Chapter 15: What’s the Problem?
The foam on Thomas’s beer had collapsed into a thin, sad film, and he’d been tracing the same watermark on the sticky wooden table for five minutes. “So, she has this… circle,” he finally said, the word feeling absurd in the quiet hum of Eddie’s Tavern.
Devyn listened, methodically demolishing an onion ring, his expression neutral as Thomas haltingly outlined the events with Izzy, Chloe, and Talia. “And there are more of them, Dev. A whole group. They… discuss things.” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘discuss me’.
Devyn took a long swallow of his pint. “Let me get this straight,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “An incredibly hot, confident woman is not only into you, but is actively, with the help of her very hot friends, introducing you to a world of mind-blowing sexual experiences.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “And the problem is… what, exactly?”
Thomas flinched. “It’s not that simple. It feels… curated. Like I’m a project.”
Devyn’s laugh was short and blunt. “Dude, it is a project, and you won the lottery.” He gestured with a fresh onion ring. “You’re getting access most guys would literally kill for. It sounds like you might even get to go to Phuket.”
“Bali,” Thomas said.
“Whatever. A tropical fucking paradise,” Devyn replied, crunching down on the onion ring with finality. He studied Thomas’s slumped posture, the way his fingers nervously picked at the label on his bottle.
“You’re worried about what they really want from you,” Devyn said, his tone shifting from jovial to serious. “And you’re hung up on the idea of Izzy being with other guys.” He let the observation hang in the stale bar air between them.
Thomas finally looked up, his hazel eyes wide with a mixture of confession and fear. “Yes,” he breathed out, the word barely audible over the jukebox’s low thrum. “Exactly.”
“Okay, let’s be real for a second,” Devyn said, leaning in closer. “You like her. Like, actually like her. It’s written all over your face.” He gestured with his beer. “And she’s clearly into you, man. She’s orchestrating this whole… thing for you.”
He paused, letting that sink in. “But what you’re describing, this whole circle… it’s unconventional, I’ll give you that.” He took another slow drink, his gaze steady on his friend. “But think about the math here. You’re potentially getting to be with multiple women.”
Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but Devyn cut him off. “How would it be fair if that was only a one-way street? If you got to have all these experiences, but she didn’t?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like the Izzy you’ve described. She doesn’t seem like the type to settle for a lopsided deal.”
Thomas stared into his beer, the logic of it landing with a heavy, undeniable thud. The fantasy was one thing, a thrilling secret in his head. The reality, with its inherent reciprocity, was a completely different landscape. He had no answer.
Devyn watched him, his expression softening from blunt assessment to something closer to pity. He swirled the dregs of his beer in the bottom of the glass. "Look, man," he said, his voice lower now. "It's completely normal to have a problem with your girlfriend fucking other people."
He let that hang, letting the crude phrasing do its work. "But nothing about this scenario is normal. You get that, right?" He leaned forward, his forearms on the sticky table. "You two never established you were exclusive. You walked into her world, a world with its own rules that were already in play."
Thomas finally looked up, the neon Budweiser sign painting his face in red and blue. "So what am I supposed to do?" he asked, the question sounding hollow, stripped bare.
"Maybe the whole arrangement won't work for you at all," Devyn said with a shrug that wasn't unkind. "That's a real possibility. But if that's the case, you should make that decision based on the way the group actually is, not the way you wish it was." He finished his beer with a final, decisive gulp. "You can't ask her to dismantle something for you that you just showed up to."
The truth of it was a cold, sharp stone in Thomas's gut. He’d been so caught up in the thrill of being chosen, of being seen, that he hadn't considered the architecture of the world he was trying to enter. It was built on a foundation of shared access and mutual exploration, not monogamous daydreams.
He nodded slowly, the movement feeling heavy. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I hear you."
"Good." Devyn stood up, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the scarred floor. "Now buy me another drink. You owe me for this therapy session." He clapped Thomas on the shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. "And for the record, I still think you're insane if you walk away from this."
Thomas gave a half-hearted shrug and raised his hand to signal for another round. A server emerged from the gloom near the bar, her approach smooth and unhurried. She was attractive, with a confident posture accentuated by a tight black tank top.
“Another pitcher of the lager, please,” Thomas said, his voice a bit rough. “Just put it on my tab.” She flashed a bright, professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You got it, handsome,” she said, her tone lightly teasing.
As she turned, her gaze deliberately swept over him before she moved away. Devyn waited until she was out of earshot, then leaned across the table, his eyebrows raised. “Did you see that?” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face.
Thomas took a slow sip of his warm beer, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “See what?” he mumbled into his glass. “Dude, she was totally checking you out,” Devyn insisted, tapping the table for emphasis.
He shook his head in amused disbelief. It was a casual, random compliment, but it landed with a strange weight. “It’s just her job,” Thomas deflected, but the denial felt hollow even to him.
Devyn just laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Yeah, okay, man.”
He leaned back, spreading his arms wide along the back of the booth. “So you’re telling me you’ve got Izzy’s entire syndicate of beautiful women ushering you into sexual nirvana,” he said, his voice low and incredulous. “And now random women in bars are hitting on you.”
He let the observation hang in the air between them, thick with implication. “What’s the common denominator here, Thomas?” The new pitcher arrived, the server placing it down with another quick, flirty smile directed solely at Thomas.
“How did you get so wise?” Thomas asked his friend as the server walked away.
Devyn laughed, a low rumble that echoed in the small booth. "Wise?" he said, shaking his head. "Nah, man, I'm just observant."
He gestured around the bar with his empty glass. "You see things when you're a cook." Devyn’s gaze turned distant, focused on some memory playing out in the oily kitchen air he carried with him. "I see all kinds of crazy shit working in a kitchen," he continued, his voice dropping a notch.
"Last week, a dishwasher proposed to a hostess using a ring he'd fashioned from a twisted piece of aluminum foil." He picked at the label on his bottle. "She said yes, by the way.
"People reveal their whole selves when they're hungry or stressed or just killing time," he explained, his eyes meeting Thomas's. "Your situation with Izzy? It's just another flavor of crazy."
Thomas absorbed this, the din of the bar fading into a muffled haze. "So it's not that weird to you?" he asked, needing the confirmation.
"Everything's weird," Devyn stated flatly. "The question is whether it's a good weird or a bad weird." He leaned forward, the table creaking under his weight. "And from where I'm sitting, you're in the VIP section of good weird."
Thomas took a long drink, the cold lager sharp on his tongue. "And if I can't handle what's back there?"
"Then you bow out gracefully," Devyn said with a shrug that wasn't unkind. "But you'll always wonder." The finality in his voice left no room for argument.
The finality in his voice left no room for argument. Thomas stared at the condensated pitcher, watching the bubbles cling to the glass and disappear. "Okay," he said, the word exhaled more than spoken. He tugged his phone from his jeans pocket, the screen blinding in the tavern's gloom.
His thumb hovered over Izzy’s name. He typed a single sentence, his movements clumsy. Still at Eddie’s with Devyn. Thinking about what you said.
He showed the screen to Devyn, who gave a firm, approving nod. "See? Not so hard." The reply was almost immediate, three quick vibrations in his palm. Good. Me too. Followed by a single winking emoji.
The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. They fell into a easier conversation then, the kind they’d had a hundred times before. Devyn complained about a new, overly enthusiastic sous-chef who kept rearranging his station. Thomas mentioned the mind-numbing data entry project crowding his laptop.
It was familiar ground, a temporary return to the world before Izzy. They drained the pitcher and slid out of the sticky booth. The night air hit them, cool and sharp after the tavern’s beery warmth.
As they reached the corner where they’d part ways, Devyn clapped a hand on Thomas’s back. "Hey," he said, his tone shifting into a deliberate casualness. "Seriously, though. If this whole... circle... ever needs an extra hand on a yacht deck?"
He grinned, a flash of white in the dark. "Don't forget your old friend who gives decent advice."
Thomas laughed, a real, unforced sound for the first time all night. "You'll be the first person I call," he promised.
Devyn grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned toward the glowing sign of the gastropub down the block. "Try not to overthink it into oblivion, man." Thomas watched his friend’s retreating back for a moment before turning toward his own apartment, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the tavern's stale warmth.
The city sounds enveloped him—a distant siren, the rhythmic thump of bass from a passing car, the crunch of his own footsteps on the gritty pavement. His mind replayed Devyn’s words about the circle’s inherent fairness, the logic of it settling like a heavy, unfamiliar coat. He felt the weight of his phone in his hand, a slick rectangle of potential.
He stopped under a streetlamp, its orange glow casting long, distorted shadows. He unlocked the screen, his thumb hovering over Izzy’s name. The message he typed was simple, direct, a deliberate choice to stop fighting the current. I’m in. I want in.
He hit send before he could dissect the words. The three dots appeared almost instantly, pulsing in the digital silence. His breath hitched. Her reply was a torrent of energy. YES. Oh my god, Thomas. 😊
Another message followed before he could even process the first. This is perfect timing. There’s something big coming up.
The vagueness of it sent a jolt through him, equal parts thrill and vertigo. Something big. The words echoed the scale of everything she’d already introduced—the curated encounters, the shared villa in Bali, the infinity pool bleeding into the jungle.
He stared at the screen, the city humming around him. How big? he typed back, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The response was swift, a masterclass in tantalizing restraint. You’ll see. Just trust me.
He stood there for a long moment, the phone glowing in his palm, the path home suddenly feeling like a runway into the unknown.