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“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. You give me an inch, and then you take it away. Orgasm today, but only because of some metaphysical shit. You’ll find an excuse not to do it again. You always do. He gets intercourse and orgasm, and I get nothing. But you marked me, me. Not him, me!” He was still staring at the cabinet, while he ranted louder and louder. “It was all I had. All I had!” He had to pause to take a breath, and I rushed into that small silence.

“I’m sorry.” I said it fast before he could catch his breath.

“I don’t know why I keep hoping . . .” He hesitated, stopped, then turned to me slowly. “What did you say?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

His face softened for a second, then hardened, and he narrowed his eyes at me. He looked positively suspicious. “What exactly are you sorry about?”

“I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“Oh.” And he was off again, ranting.

I touched his arm, and he didn’t jerk away this time, but he kept listing all the things I wouldn’t do for him, or with him. It might have been embarrassing if I hadn