Julian picks up where I leave off, his tone thoughtful. “We’ve always been open, Kai. That’s been our foundation. But I never want you to feel like you’re less important or like your feelings don’t matter. This is something we have to figure out together.”
Kai’s jaw tightens, and he looks away. “I just don’t know if I can wait while you figure it out. It’s already hard, because I’m…” He trails a hand through his hair and looks away. “I don’t know. I’m just confused. Plus, knowing Julian would probably want to keep going, even if I don’t… I know he loves it, so it feels unfair to ask him to stop, too.”
“That’s not fair,” Julian says, standing. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, his calm slipping just enough for me to notice. His voice drops lower, rougher. “This isn’t about what I want. It’s about what we all need. And if exclusivity is what you need, we should have that conversation.”
Kai shakes his head, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure talking is enough. It’s not just about boundaries, it’s about whether this can actually work for me. I don’t want to be… used. I think I jumped into all of this too soon.”
Julian’s face pinches with hurt, and I feel a pang of guilt. I attempt to reach out toward him, but he steps back, his expression conflicted. His words feel like a punch to the chest, and I feel the instinct to defend myself, but the ache in his voice keeps me silent.
Julian shifts, his hand flexing at his side like he wants to step in, and Kai notices.
“I need some space,” Kai says, his voice quiet. “Just for a little while.”
“Kai, wait,” I start, but he cuts me off gently.
“I’ll see you guys later,” he says, turning toward the door.
Kai’s hand lingers on the doorknob, and for a second, I think he might turn around. But he doesn’t.
The door closes softly behind him, but the echo feels louder than it should.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE HOMEWORK
Malakai
As I sit on the armchair and twiddle my thumbs, I can’t help but feel like I’m fully on display. The office is nice—it’s modern and warm, with personal touches here and there. Monica, my therapist, is an older woman with short, gray hair and a flowy, colorful outfit. She’s not sitting behind her desk, but rather on the couch across the room, so it feels less like a therapy session and more like two people talking casually.
That’s probably the point.
“Tell me about your job,” she says, smiling.
I clear my throat. “Well, I’m the headmaster of Saint Helena Academy. Before that, I was a pastor and I worked for various churches around Crestwood.”
She nods once. “So spirituality is important to you?”
I nod. “It is.” The words feel hollow, almost rehearsed. I frown and lean forward, clasping my hands together between my knees. “Or, it used to be.”
The session is already half over. The first thirty minutes, I spoke about my childhood and growing up at Ravage Castle. Itold her about my father, and how close I was to my brothers. I thought she’d say something about the infamous Charles Ravage, but she didn’t. Instead, she only smiled and told me how wonderful it was that I was close to my siblings.
Monica’s expression doesn’t change. She simply tilts her head, like she’s waiting for me to fill the silence.
“It feels like I’m evolving,” I admit, the weight of the confession settling over me. “And in doing so… religion has become less important. At least, not in the way it used to be. I mean, when I first got into this profession, I found a lot of personal fulfillment. I still remember the sense of pride when I got my first job as a pastor at a tiny church on the coast. And even accepting the headmaster position at Saint Helena was one of my greatest achievements. Ifullybelieved in the school mission, and though some of the people in my bubble were more close-minded than me, I knew I was doing good. I believed in helping my students. I was the person they knew they could trust.”
“You’re speaking in past tense,” she notes, sitting up straighter. “I see people from all walks of life, Malakai. Children and teenagers, young married couples, men in their eighties, rape victims, you name it. And the only consistent thing between all of these people—and often why they seek therapy—is because they’ve changed.Somethingorsomeonehas disrupted their status quo—whether it be an extramarital affair, or perhaps a burglary that leaves them with PTSD. As humans we are allowed to change. We are allowed to change our mind about things like religion. Nothing about life is stagnant.”
I swallow. “I suppose that’s true.”
“So, what disrupted the status quo?” she asks thoughtfully.
I exhale slowly, tracing the faint pattern in the carpet beneath my feet with the toe of my shoe. “I had an old friendmove back to town. Julian. He and his wife have become… important to me.”
Monica nods. “Important to you? How so?”
I hesitate, the words lodged in my throat like stones. But this is why I came here. If I can’t say it aloud, how am I supposed to fix it?
“Well… we’ve all sort of entered into a romantic relationship.”
