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.