by Sidney Bell
He doesn’t blame them for that, exactly. They’re impulsive by nature, both of them. They’re the kind of people who get married on a beach after they’ve been dating for three months, who don’t think ahead to all the things that can go wrong. They’re the kind of people who can say it’ll work itself out and still feel safe. They don’t bother to imagine what an ending might look like before it arrives.
He does. He feels really cold. He can’t slow his breathing down. He might be on the verge of a panic attack.
Anya appears in the doorway, Zac behind her.
She studies him for a long second.
“Tell him all the ways he’s stupid,” Zac demands, pointing at Cal, but Anya holds up a hand, her expression impossible to read. Cal glances at her unhappy mouth and gives up. Whatever they want. He’ll give them whatever they want. He can’t be this angry. He can’t be this scared all the time. He loves them. He loves them both so much, and he can’t fit all of this inside of him at the same time. He’ll explode.
It’s got to be on his face. He can’t imagine trying to hide it.
“Oh, baby,” she whispers finally, and comes to stand in front of him. She wraps her arms around him, pulls his face to her belly, and it is humiliating, but he’s actually fighting tears again.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out against her stomach. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. I want you both, I do, but it’s driving me nuts knowing I can’t have this.”
Zac starts to say something, but Anya says sharply, “Zac, shut up.” She bends down, nuzzles Cal’s temple. “Why can’t you have it?”
“God,” he whispers.
“Hey, baby, it’s me. It’s us. It was okay when we talked about your drinking, remember? You could tell me about your music. You can tell me this. Why can’t you have it?”
“You said I couldn’t. On Zac’s birthday, remember? You said at the end of the day, it was always you and Zac, that you and him and PJ were a family and the other men—”
“You’re not like the other men. You’re not, Cal.”
“But I’m not this either, am I?” He closes his eyes, shuddering. “I’m never going to go to parent/teacher night. I’m never going to be the one who makes decisions at the hospital if someone gets hurt. What do I say when someone asks me if I’m ever going to settle down? I’m never going to get to introduce you to people as my girlfriend and boyfriend.” Jesus, he didn’t even realize how much he wants that until it came out. “What I am to you isn’t the same as what you are to each other. I’m never gonna be a husband. What the hell do we tell PJ? I don’t want to lie to him, but I’m not going to put him in a position where he feels embarrassed or has to lie to his friends. Which means that at best, I’m Uncle Cal. I love you, both of you, but I’m only ever going to be on the outside while I’m here, and maybe we find a way to stay in balance for right now, but I’m not an asshole for thinking that that’s unsustainable. Unsustainable and really fucking shitty.”
His voice breaks on that last sentence, which he takes as a sign that it’s time to stop.
For a long minute, the words hang in the air like noxious gas.
“Jesus,” Zac says eventually, sounding stunned. “Okay. Okay... I didn’t—I didn’t think about that. Not that way. I just thought—you know. That you were ours. That you knew it.”
Anya sounds hoarse when she says, “I could tell you were unhappy, but I thought it was mostly the drinking and the album. It didn’t occur to me that you’d move in if you were having second thoughts about what this was.”
“I didn’t move in,” Cal says, confused, sitting back.
Zac scoffs. “The hell you didn’t. You’ve been living here for months, man. Come on.”
Anya’s giving him an equally incredulous look.
“No, hang on,” Cal says. “Zac said I should stay until I could be sober on my own. He never said that I should move in. That’s not the same thing. It’s not.”
Silence. Cal lifts his head to gauge their responses and Anya’s looking at Zac with one expectant eyebrow raised. Zac glares at the carpet until he suddenly snaps, “Yeah, all right. That one’s on me. I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. But you do live here.”
Cal opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Zac makes a sound like an angry hyena.
“Look around, dumbass.” Zac throws an arm wide, gesturing at the whole room. Cal does look, and sees his running shoes by the closet and his shirts hung up on the rod, and his jeans in the pile of dirty clothes by the overflowing hamper. He can see the bathroom counter through the open door and his grooming kit is right next to Zac’s. His shampoo and body wash are in the shower. On the bedside table, his phone is plugged in next to the book he’s reading and the ibuprofen he sometimes takes before he runs if his knees are feeling achy. He’s got his favorite kind of jelly downstairs in the fridge and the puffed rice cereal he likes in the pantry and his bass and his string kit are in Zac’s studio and holy shit, he lives here.
“Okay,” he says weakly. “That one’s on me.”
Anya laughs. “You live here because we’re in a relationship, Cal. The three of us. And we’re not letting you go. You’re staying.”
“Until when?” he asks.
Zac curses, but Anya inhales abruptly, her face going sharp with dawning understanding. She looks at her husband. “We’re stupid.”
“You’re not,” Cal says automatically.
“No, we are.” She points at Cal, but speaks to Zac. “He’s traditional. He’s old-fashioned. He’s Nebraskan.”
Zac’s eyes widen. “Oh shit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Nebraska,” Cal says, trying not to make a sour face because he isn’t five. “Nebraska is more normal than California. You’re the weird ones.”
“Exactly,” Anya says, and Zac huffs agreement.
“Exactly what?”
“You’re a soccer mom on the inside. You want to get married and have a million kids and cut up orange slices for them to have as snacks at soccer practice and buy a minivan and get old together and sit on a...a...a...” Anya snaps her fingers, trying to think of the words. “A porch swing.”
Cal wouldn’t have put it that way, but...yeah. He does. He really, really does.
“No wonder he’s freaking out,” Zac says, his tone all oh, I get it. “He thinks we’re not buying the cow because we’re getting the milk for free. He totally thinks he’s that chick whose boyfriend won’t propose.”
“Jesus,” Cal mutters.
“I guess we can toss our game plan from last night out.” Anya sounds amused. They both sound kind of amused. Cal feels like it’s a little rude, actually.
“What were you talking about last night?” Cal’s unsurprised that Anya was lying this morning about looking tired because she was up with PJ. They were talking about him while he slept on the couch. Making game plans, apparently. Also rude.
“About you being in a shitty place and how to help.” Zac’s voice manages to be both affectionate and snide at the same time. “I didn’t realize that the best thing we could do was give you a white dress and a ring.”
“Really?” Cal asks, because how Zac can make asinine jokes about this is beyond him. He looks to Anya for help.
She doesn’t seem troubled by Zac’s comments. In fact, affectionately, she tells Cal, “You dummy. Of course we’ll marry you.”
“That’s not funny,” he snaps.
“Who’s laughing?” she snaps back.
“You’re already married.” Cal tries not to sound patronizing.
“So?”
“So you can’t be married to anyone else.”
“Says who?”
“Says—the law. The world. The people in it.” Cal frowns. “Did they legalize polygamy when I wasn’t paying attention? I mean, we can’t—this—” He waves between them. “This isn’t
really real. Like this. The guys at city hall are never going to give us a certificate.”
Anya raises a dire eyebrow, her expression taking on a cast he’s never seen before, and he kind of wants to wince.
“Oh, you’ve done it now,” Zac mutters.
“Calvin Keller,” Anya says, somehow both severe and sweet. It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever heard. “Are you suggesting that I need permission from other people to decide what commitments I make with my heart and my soul and my body? That their opinions should bear more weight in my life than my own? That one person should be able to tell another how to live? That the PTA or the legislators or our neighbors have the right to tell me for one second what the validity of my choices are? I don’t give a shit what those assholes say or what laws they’ve created. My life and my choices are mine and mine alone and fuck them if they don’t like it. I’d love to see them try to tell me that this isn’t real if I say it is.”
Cal shrinks back as she looms over him. She’s not yelling, but then, she doesn’t need to. Her certainty is steel, her tone titanium. She’s not asking. She’s not debating. She’s not compromising. She’s magnificent like this, magnificent and gorgeous and he’s afraid she’s going to murder him. He blurts out, “No, no, I didn’t mean that, there’s no—nope, no one should ever decide for you, I’m sorry.”
She eases back, her gaze losing some of its potent sharpness and Cal’s pretty sure that’s the closest he’s ever come to dying. It’s kind of like being in the presence of a giant man-eating dragon. Magical and awe-inducing and powerful, but also utterly diminishing. He’s tempted to check and make sure his balls are still attached.
“That’s actually kind of hot when it’s not directed at me,” Zac says thoughtfully.
“We’re married if we say we’re married,” Anya tells him, her voice still hard.
“Yes, I see that now. We’re married.” Then Cal stops, really hearing himself. “Wait. Are we saying we’re married?”
Anya glances at Zac, who nods, smiling slightly. She says, “Yes.” Then, a moment later: “No. Shit. We’re doing this right. I’m saying we’re engaged. No! Wait! I’m saying we’re going to propose.”
“We should take him out to dinner,” Zac agrees. “I’m not letting him lord our lack of romance over us for the next thirty years or whatever.”
“And we have to get a ring first,” Anya says.
Cal’s head is spinning. “It’s not—this is—are we actually talking about this?”
“And flowers.” Zac’s ticking things off on his fingers. “And music.”
“Not Nitzer Ebb,” Anya says flatly. “‘I Give to You’ isn’t the mood we’re going for. And while we’re at it, stop singing it to me during anniversary parties.”
“Jerk,” Zac mutters. “Fine. Let him walk down the aisle to ‘You’re the Inspiration,’ you heathen. See if I care.”
“You have no class,” Anya tells him. “We’re getting a string quartet.”
Zac grumbles under his breath, and Cal has to laugh then, just out of sheer bewilderment. He lets his head fall against her hip as he laughs, his eyes falling closed. Every muscle in his body is starting to realize the fight is over. That they’re doing...something. He has no idea what that is, what it’ll end up looking like, but he’s pretty sure it’s going to last a hell of a long time. The rest of his life, even, and that’s all he really needs.
He sits there, soaking in the knowledge: he’s staying. It’s permanent. It’s never going to end. This isn’t the end. He sighs against Anya’s belly and her hand falls into his hair, strokes gently.
“And as for afterward,” Anya says.
Zac’s already nodding. “Yeah. We’ll have to figure out which house we want. His might be better. He’s got more space.”
“Here we go. All the ways our house sucks. I’m telling you, it’s the flow.”
“I’m telling you all the ways I want to move in with my fiancé,” Zac says. “I’m being romantic.”
“You just don’t want to renovate the upstairs!”
“No, I don’t, it’s stupid,” Zac tells her. “His house is great. You’ve never even seen it. Don’t say no until you’ve seen it. Besides, his is bigger. We’re gonna need that extra space eventually.”
Cal’s on Anya’s side about not moving. Cal’s house is cold and full of echoes, even if it is bigger. He likes this stupid, unrenovated board-and-batten house with the bad upstairs flow, although if he’s honest, that’s less about the floor plan and more because it’s where he fell in love, where he found a home. But then it occurs to him that as long as Anya and Zac and PJ come with him to his big house, the echoes won’t be a problem anymore.
He can’t believe he hasn’t realized he lives here.
He feels so much better. Lighter. Like dandelion fluff in the air. Which is a fanciful analogy, maybe, but that’s how it feels—like being loose in the air on a sunny day.
Anya’s saying, “All right, fine, good point, we’ll need more bedrooms. At least this way I won’t have to give up having a studio. But we’re hiring movers.”
“Not for my guitars, though,” Zac says. “If they break anything I will end up in prison for murder.”
“We’ll need to put Cal’s name on the day care pick up list. We’ll draw a second line under spouse. They can start something about it if they want to.” Anya sounds almost hopeful that they will.
Zac adds, “And we’ll want him to be able to take PJ to the doctor and make decisions, in case we can’t get there. We’ll have to figure out how to do that. Hire a smart lawyer, get them to make up some bullshit about how Cal can decide what kind of medicine to use or whatever.”
“That bullshit already exists,” Cal says. “It’s called a medical power of attorney.”
Zac and Anya are quiet a second, and then Zac says, “See, this is why we need him.”
Cal laughs again.
“We’ll have to figure out who to tell.” Anya tips her head to one side, considering. “My family won’t mind. My friends either. Hell, after they meet him, they’ll probably think this is one of the less crazy things I’ve done.”
Their manager, too, maybe. Cal imagines telling Larry that Anya’s his wife, or that Zac’s his husband, and he gets a tiny thrill all through his body. He tries not to sound ridiculous when he says, “That could work.” Then he closes his eyes, resting his head against her stomach once more. He lets their words wash over him as his pulse slows. He’s barely listening, but every word warms him, because he knows what it means. They’re his. He’s theirs. It’s more than serious. It’s for life.
“Hey, we can let him handle the grocery shopping from now on,” Zac is saying. “I hate doing that, and I know you do too.”
“God, we’re going to have to make a chore wheel, aren’t we?” Anya wrinkles her nose. “How fucking domestic of us.”
“The kid part is easy,” Zac says.
“Yeah.” Anya rubs the back of Cal’s neck sort of absently. It feels so good he kind of wants to never move. “And as for what PJ should call you both, I think we should stick with dad for Zac because he’s already starting to head that direction. But papa could work too, maybe? What do you think about that, Cal?”
“Papa works,” Cal manages. His brain is stunned, blank. He’s a papa. Or he will be, once they’re married.
Holy shit, he’s getting married. And then a sour thought slides through his brain. He doesn’t want to bring it up and risk ruining the mood, but it’ll fester like everything else if they’re not careful.
“Wait. What about when you two want to play again?” Cal swallows hard. “I—I can’t. I can’t—it feels like cheating to me, I can’t help it, I can’t share. The only reason it works with the two of you is that you already belonged to each other before I got here. I’m the interloper there, and it doesn’t—that’s fine. But when yo
u—”
“Sweetie, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t have the energy for another man’s drama once I’m done with the two of you,” Anya says.
“I’m not drama,” Zac says snidely. “He’s drama.”
“Yes, you’re very even-keeled, what with the way you hauled him upstairs so that I’d yell at him with you.” Anya rolls her eyes. “But the point, Cal, is that we’re all right with it. I value your happiness more than I value being able to get dirty with strangers. I still get to see that look on Zac’s face as he watches me with another man, and that’s like, 75% of it for me anyway.”
“90%, for me,” Zac adds. “It’s all about the feeling I get when I’m seeing someone else get her off. You’re good at that.”
“I hate the idea that I’m taking something from you that you might need,” Cal admits.
“You’re not,” Anya interrupts.
“...or that you’ll get bored,” Cal finishes, wincing.
Zac’s tone turns scornful. “New people aren’t the only way to keep from being bored, dumbass. Which you’d know if you’d ever slept with anyone who wasn’t a goody-goody.”
“Don’t be mean to my exes.” Cal gives him a dirty look.
“Cal, you let me ride you in a club.” Anya pats him on the cheek. “I’m not worried that we’ll get bored. And on the off chance that we do, there are other games we can play. There are some things that we like every bit as much as picking up strangers, and I think you’ll be far more open to trying those.”
“Like what?” Cal asks, intrigued.
She ticks things off on her fingers. “Like role playing, bondage, outdoor sex, pegging. That’s only the beginning.”
Zac makes a choked noise even as Cal asks, “Pegging?”
“Zac likes to be fucked,” Anya says, matter-of-fact. “By me, anyway. I’ll show you my harness. It has this little vibrator that goes over my clit. It’s wonderful. I named it Darcy.”
Cal’s nervous system shorts out briefly while he pictures it. He’s never seen a woman with a strap-on before, and he has no idea what it looks like, but he can easily imagine Anya leaning over Zac, putting her fingers inside him, maybe watching him with that sharp face she gets sometimes when she feels like she’s got one over on someone. She would be tough on him, Cal thinks, and Zac would probably run his mouth, daring her to go harder, the two of them fighting for dominance, but—
