“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.