Cat St. Clair is ready for her messy love triangle era now that she’s in an open relationship. But she didn’t foresee a forbidden love triangle with the only two people who are off-limits: her boyfriend’s best friend and his girlfriend. Being a twenty-something writer who lives for plot, she falls for them anyway, with deliciously disastrous consequences, in this electric literary debut for fans of Xochitl Gonzalez, Coco Mellors, Lily King, and Raven Leilani.
It’s the fall of 2024, and twenty-four-year-old Cat isn’t asking for too much: all she wants is three boyfriends, to write her little novels, and to survive another chaotic presidential election. She’s in an open relationship with her college sweetheart Jay, but nonmonogamy isn’t just a hot trend she’s trying. It’s her sliver of freedom in a world eager to wrestle it from her for being a Black woman going after what she wants with reckless abandon.
While political tensions roil the campus where Cat is slowly earning her creative writing degree, she finds herself drawn Jay’s best friend, Tristan, who’s smart, super hot, and…in a monogamous relationship. And then she meets Tristan’s girlfriend, Nia, a captivating art student with her own gravitational pull.
Friends and family urge her to just be happy with Jay, but Cat is determined to have it all—or blow up her life trying. As she falls for all the wrong people, racking up lies, betrayals, and terrible drafts of her novel, she tries to write her way to a happy ending. But in art, politics, and love, true liberation may take more than rewriting the old scripts. It may mean inventing something entirely new.
Release date:
June 2, 2026
Publisher:
Scribner
Print pages:
384
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Chapter 1 Chapter 1 Tristan and I had been getting along until I peed on his Air Maxes, three Lime-A-Ritas in, during his trip to Texas when Jay and I were freshmen at Rice. Jay had pulled over by a patch of woods on the way from an off-campus party, our bladders bursting. This was seven years ago, not long after Jay and I started dating. I didn’t remember any of it.
In my mind, Tristan was a shadowy figure—Jay’s best friend who, in stories of their California adolescence, was always courting trouble: dumb bar fights, near-death pool accidents, girls on the beach, girls in the desert, general aimless male debauchery cloaked in the cheap mythological gauze of The West. Meanwhile, Jay said things like, “I’m really proud of democracy today!” after voting.
That evening, Jay recounted the pissing incident as we turned down L Street, how Tristan had glowered the whole ride back, avoiding me until his flight. Tristan had moved from LA that summer to start his PhD program at Georgetown. We were on our way to meet him now for drinks while Jay was in DC that weekend.
It was early September, the leaves already changing to yellow after a scorching August. When Jay bent down to tie his shoes at the corner, I mounted him for a piggyback ride. We flew across Massachusetts Avenue, me bouncing like a backpack, squealing with laughter, while he gripped the backs of my thighs. I hadn’t seen him in months since he still lived in LA. I missed his clean, laundry scent, his bony back, at once strong and frail. He had a swimmer’s body, broad up top, narrow waist. I kissed the thick, ropy muscle of his shoulder. He tripped on the curb, yelping in surprise, but found his balance.
Climbing off Jay to enter the hotel, I couldn’t let the story go. Why was Tristan even standing close enough for me to piss on him? Like, back up.
The bar was dim like a dinner napkin had been dropped over it. Pendants leaked puddles of weak light onto the tables. Jay and I sat in velvet armchairs, studying the bizarre mural around the bar: a Black Alice in Wonderland with a sword above her head, preparing to julienne a scaly red snake-dragon. Pointing at the horned demon riding a walrus, Jay said, “Jamal drew me a picture just like that last week.”
“Is this the one who screams in the middle of morning meeting?” Jamal was one of Jay’s second-grade students.
“Yeah, but he’s sweet.”
A deep voice shouted, “Whaddup, Milkman!”
Who the hell was Milkman?
Jay popped up from his seat, laughing. I turned to find Tristan yanking Jay into a big, rocking embrace. Tristan dragged an empty chair to our table, a gold cross spilling from his neck, the chain slicing an ugly Patrick Star tattoo in half. His lashes were straight like the curl had been ironed out of them. I tried to reconcile him with the boy in the picture Jay once showed me, his thicket of black curls like angry toddler scribbles, tiny hands choking a monkey bar with purpose. He was definitely a person I’d never met before.
“Cat.” He nodded. “Hey.”
“Tristan,” I said. “Hey.”
Jay grinned. “Everything’s going as planned.”
We ordered drinks: Jay, a martini, me, a vodka sunrise that looked like egg yolk in a glass, Tristan, a shot of Jack. I hated dark liquor. It was what my father used to drink.
Tristan turned to me. “You’re different than I remember.”
So he remembered. “What do you mean?”
“You’re, like, more…” He did a dance that involved rolling his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak electric slide.”
“Forget it. I can’t explain it.”
Jay said, “He means laid-back.”
“Yes, thank you.”
I had no idea what language they were speaking. I told Tristan I didn’t remember meeting him just to see what he’d say. He lifted his glass to his mouth but didn’t drink, observing me over the rim. “That’s probably for the best.”
Then he elbowed Jay in the ribs. Laughing, Jay ducked under the table. I could tell he was happy we were all together. Reaching down, I stroked the close-shaved top of Jay’s head, soft and slippery with oil, while avoiding Tristan’s alarmingly large eyes. When Jay came back up, they ditched me for their own private world: shit-talking people from fifth grade who’d moved back to LA, some joke involving the Gettysburg Address and a clown suit.
“So, how’re you liking the city?” I asked Tristan. As a native Washingtonian, I was always curious to hear what transplants thought of us even though most of the time they got us all wrong.
Jay said, “He’s lived here before.”
Tristan added, “I went to Howard.”
I rattled off names he didn’t know. Midway through, he noticed the mural. “What the fuck?”
“It’s Alice in Wonderland!”
Tristan looked at me like I was wearing a clown suit. “What was that about again? A rabbit?”
“A dream.”
“That explains the elephant in the tutu.”
Jay pinched Tristan’s elbow. “How’s dating going here?”
Tristan shrugged. “It’s like dating in LA. How’s—” He deliberated his words. “Whatever you guys are doing.”
I laughed. “What’s that mean?”
“It means how are things with whatever you guys are doing.”
Smiling hard, I strangled my drink. “You must know what we’re doing. Since Jay’s your best friend.”
Jay touched my knee. I touched his hand. Jay cleared his throat. Tristan didn’t break eye contact with me.
“Sorry. How’s the open relationship?” he said finally.
Jay shrugged noncommittally. “It’s, you know, it’s—”
“Great!!!” I cried.
Tristan smirked, leaning onto his forearms. “So, Cat, how come—”
Jay shot him a look. They stared at each other. The server came around to ask if we wanted anything else. We all said no. Tristan turned to me again. “I hear you write. What do you write?”
“Fiction mostly.”
“She’s writing a novel.”
I gave Jay a look that said, Why the fuck would you say that out loud!??!?!?
Tristan lifted his arm onto the chair’s back. “Cool, I love novels.”
I broke out laughing. He cocked his head. Oh, he was serious.
“So, what’s this novel about?”
“It’s sort of about my parents, but fictional, then there’s this other thing, that’s about me but not.”
“You ever published anything?”
I said no at the same time Jay said yes.
Tristan typed something on his phone, grinning. I said, “Ew, what?”
He started reading a story I wrote five years ago for The Rice Review in an Australian accent. Jay said, “Oh, I remember that one.”
I lunged for Tristan’s phone while he calmly held it above his head. Seemingly feeling left out, Jay tickled Tristan, who spasmed, knocking over his drink. The server glared at us. We stopped.
Wiping up the spill, Tristan said, “You’re a talented writer.”
“Thanks.”
Jay excused himself to go to the bathroom. I made a face that said, Don’t leave me! He smiled and left. Tristan and I pretended to stare at things around the room.
Eventually, I said, “What were you gonna say?”
“What?”
“Before Jay shut you up.” I forced a smile. “It was about our relationship, wasn’t it?”
Tristan surprised me by leaning forward, so close that, even in the poor lighting, I could see the beauty mark on his cheek. “I don’t think you wanna hear what I have to say about your relationship, Catherine.”
My mouth quivered. Tristan casually drew back when Jay came around the corner, finishing the last of his shot. I heard “Psssssss” in my ear, Jay making pissing sounds. I swatted him away but, when he sat down, found his hand under the table. He gave it two squeezes. Offering me a slightly dazed smile, he moved a lock of hair from my face with his other hand. I felt calmer.
CNN was reporting that Elmo had endorsed Kamala Harris. Jay said he didn’t think a puppet’s support would move the needle. He wanted a career in politics, so he thought deeply about these things.
While Jay was talking, Tristan’s giant foot smooshed mine under the table. I shoved my foot onto his other one. He looked up, startled, moving his away. I didn’t understand why I was acting like this.
“We should probably go,” Jay said. “My flight is at like five in the morning from BWI.”
“Fuck,” Tristan said.
When the check came, Tristan pulled out his card. Jay said “No, no, I’ve got it.” I didn’t even pretend to try since I worked at a two-star sausage restaurant. Tristan paid in the end.
He offered to give us a ride. We followed him up the street to his beat-up Chevy. Jay had a headache and wanted to lie down in the back seat, so I awkwardly got in the front, where a bunch of hangers was on the floor. Someone short must’ve sat there last because my knees were squashed against the glove compartment. I pressed on the wrong lever and catapulted backward. Groping the side, I found the right lever and slowly lifted until Tristan and I were eye level. He said, “Are you finished?”
I said, “Are you giving illegal abortions?”
“What?”
“The bajillion hangers.”
It took me a while to realize he was laughing. His laugh was a series of staccato breaths, like a panting dog.
“It’s from my move,” he explained, even though he moved months ago. Reaching for the hangers, he accidentally brushed my leg, the coarse hairs on his forearm grazing my skin. He pretended like he didn’t see Jay when he tossed them in the back. They laughed like little boys, then Tristan became very focused on backing the car out of the parking space. He was a graceful driver, gripping the steering wheel with the same concentration he’d held those monkey bars.
When we pulled up to my house, the blue TV light blinked behind the living room curtains, my father’s shadow sitting comatose in front of it like something haunting itself.
Jay was snoring throatily. He had one of those faces that appeared much younger when it went slack with sleep. “So cute,” Tristan said before thwacking him awake. “Guess I’m taking you to BWI in like three hours?”
“Please?”
Tristan eyed Jay in the rearview mirror. “Fine.”
I said to Tristan, “I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind if you crashed on the couch.” This was a complete lie; my dad would be like, Who the fuck is this?
Tristan studied me. He had the kind of dark, penetrating eyes that made them impossible to read. “Thanks. But I think I’ll head home.”
Jay and I stepped outside. As Tristan’s car sped down the empty street, the sound summoned the feeling of his tiny hairs on my thigh. My hand trembled pulling my key from my purse.
Another thing my dead grandma used to say: The body always knows before we do.
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