He exhales, his hand dropping back to his side. He doesn’t say anything.
Starting to get worried, she adds, “He cares about you a great deal. He values your friendship so much, Cal.” Even though it stings her pride considerably, even though it burns, she adds, “This is my fault, all right? Be angry with me if you like, but don’t blame him. I was the one who started this. This isn’t on either of you. It’s only me.”
“No, it’s really not,” he says, biting the words off as soon as they’ve left his mouth.
She just said that Zac isn’t responsible for any of this. Why won’t he listen? “It is. He told me you wouldn’t be interested.” She would take his hand, except that she’s worried that he’ll pull back, and that would only make things worse. “I was the one who brought it up in the first place. I shouldn’t have—”
“Forget it. You’re right. I don’t have to understand. Do whatever you want. It’s fine.”
“Oh, sure, you seem fine, everything’s fine.” She kind of wants to kick him for making this so confusing. All he had to do was say no. He’s entitled to say no. He’s entitled to be upset, even. He’s not entitled to make her feel like there’s something wrong with the way she lives, with the way she and Zac conduct their marriage. The way he says it: I don’t have to understand, and the implied message underneath: what you’re doing is wrong.
She’s abruptly furious. And because she knows how vengeful her temper can be, because Zac would never forgive her for hurting Cal, she needs to finish this conversation and get some distance from him. She says quietly, “I apologize for making you uncomfortable. We won’t push. We’ll never mention it again, all right?”
She can feel harsher words straining to escape. He’s watching her now, watching her like she’s a wild animal, and that pisses her off too. She lowers herself carefully from the wall. “Good night,” she says, and she can’t help that her tone says that she’d rather he be eaten by a pack of rabid dogs than have a good night.
“Anya,” he says, and catches her wrist as she goes by.
“Don’t,” she snarls, and wrenches at her arm. She hates it when men do that, when they use their bodies—inevitably bigger, inevitably stronger—to keep her from putting needed space between her and them. It feels threatening. To his credit, he instantly lets go and lifts both hands peaceably, taking a step back and giving her all the space she could want, every inch of him delivering an unspoken message—I won’t hurt you. His expression is twisted, tense and unhappy. He doesn’t seem able to find any words.
She takes a deep breath, tries to control herself. It’s been a long time since she’s gotten this angry with anyone but Zac. Zac knows better than to touch her when she’s angry. He stopped doing that after their first real fight, the one that ended with the two of them fucking their brains out in a hotel room in Paris, but not before they almost lost everything because they were too stupid to use their words.
They started out yelling about something. She can’t even remember what. Something stupid, she’s sure of that, a cover for the anxiety they both felt, because her plane ticket back to the States was sitting on the dresser and the date was looming. She hadn’t wanted to leave and she already knew he didn’t want her to either, but she had too much pride to ask permission to follow him around on tour, and he was too afraid of the possible rejection to ask. So they fought about something else until she realized that they weren’t getting anywhere and decided to storm out, planning to add a melodramatic flounce to emphasize her point.
She didn’t know then that Zac’s mother had a history of punishing him for setting boundaries by disappearing for long stretches, or that seeing Anya stalk away from him brought up a million memories of manipulative abandonment. She couldn’t anticipate that what felt like a gratifying display of drama and frustration to her felt like life or death to him. She couldn’t know that it was inevitable that he would follow, that he would grab her wrist as part of an attempt to convince her to stay.
She only knew that someone bigger than her, stronger than her, was suddenly keeping her where she didn’t want to be, and she whirled on him without thinking, leading with her fist, wrenching herself free. Funny that she can’t remember what they were fighting about but she remembers the look on Zac’s face clear as crystal: his wide, stunned eyes, hurt and shock blooming in them, the bleeding line on his jaw from where her ring cut him, the way he dropped her wrist as if it were on fire. Unfortunately, that look on his face didn’t register until after her other fist connected too, and by then he’d woken up enough to try to defend himself, grabbing her wrists again. That only re-lit her fuse, and they ended up against the wall, Anya shrieking her fury and fear, Zac terrified and trying not to let either of them get hurt further, unsure how to defuse it. It took forever for his pleas to sink into her ears: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t leave me, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, please don’t leave.”
His panic stole her fear. His devotion stole her fury. She went from wrathful to needy in a matter of seconds, the sudden dispersal of emotion leaving her jittery and shaken, wanting nothing more than to be held, and she couldn’t blame him for being nonplussed when she threw herself into his arms. She could only be grateful that he clutched her close. Only after long minutes of whispered apologies from both of them had their mouths met.
It wasn’t great sex, exactly—neither of them had an easy time coming, too stressed out and fragile—but it was generous sex. Each of them trying so hard to please the other, trying to show with their bodies what they hadn’t been brave enough to put into words.
They talked it out in bed after, saying all the things they should’ve said before, offering up explanations and promises like they were roses and chocolates. They stayed up well past dawn, learning needs and secrets, each of them admitting that because they were hot-tempered and impulsive, fights were inevitable and so they’d better figure out how to do it right. They built a plan for a new life while eating stale chocolate-dipped croissants and drinking flat champagne naked, leaving crumbs in the tangled sheets before they made love again. Two days later, they were drinking champagne in a different hotel room, wedding rings on their hands.
She supposes that by some definitions, there is something wrong with them.
But she can’t bring herself to care much, because they’re happy. It might not be the happiness that other people have, or that other people think is safe or right or normal, but she won’t do that, won’t be that, an automaton who values the preferences of others over what feels right for her. She and Zac have their own rules, rules that make them feel happy and safe. That day in Paris they made their first of many—he doesn’t try to touch her when she’s angry, and she says if she feels physically threatened rather than striking at him. It’s a rule that’s worked for them, and they’re both comfortable with it, and fuck anyone who doesn’t like it.