As soon as I’m no longer with them, the last thirty minutes feels like a dream.

But it wasn’t—and I’m now in an active, real-life relationship with three men. Three. I must be suffering from temporary insanity. Hopefully it will pass soon.

The haphazard clunking in my ribcage tells me it won’t.

The fact that I miss them already does, as well.

My skin feels paper thin without them touching it.

“You’re in trouble, Elise,” I whisper, climbing the final stair.

* * *

When I reach my apartment, thankfully Shayna is on the phone. Still, she waggles her eyebrows at me as I hang up my coat and bypass her into my bedroom. I eye the manila envelope containing the photograph I took of Alexander and Crouch last night. There is a slight chance I could bring this to Karina tomorrow morning and earn myself a staff writer spot. But it’s very slight. There is a better chance she rains down Armageddon on my head.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, settling my laptop on my thighs and opening it.

There is a folder on the desktop labeled Alexander Crouch where I compiled all of my notes on the rejected story, but I bypass it now in favor of pulling up the Google homepage.

Before I can guess my own intentions, I’ve typed the words “New York City journalism schools” into a search engine and hit return. The first search result is Columbia. Uh, yeah. The Ivy League won’t be happening any time soon. There are several more realistic schools, however. Hunter. Hofstra. Baruch. All a subway ride away.

Could I possibly get into those?

What if I could actually commit to four years of school and become a journalist the right way? No shortcuts. No scheming. Do I have it in me?

Maybe.

My parents believed in me once upon a time. I believed in myself. And I would be lying if I said the Tram Fam wasn’t inspiring this Google search. My guys would tell me I can do it. Apply to a journalism school and work toward an actual degree. Pursue this thing I want and succeed without trying to scheme my way to the top.

Or you might just continue your cut and run pattern.

With an impatient sound, I ex out of the webpage and pull up a fresh document. After a moment’s hesitation, I start typing, my fingers already sluggish with guilt.

Me Plus Three

by Elise Brandeis

What do an egomaniacal porn star, an emotionally bullied construction foreman and a rugby coach with crippling mommy issues have in common?

They all slept in the same bed as me last night.

By a simple twist of fate—and a Roosevelt Island tram malfunction—there I was, trapped with a trio of walking red flags…

A few hours later, I stare down at my unmoving fingers on the keyboard. My gaze lifts to read some of the more provocative lines. In a way, the article is way too personal. In another…it doesn’t sound like me at all. It sounds like my fears trying to convince me that these men couldn’t possibly be right for me. It’s a con list with no pro side.