Anya surveys Cal’s face critically. “I was hoping for a more romantic story.”
Cal can’t quite make himself smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
She waves her hands as if she’s tired of him. “I’ll get over it.”
“Focus, people,” Zac snaps. “What the hell happened?”
“I broke a bottle of tequila,” Cal admits. “The glass ricocheted off the counter, I guess.”
Anya nods like it’s no big deal—hey, people drop things—but Zac’s eyes narrow to slits. He stares at Cal with an intensity that gives him the sensation of ants crawling on him. Zac doesn’t say anything, though, and then he still doesn’t say anything, and then his silence gets so loud that it’s deafening.
Anya gives up on Cal’s cheek with a dissatisfied scowl and throws the bloody paper towels away. “Zac could stay here with PJ while I take you to get stitches.”
“We’ll call a sitter,” Zac says. “I’m going too.”
“I’m fine.” The idea of trying to sit through a busy ER for a few hours to get stitches for a cut that he brought upon himself in the stupidest of ways has Cal’s blood pressure rising. He can’t stop thinking about that tequila splashed all over his cabinets. “Really. I don’t need stitches.” He pokes at the cut again (albeit much more lightly than Anya had) and is gratified when it doesn’t reopen this time. “See?”
Anya glares at him. “I don’t like it. You could end up with a scar.”
“Chicks dig scars.” Cal tries to sound unconcerned. He jiggles PJ a bit, using the baby as an excuse to avoid eye contact.
She snorts, but subsides on the subject of the ER. She leaves for a second, abandoning him to Zac’s judgmental silence, only to return with a colorful box of bandages. “Here.” She sticks a big square one to his face, a wicked, amused twist to her lips. “You get Cookie Monster.”
He feels stupid with the bandage on, but it’s a fair punishment for his stubbornness. He’ll take what he can get.
“Thanks.” He hesitates, unsure if he’s allowed to kiss her. She lifts an impatient eyebrow and he hurries to press his lips awkwardly to her temple. “Right, yeah, thanks.”
She smirks at him, then goes to the sink to wash her hands, dodging around her husband as he suddenly rounds on the plastic bags. He unpacks the ice cream with big, furious gestures, wedging cartons into the freezer and hitting them with the side of his fist when they won’t conform to the available space.
“Anyway—” Cal starts, making his tone light and casual.
Zac talks right over him. “Hey, Animal, can you take PJ for a minute? I want to talk to Cal outside.”
Cal shakes his head at Anya, a desperate attempt at self-protection, but she’s not an idiot, and after a glance at her husband—Zac is shoving the freezer door closed despite the fact that that much ice cream should be physically impossible to fit into the available space—she takes her son back.
“I’m not living in the dark forever.” She drifts into the living room, muttering under her breath about how dumb men can be and that she hopes PJ will be smarter when he grows up.
Zac strides toward the sliding glass door and Cal’s feet follow without his permission. They step out onto the back porch. A pair of Adirondack chairs overlook the yard, the pond, and the barbecue pit, but neither of them sit.
Instead, Cal goes to the edge of the porch and leans against the baluster. The columns come up to the hip, fat and spindled, the handrail sturdy enough to lean against, but Cal doesn’t. He feels kind of sick. The day is warm and bright, not quite beach weather. It’s September now, not that it makes much of a difference to the weather here in LA. Back home the change would already be obvious—trees beginning to yellow, the light turning crisp, the air taking on the distinct earthy smell he’ll always associate with autumn. He has a pang of homesickness, instantly followed by a stronger pang of relief that he’s not there. Unpleasant as this conversation is likely to be, he’d still rather stay here with Zac than go anywhere else.
“About last night,” Cal starts.
“So you broke a bottle of tequila,” Zac interrupts, and Cal supposes the cat has been out of the bag this whole time after all.
“Yeah.” Cal grins weakly. “Could use some help cleaning that up later. Please. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Zac looks at him, then scoffs. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever. I can’t believe you.”
Cal sucks in a breath. “If it’s asking too much—”
“Too much? Fuck, man, how about asking me for anything?”
Cal doesn’t understand. It must be on his face, because Zac shakes his head and paces away. He folds his fingers together and braces them on the top of his head like a runner with a stitch in his side. The minute stretches, silent and thick, and then Zac turns and points at him. “You have a problem.”
“I know. You think I’d be breaking bottles if I—”
“I don’t mean a drinking problem. I mean a you problem, a Cal problem. You can’t fucking—Jesus, you’re such a pain in my—”
“I do have a drinking problem. I’m an alcoholic, Zac.”
Zac’s expression twists. Cal’s already flinching internally when Zac says, “You really do think I’m a moron, don’t you? ‘I’m an alcoholic,’ he says. No shit you’re an alcoholic. You think I didn’t notice when you quit drinking? Why do you think I moved in with you for those three weeks and watched the whole Friday the 13th series with you so many times? I was keeping an eye on you while you detoxed.”
“Is that what that was? I thought you were just... I don’t know. On a horror movie kick.”
“Yeah I can’t get enough of the masterpiece that is Jason Takes Manhattan. I watched it six times in three weeks because it’s a hallmark of great cinema. Why have champagne while the ball drops when you can watch a guy in a hockey mask kill idiots on a boat?”
“Well, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say? You never mentioned—”
“Because talking about serious shit is something you find relaxing even when you’re not sick as a dog? What kind of asshole do you think I am? I’m not going to read you the riot act while you’re puking on my shoes. Fuck.”
Zac has a point there. “Sorry.”
“And then you were doing mostly okay, and I don’t care if we don’t have booze on the bus or in the green rooms on tour, so what was there to talk about? Your head almost exploded when you had to do that apology thing for AA, so it seemed better to leave it alone. It never occurred to me that your stupid ass would think it meant that I hadn’t noticed.”