been going on?” Jenna asks. The anger is leaching out of her voice to be replaced by a pretty raw sadness. Shit. We hurt her feelings.

“A while...”

“How long?” Jenna pushes. “Were you guys doing it when I came out to visit? Oh my God, were you doing them both and that guy Jones?”

“No. No. Nothing like that.”

Penelope looks up at Fletcher, and the fucker gets this totally whipped look on his face when he pulls her to his side. “I know this isn’t what any of you want to hear right now, but the three of us are in a relationship and it’s nobody’s business but ours. Nobody owes you an explanation, Jenna.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Pen and I used to share everything.”

“I wasn’t ready to share this. I’m sorry,” Penelope says.

“It’s sick,” Jenna says in a wobbly voice.

“No, it’s really not,” says Fletch. His chest gets bigger, and I think he gains an inch in height. “It’s not what you’re used to, but that doesn’t make it wrong. It’s not sick. It’s love.”

Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher look like they are going to hurl. “Let’s just deal with this tomorrow, shall we?” Mrs. Fletchers says. “Things will make more sense after a good night sleep.”

As if on cue, an alarm clock in their room goes off.

“Time to put the bird in the oven,” Mr. Fletcher says. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

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