Page 49 of Dance of Thorns

“Yeah, apersonalfucking one,” Carmine mutters, “that Roman doesn’t have to?—”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Roman chuckles, shaking his head. “The answer is no. There was never a guy before Val.”

“Lots of girls, though.”

Roman shrugs at Laz’s equally invasive follow-up. “Well, yeah. I was doing a whole lot of running from who I am, and pretending I was someone else.”

Laz’s brows knit. “So…I’m curious…why do you say you’re gay, then, and not bi? Cause, you know, you’ve fucked both now…”

I roll my eyes. “Laz, I think you’ve officially wandered off the trail with this one. Why does it matter?”

He shrugs, frowning as he glances down. “I dunno. I’ve been…” He clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about, you know, maybe being a switch hitter.”

Roman roars with laughter. Nero chokes on his drink.

“I’m sorry,what?” Carmine asks.

Laz scowls at us. “Thanks for being so accepting, motherfuckers.”

Roman shakes his head and turns to him. “Sorry, you just caught me off-guard.” His brow furrows and his expression turns serious. “You really think you might be bi, Laz?”

Laz shrugs. “I mean, girls are great, don’t get me wrong. Ilovepussy?—”

“Yes, I thinkaliensare aware of that,” Carmine sighs.

“Well, it got me thinking,” Laz continues. “There’s a whole half of the population I’m potentially missing out on, you know?”

The rest of us groan as Roman rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying!” Laz keeps going. “There are some nights when, you know, a hole’s a hole, right? And her I amlimitingmyself to only one specifickindof hole.”

“Such a noble exploration of your self-identity,” I sigh.

“Oh, whatever. Fuck you guys,” Laz mutters, puffing on his cigar. “Anyway, let’s get back to the subject at hand. Dove.” He jabs his cigar across the table at me. “And you, another of my fellow soldiers, down for the count.” He makes a face. “God fucking dammit, that’s all of you now!”

“Guess you’ll need to settle down if you want to keep chilling with us,” I smirk.

“I think I’d rather find new friends.”

Nero takes a sip of his drink and glances at me. “All kidding aside, getting into bed with Cesare is…a choice.”

“It’s good for the family,” I shrug. “It gets us access to the waterfront.”

“It gets Cesare access toyou, too,” Nero says pointedly. “I mean it. Don’t let your guard down with that fucker. His whole perpetually half-drunk, jovial asshole bit is a mask, believe me.”

“Appreciate the warning,” I nod. “But I know what I’m doing. I’ll be careful.”

After that, we all lapse into regular friend conversation—work, the lamentable state of the Mets, Laz being a complete whore, how my friends are doing in their relationships.

That last one always throws me. On the one hand, I’m happy for them, of course. If you’d asked me even a few years ago if our group of fairly fucked up, borderline and in some cases legit psychotic friends wouldeverbe in deep, meaningful relationships with people they call soulmates, I’d have laughed.

But here we are. Carmine with Lyra. Nico and Naomi. Nero utterly besotted with Milena. Roman head over heels with Val.

And now me andher.

But my situation isn’t like theirs. Not just because of the obvious.

I’m not sure I’m capable of what they all have. I doubted it after what happened when I was nine. But then I met Lark, and my broken, jagged perspective changed.