The Perfect Threesome
The first time you see them, it’s hardly worth writing home about. Or texting a friend, as the case may be. Just another couple on the street, hand in hand, muttering about something the way those in a long-term relationship do, I love yous slipped between did you do the dishes and please take out the trash. You suppose that’s why things go the way they did, why this particular couple drew you in like a magnet, catching your interest and keeping it. But that’s still a ways off.
Just then, you walk into the same building as they do, down a long, stale-smelling hallway that breaks off into a room where a whiteboard reads, CPR RECERTIFICATION. You smile at the woman as she hands a pen to you by the sign in sheet, the bashful expression of two people who followed one another in off the street to the same occasion.
The crowd ranges the gamut of city life, as you expected. Seated in the chairs loosely arranged on one side of the room are new parents, bleary-eyed teachers, teenagers getting their lifeguard certification, and people like you, those anxious to be prepared in an unexpected emergency, plagued by the thought that someone could die in front of you, from a preventable kind of hurt that the right CPR training could have healed.
The class itself is nothing exciting. A series of patient instructors—nurses picking up a few extra dollars, ex-EMTs—display the right amount of pressure to use to the beats of “Staying Alive” and the correct grasp to use when pulling an object from an infant’s throat.
You try the plastic dummy first, face disturbingly blank, man-shaped in a vaguely militaristic way, and something about your hands against the false-flesh of his mannequin chest makes the soft, recently rejected part of your heart flinch away.
This is the closest you’ve gotten to intimacy in longer than you’d like to admit, and that’s not a great realization to have, the fact that a CPR dummy provides your first sexually charged experience in the last few months. It’s distracting, enough so that you don’t move on from your station when the next group goes, and a gentle hand taps you on the shoulder.
It’s the woman from before, long brown hair falling into her face. “Are you okay?”
You nod, swallow. “Yes. Sorry. Just got lost in my thoughts for a second.”
She laughs, a chuckle low in the back of her throat. “No need to apologize. My mind wanders during these things too. I think it’s easier to think about my grocery list than actually needing to save someone’s life.”
Carly, as she introduces herself later, is a social worker who wants to be prepared to help the at-risk adults she works with, and her husband Phillip is a children’s librarian. “We thought it might make a fun date,” she admits, bashfully, after class.
Phillip rests his chin on the top of her head. “We like to multitask. A date, and a professional development opportunity, all in one.”
Even after a few minutes, you find yourself wanting to lean in closer to them. They met in college, during an intro to psychology course, and started dating after a year of hooking up and studying abroad, first her in Chile, then him in Ghana. A connection thrums between them, stronger than just the rings on their left hands, the kind of electric aliveness that allows him to lean against her shoulder while she looks the other way, how his posture opens up when her hand lands on his arm.
It’s something about this, their nearly effortless acknowledgment of one another, that prompts you to ask, “Are the two of you doing anything after this?”
Carly shakes her head. “Cleaning out the garage? But that can wait.”
“Carly will do just about anything to avoid looking at the garage,” Philip says with a smile, resting a hand on Carly’s waist to assure her that his words have no bite. “Even though she’s the one who wants to clear it out so we can park the car in there.”
“I hate when the car’s freezing on winter mornings,” Carly explains, “it makes me want to crawl right back into bed. But,” she tilts her head, “that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Why do you ask?”
You aren’t prepared to explain exactly why you don’t want to say goodbye to these people yet, or why the thought of never seeing them again, all filtering out the door into the Sunday air after class, makes your stomach twinge. “I’m starving,” you admit instead. “Would the two of you want to grab lunch?”
Carly claps her hands, “Yes! We’ve been hoping to try that new sandwich place.”
Phillip runs his fingers up Carly’s side, making her giggle, and winks at you. “She’ll steal your pickle. Even if you think you want it. You’ll look away and when you look back, no more pickle.”
Carly rolls her eyes. “I’m not that bad.”
“Yes,” he winks at you again, inviting you in on this familial joke, “my love, you are.”
Lunch is more fun than you’ve had in a long time. Between bites of pastrami on rye, Philip tells you about workplace drama (hint: everyone is fucking) and Carly teaches you how to balance a spoon on your nose. And they ask you questions too, curious, genuinely meant queries about where you grew up, your favorite books, and if you believe in ghosts. (Carly doesn’t, Philip does, and you aren’t quite sure.)
You know that not all couples are like this, inviting you in instead of out. Many of them sit lost in their own world, making you feel like an interloper or intruder, unwelcome and unwanted, never quite in on the joke.
But when the meal ends, napkins back on the table and drinks finished, Carly looks genuinely stricken when she says, “Can we get your number? It would be terrible to never see you again.”
You take her phone to put your contact information in, trying to focus on something other than the softness of her skin when your hands brush. She smiles so bright when you hand the phone back, that, for a moment, you forget you aren’t looking up at the sun.
Just like that, Carly and Phillip become a part of your life. Dinner once a week, always at a new place, and drinks more often, Carly drawing gossip out of the bartenders while you and Phillip play the strangest songs you can think of, dancing with inhibition to classical music in the middle of an empty dance floor. Sometimes you complain about your dating life to them, the endless conversations that trail off when meeting in person comes up, the thirst traps and miscommunications, and constant, ceaseless swiping.
It’s during one of these nights out, a Saturday where you are more than a little tipsy, that the confession, “I just want something like the two of you,” springs out of your mouth. You mean that you want something comfortable, to be in love and trust that the other person loves you back, but the sentiment sounds sharper, harder edged with teeth, uttered in the low light of this particular dive.
Carly’s cheeks are flushed and Phillip’s hair is falling into his eyes, all three of you a little undone, and suddenly, the air feels unsteady. You stare at one another, tension churning in your stomach, for one, two, three breaths. You swallow, unsure what to say next, and just when the words are forming on the tip of your tongue, someone across the room scores a victory at the ancient pinball machine. Everyone cheers, and the rising noise breaks whatever thread tethered the previous moment of uncertainty.
The night continues on from there without any sort of interruption, ended by a routine hug, Carly and Phillip setting off in one direction, you in the other, but the lingering memory of that momentary strangeness stays on your tongue. It is this memory that flickers in your stomach the following week, when Phillip texts to say how about we make you dinner, instead of going out? And Carly adds we’re great hosts ;).
You spend longer than normal putting together an outfit, not as fancy as a restaurant, not as casual as a dive bar, before deciding on a summery dress with blue flowers, specifically because you like the way it shows off your shoulders. Under the dress, for reasons you don’t dare articulate to even yourself, you’re wearing the kind of matching underwear that demands to be seen.
Their house, which you have never been to before, is cozy and clean. Neither of them make the kind of money that results in those high-ceilinged new developments up the hill, but it’s clearly a home, made beautiful by the gauzy curtains in the front windows, the gentle peach color of the kitchen, and the warm, mildly vanilla scent of every room.
Carly opens the door beaming, in a kelly green crop top/skirt combination that brings out a coy sparkle in her eyes, and tugs you towards the kitchen. Her hand is warm in yours, her grip tight, and you try to ignore the way your organs flip-flop, wanting to press closer to her, wanting to catch her waist from behind and make her laugh the way Phillip does.
Phillip is halfway through dinner-prep, knife sliding cleanly through a series of vegetables as he chops them on the countertop, and you suppress a shiver at the muscles in his hands, the way his forearms flex as he reaches for another cucumber or bell pepper.
Carly pours each of you a glass of wine, her wedding ring winking as she opens the bottle, and hands one to you and one to Phillip, keeping the third for herself. “To friendship,” she proposes, lifting her glass for a toast, “and all the ways friends expand our lives.”
You clink, first with her, then with Phillip, and watch as Carly and Phillip’s glasses find one another. It feels like a flag waved, a race begun. You lean forward, eager to find out what happens next.
The next couple of hours find you in front of a beautiful meal, laughing while Carly and Phillip explain the foibles of a mutual friend, and sat on their couch once the food is eaten, dishes in the dishwasher and kitchen returned to its pre-meal prep level of cleanliness.
Music is playing, a woman’s voice singing softly about lost love and future love and the mysterious ways of the ocean. Carly reaches languidly for your hand, moving it to the sway of the music, and you realize how much you trust these people, this couple who has invited you so easily and kindly into their life.
That realization makes it easy to accept Phillip’s hand on your ankle, Carly’s nod as he moves closer, until your faces are centimeters apart. “Do you want this?” Carly’s question floats in like a voice on a long-distance call, crackling with static and present all the same. “Because we definitely do.”
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