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Micah was giving me the look, the one that said as clearly as if he’d spoken, fix this. Why was it always me that had to fix it? Because I was usually the one who screwed it up in the first place. Oh, that was why.

My teeth marks were imprinted into Micah’s neck. The marks had been smeared with Neosporin, but he hadn’t had to bandage them. Good for him, and for me. I’d stopped before I’d hurt him too badly. It was actually less blood than the one and only time I’d let myself mark Nathaniel. It had been when the ardeur was new and I was still trying to find ways to feed it that didn’t involve intercourse. Silly me.

The last straw was when he took the butter dish off the table, before everybody was finished with it. Gregory grabbed for it, and claws were wrong for grabbing china. The plate fell and broke all over the floor. The butter slid across the floor in a long yellow line, like a really nasty snail trail. I don’t know what I would have said—probably something not helpful—but just then the phone rang.

“Someone else get that,” Nathaniel said from the floor where he was wiping up the mess, “I’m a little busy.”

Micah just kept eating his breakfast, I think because he was upset with me for not saying something to help Nathaniel feel better. Problem was I didn’t know what to say. So I got the phone.

“Anita, it’s Ronnie.”

“Ronnie, hi,” and I was thinking furiously. Oh, yeah, I wasn’t the only one having personal problems. I still couldn’t believe that she’d turned down Louie’s proposal. Out loud I said, “How ya doing?”

“Louie left a message on my phone, so I know you know.” She sounded defensive.

“Okay, you want to talk about it?” I didn’t take offense. It wasn’t me she was mad at.

She blew out a loud breath. “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.”

“You can come here, or I’ll meet you somewhere.” I was using that careful voice, like the one Micah used so much on me.

“I’ll bring bagels,” she said.

“You could have homemade biscuits when you get here, instead.” I said.

“Homemade biscuits? You didn’t make them, did you?”

“No, Nathaniel did.”

“Can he cook?”

“Actually, yes.”

I could almost feel her doubt wafting over the phone.

“Honest, he’s really good at the baking stuff.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, we’d starve if they waited for me to cook.”

She laughed then. “That is the God’s honest truth. Okay, I’ll be there soon, save some biscuits for me.”

“Sure thing.”

We hung up.

I stayed by the phone for a second or two, watching Nathaniel’s angry back at the garbage can where he was depositing the broken dish and dead butter. I’d never realized that a ponytail could bob angrily.

Micah looked at me, and the look was eloquent. It said, fix this, fix this, or I’ll be mad at you, too. There are a few downsides to having two men living with you. When they both get pissed at you at the same time is one of them.

Nathaniel stayed by the cabinet, hands on the edge of it, and his entire body radiated his anger. I’d never seen him this angry. It should have made me mad, but it didn’t. He could be angry if he wanted to be, I guess.

I tried to think of something useful to say. He’d gone from being happy as a domestic lark to being as pissed as I’d ever seen him. The only thing that had changed was the mark on Micah’s neck. He’d lived through Micah getting intercourse and orgasm, while he, Nathaniel, got almost nothing. So why was that one over-enthusiastic hickey the breaking point for him? I thought and thought until I could feel a headache beginning just between my eyes. Then I had a good thought—it was almost insightful. I don’t usually get too insightful without talking to smarter and wiser friends. But suddenly there it was, the truth, I think.

I walked over to him and touched his shoulder. He jerked away from me. He’d never done that before. It scared me. I didn’t want him that angry at me, ever. Micah was right, I had to fix this. But how?

“Nathaniel . . .” It was as if saying his name opened the floodgates.

“I can’t live like this.