We spent our days around the pool, fucking, swapping life stories, eating good food, enjoying the early summer heat, and then we went inside after dinner, after the sun had set. We’d caught a game together and watched a few movies. Last night, we stayed up till dawn, just talking and being with one another. Camden had fallen asleep with his head on my lap. He came and went as he pleased, busy playing with his toys or shouting at a video game, and sometimes he was sneaky. The other day when August had fucked me over the couch in the den across from the kitchen, we’d found Camden watching us discreetly from one of the entryways.

August and I were both learning that Camden evidently liked to watch—he was curious about everything he called “grown-up games”—but he didn’t want to participate.

It was new to them, too, since they hadn’t invited anyone into their relationship for years.

My back hit the wall of the pool, and August cupped my jaw as he deepened the kiss and swept his tongue into my mouth. He was the first man I’d been with who was as physically loving as me, and it was liberating to be able to spend hours just kissing and holding each other without worrying that the other was going to get sick of it.

“Daddy, can we make pizza today?” Camden asked. “It’s Anthony’s favorite.”

I chuckled, out of breath, then promptly swallowed a bout of unease when it struck me how much I adored the boy. Fuck. It felt heavy. Enough that my smile faltered, and I had to clear my throat and avert my eyes.

The two men were like night and day, as were my reactions to them, but the end result was the same. I couldn’t imagine one without the other, and two types of feelings were still equal when stacked up next to each other.

“Pizza sounds great, darlin’,” August replied. “I’ll dust off the pizza oven in a bit.”

“Of course you have your own pizza oven.” I forced a casual grin and swam backward toward the stairs.

“Of course we do.” He smirked back. “Where do you think you’re goin’? I wasn’t done with you.”

But one day very soon, he would be, and I needed to get my shit together.

“I thought I’d call Nicky. I’ve avoided him long enough.” Avoid was a strong word, but he’d put two and two together after I’d posted a photo on Instagram of me replacing a string on my guitar and saying I was looking forward to the gig on Saturday. My brother had seen the picturesque background of August and Camden’s patio and pool area in the photo and texted me something about my shitty motel having surprisingly high standards. His way of asking where I really was.

He’d also asked how I’d come to play at the food festival, after which he’d let me know that our sad Facebook page—that hadn’t seen an update in over a year—had gotten two hundred new likes overnight.