We are going to be on the other side of this ride in like, under a minute and I’m flushed, shaken, breathing like I just surfaced after a dive to the bottom of the ocean. In a way, I have. I’m so aroused, I’m almost disoriented while stumbling free of the three-way tug-of-war they’re playing with my senses, gulping down air while attempting to straighten my clothing.

“What was that?” I ask to no one specific. Or maybe I’m asking myself. “I don’t know what that was,” I clarify haltingly. “But I don’t just…I don’t do things like this.”

I cringe over the clichéd statement. It feels like something women are supposed to say to hide the fact that they enjoy sex, when we should be allowed to own it. I do own it on occasion. But this—three men I know so little about—commandeering my entire being like this has unnerved me. I’m an impulsive person when it comes to changing professions and trying new things. However, I am the opposite when it comes to personal relationships. My constant job hopping is the perfect guarantee that I don’t have time or energy for friendships or romantic entanglements. And this four-person affair, which I’m not entirely sure isn’t a shared psychosis, is nothing if not a giant tangle. As such, I’m desperate to break free of this shared bubble and get some fresh air. Get some space to think and breathe.

I make the mistake of glancing back at Banks, Tobias and Gabe. It’s a mistake because they all very obviously want me back between them, even if they seem a little thrown by what just happened, too. What prompted the whole thing?

Right. I asked out Gabe.

He’s looking at me now from beneath hooded eyebrows, as if he wants to revisit that invitation very badly. Now. But…I find I can’t do it. My mouth won’t form the words that will establish a second meeting with him. I won’t use this guy for my story. It feels wrong.

The door of the tram opens and I propel myself off, ignoring the baritone chorus of voices calling my name behind me, their footsteps hitting the sidewalk several yards behind. I hail the first yellow cab I see, resisting the urge to turn around in my seat as it flies down Second Avenue, secure in the fact that I’ll never see these men again.

And surprised when that realization makes me sad. Restless.

But I bite down on my lip to stop myself from asking the cab driver to go back. I’m not going to get distracted from the story. I’m not going to forget my purpose for the sake of something that has no viability. No chance of lasting. I’ve done that way too much throughout my life—and the cycle stops now. It has to.

I open my purse to get my credit card out, so I can pay for the cab when it arrives outside my building. After some increasingly frantic rooting around, my pulse skitters like dimes across a hardwood floor.