Fourteen hours later, he drives, his hand loose on the gearshift, the car taking the tight curves of the road with ease. He drives like he does everything else: intently, with an edge of recklessness barely restrained by tight control.

I lean back, letting my head drop against the headrest and run my hands gently over his forearm. He is happy, his mouth turning up at the edges, a secret grin playing over his features. His hand releases the shifter and turns up, my palm sliding into his and our fingers interlock.

He won’t tell me where we’re going. Just waltzed in the condo, catching me mid-bite, on the white leather couch in the foyer, the couch I’m not supposed to eat near, a Dorito filling up my mouth, Coke balanced precariously on the sofa’s arm. He shot the soda a bemused glance and reached out, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet, the bag of Doritos dropping to the floor. “I want to show you something.”

And now we are driving. Out of downtown, taking the freeway east, toward the ocean. I crack the window slightly and let a burst of fresh air inside, Stewart promptly rolling the window back up. I sigh, watching as the exterior stills and the car makes a slow turn into a residential area.

“Are we visiting someone?” Stewart and I don’t socialize outside of business functions. We don’t have friends or acquaintances. We exist, in our own bubble of two, our time too short to waste making small chat with strangers.

“Just be patient.” He pulls out his phone, checks an email, then looks up. “Look for Palm Drive.” The car slows and he rolls both windows down, squinting into the darkness.

“Right there.” I point ahead. “To the left.”

We turn, he looks at his phone again, and then we make the final, undercarriage-scraping turn into the driveway of a one-story bungalow, Spanish-style white, blue shutters framing its front windows. He puts the car in park and I wait, confused, glancing out at the dark house, no lights on inside. An empty driveway.

“Let’s go in.” He unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door.

We step into darkness, the front door opened with a key Stewart produces from his pocket. He walks through, leaving me in the foyer, lights flipping on as he moves, warm lights illuminating marble floors, a chef’s kitchen, a fireplace built into the far wall. My sense of unease grows until he finally reappears, standing before me and spreading his arms proudly. “So? What do you think?”

I step toward him, glancing around. “I’m a little confused. Are you moving?” I know he’s not. He can’t. The ten-minute commute would drive him crazy – thousands wasted in those precious minutes spent on something as trivial as transportation.

“It’s for you.” His smile falters slightly at my expression. “Don’t you like it?”

“But I already have a house.” With Paul. The words that don’t need to be said.

“You rent a house. In a section of town that has the crime rate of Compton.” His tone irritates me.

“I like where I live.” And whom I live with. Paul would move, but only to make me happy. He wouldn’t want to live in this manicured neighborhood of picket fences and paved drives. Twenty minutes from the water, from our lives as we know it. “I’m right by work now.”

“You’d be closer to me here. And this is nicer, ten times nicer than where you live.” He is right, though he has never been to my house. For all he knows, it has twelve-foot ceilings and five bathrooms.

I try to breathe, try to stay calm. “Have you closed on this?”

“No. It’s closing in ten days. Sooner if you’d like.”

No. I would not like. “Stewart, this is a very kind gesture, and I really appreciate the thought...”

“But you don’t want to move.” His face is unreadable, and I step forward, wrapping my hands around his neck.

“No. I don’t want to move. Can you pull out of the sale?”

He sighs, his hands sliding around my waist, slipping under the top of my jeans and he squeezes the skin there. “It’s gonna be hard.” He pulls me forward, pressing the length of my body against him, my breath catching as he lifts up with his hands, pulling me tight to his pelvis.

“How hard?” I breathe.

His mouth curves beneath my lips and he leans forward, taking a deep taste of my mouth before pulling off. “Why don’t you get on your knees and find out?”

I think it hurt his feelings, my refusal of his gift. But it was too much. Not the gift of the house—I’m not too proud to accept a million dollar piece of real estate. But the life change. I love my time with Stewart. But the everyday with Paul? Waking up next to his warmth, in the house that creaks under our feet and has hosted our sex in every counter, bathroom, and floorboard? I love that part of my life. And all of it would change if we were to move into a house of Stewart’s. The entire dynamic of our lives.

Sex smooths over his hurt. Sex heals his ego, and he earns every ounce of it back. Making me scream his name, my body bent over, gripping the granite countertop, his hard c**k claiming me from behind. On my back in the master, my legs spread before him, his hands lingering over my skin as he f**ked me to a second, then—legs flipped over and my body on its side—third orgasm. We finished on the back deck, the night air cool on our hot skin, his breath labored as he kissed the length of my skin, his hands following his mouth, making a final exploration of my body, pushing me down to my knees.

We christen the hell outta the house, despite my lack of future inside it. Then we turn out the lights and Stewart locks the door with one last, regretful look inside. “You sure you don’t want to sleep on it? Nicole will be so disappointed, she thought you’d love it.”

“Then you can buy it for her,” I tease. “But no.”

He turns the key, snagging my arm as I turn, and presses me against the door, taking one more possessive, full-body taste, his mouth aggressive as his hands take a long survey of my body. When he finally releases me, I stay against the door, looking up into his face, partially in shadow, his looks no less devastating in the dark. “Thanks, baby. For thinking of me.”

“I love you. I want you to be taken care of.”

I smile. “I am. I don’t need a house for that.” I stick out my tongue playfully, and the serious moment is broken. He tugs at my hand and we return to his car. And then to his condo. Which we christen also—just for the hell of it.

A normal person would ask themselves who they prefer. If both men were standing on a cliff, and I had to push one of them off, who would it be?

But I’m not normal, and neither are they. Eventually, one of them will tire of this relationship, will want more. Will want a full-time girlfriend or mother to his children. And then I will ask myself if that is what I want. If I can be happy with one man. And if the answer is yes, then I will go that path. It seems strange but, despite their differences, there is a bit of each other in these men. And even if I leave one, I will always have part of him in the other.

Paul knows that one day that question will come, and he avoids it, will never bring that question to my attention. Stewart doesn’t have time to think about it.

VENICE BEACH, CA

DIDDY MOW: the worst kind of wipeout.

One that causes broken bones, missing teeth,

or loss of life

It’s one of those barely warm days. The kind that warns you to get out and enjoy the water, before it is teeth-chattering cold, with breezes that feel like the open door to a fridge. I closed the windows to the house this morning. Crawled back into bed and laid on Paul’s warm body. Let him wrap his arms around me and warm my skin.

We waited till noon, when the sun was out long enough to take the chill off the day, and then ran out, the initial shock of cold water goosebumping our exposed skin. Now, an hour later, our muscles are warm and we are contemplating the incoming waves.

I love the anonymity of being out here. The sand and water don’t care if you are a spoiled rich kid or a foster child. It doesn’t yield to society’s expectations or discriminate. And there is little you can buy that will improve your ride of a wave, or lower your risk of death. On the sand, in the water, we are all equal in the wave’s eyes. All opponents that will either conquer the surf or succumb to it.

I rode a surfboard before I ever did a bike. The waxed feel of epoxy underneath my soles is as familiar as sand. I am not Paul. I don’t ride on the edge of death, don’t tackle the monsters that rise above and crush down on innocent souls. I ride the waves I know I can handle, and don’t bite off more than I can easily chew. And this, this gradual curve that approaches, is a wave I can handle.

I watch it coming, feel the tug as it pulls from behind me, the subtle awakening of the surrounding water as we all prepare for its arrival. I glance around, Paul nodding, sitting up and gesturing for me to go, no other surfers around. A collision on a wave is dangerous, the hard impact of boards brutal at a time when the smallest mistake can mean danger.

I count the seconds, watching the curve of ocean, feeling the pull of current, and then lean forward, lying flat against the board, and paddle. Quick, strong strokes, the rush of excitement entering my muscles as I pick up speed. It is coming. I am ready.

PAUL

I love her. She knows it. I don’t hide the fact. But I don’t think she knows how much I love her. How much my chest expands to a point of pain when she smiles. How I ache when I leave her, how my hands shake when I finally get to touch her again. She is everything I don’t deserve, and everything I could ever hope to attain. I watch her, the glint of sun off her hair, her blue wet suit bending as she leans forward, her feet swinging onto the board, and her movement as she paddles away from me.

Her hair is loose, long wet blonde tendrils, falling off her shoulders, her yellow board cutting through the water. The wave lifts me, coming in strong, my feet pushed and pulled as it moves by. I frown, not liking the kick of water that spins beneath my feet. It is stronger than it looked, catching me off guard. I narrow my eyes and watch her form, her graceful leap onto the board, her arms steadying out. My angel.

I see her form rise and fall, and then she is gone, hidden by the curve of the wave.

The board vibrates under my feet as I move forward, getting my footing and balancing, my arms outstretched, legs bent. I hit my spot and feel the lift of the board. I lean a little right, the board responding, and we hit the swell and slide down, gliding along the surface, picking up speed, my hair whipping in front of my eyes, stinging my face. I bend slightly, resisting the urge to tuck my hair back, every movement on a board attached to consequences. Then we tilt, the entire world, the wave stronger, faster, than I had expected, and the board shoots from underneath my feet, and I am yanked by my ankle strap, my feet flying outward. Unforgiving water smacks hard against my back and I am yanked underneath, my mouth opening, a stolen breath captured before I am engulfed by ice cold water.

White noise.

The current is strong, unexpectedly so, and I tumble, pulled underwater, my eyes blinking rapidly as I am tossed around—the rough push and pull of water disorienting me, my struggle against the current useless. My lungs are beginning to burn, panic setting in, my foot pulled by my leash and I hope to God that it is pulling me toward the surface. The board should float, that should be the direction up. But my body is caught in a rip current and I fight it, kicking and clawing, black spots appearing in my vision, my lungs stretching and bursting in my chest. My hand breaks into air and I kick hard, my foot suddenly free, and suddenly I have too much to process and not enough oxygen to react.

I realize it all a second too late. A second before my face hits the surface, fins come slicing through the water, the yellow flash of my board, rubber-banding back, the pressing against the leash too great, its recoil effect headed directly toward me.

Impact.

PAUL

I cannot see her. The wave came, she stood, she rode, and then she fell. We all fall. I fall into five-foot monsters, the kind that eat up and spit out surfers like gum. It is okay. She knows how to fall, knows what to do if the current pulls her under. Knows to go limp and let it spit her out. But this one had a strong kick. I felt its pull, worried over its strength. But still. She will find the surface. I will see her bright yellow board, her mess of sunlit hair. I paddle forward hard, my eyes skimming, another wave coming, its back draw pulling me briefly away. Then there is a flash of yellow. Her board, bobbing to the surface. I pause, searching carefully, then frantically, for a sign of her body.

Dark blue expanse, occasionally dotted by colorful bits of surfer. White foam, dark seaweed, her yellow board. Nothing else. Dark blue expanse.

Then I see her suit, bubbling to the surface, facedown in the water, and my entire world ends.

I fly through the water, added by waves, at her board in seconds, my hands flipping her over, her body moving easily, without resistance. Without life. I pull her onto my board, bending down, undoing the velcro of her ankle leash, hesitating as I hold the cord. She will kill me if her board is lost. It is an extension of her, of her life on the water. We have f**ked on these boards, kissed, slept on the water, and fought the demons in these waves. Then I push it aside and lean over her body. I pump at her chest, I breathe into her mouth, and I look to shore and wonder if I should paddle in.

It is a horrific decision to make. To continue working to save her life, or to take her somewhere where she might need to be. The shore holds paramedics, defibrillators, oxygen. Shore means at least two minutes of paddling. Maybe longer, my speed hampered by her additional body on the board. I pray to a God I have ignored for too long and exhale into her still mouth.

The first time I kissed her was on the roller coaster. Hard plastic underneath me, the scent of sunscreen coming off her skin, she had reached over and pulled me to her like it was nothing. Like it was natural that we would spend that moment, as strangers, exploring each other’s mouth. She had been so gorgeous, so vibrant. It was like God had pumped so much life into her that it was spilling out; she overflowed with it. Just being with her, in line, on that ride, her hand in mine... it was intoxicating. That kiss was my first injection and she became my addiction, from that point forward. Addiction made me come back when she told me about the other man. When she shared that I would be one of two, owning only half of her heart. I worked it out then, and I don’t care now. I only need her in my life. The rest will fall into place.