by Sidney Bell
She opens a bottle of wine and makes a pitcher of ice water with lemon. She hesitates, wondering if she should offer something else to drink. She’s not sure what Cal will prefer. He’s come over for dinner dozens of times, and he’s expressed so few opinions that she’s still not sure of his preferences. She only knew about his dislike for green peppers because Zac mentioned it.
That might be the most Cal thing about Cal—that she’s been the wife of the most important person in his life for almost three years now, and no matter the overtures she makes (and there have been more than a few over that span of time) they remain merely acquaintances.
It occurs to her that maybe he simply doesn’t like her.
It’s possible. She’s strong-willed and direct. She’s gotten a lot of flak about that over the years, starting in her modeling days, and continuing into the present; there’s nothing that society hates worse than a woman who dismisses the importance of others’ approval. She curses, she drinks and she smokes pot (not lately, of course, because she was carrying and then breastfeeding PJ, although if there’s ever been a daily activity that called for chemical relaxation on a regular basis, it’s motherhood). She speaks her mind and argues, she gets angry when she wants to, she’s fucked a lot of men, and on a couple of occasions, she didn’t even know their names. She’s fine with these things, but more than a few people have turned their noses up at her over the years.
Never mind that she doesn’t do a damn thing that her husband doesn’t do, and there have been whole magazine spreads about how great he is, praising his raw, masculine strength and his creative “passions.” She rolls her eyes at the thought. She doesn’t expect people to let her get away with bad behavior, but there’s a difference between bad behavior and unladylike behavior, and while she doesn’t mind being called out for the first, anyone who has a problem with the second can choke on it.
She can see how someone like Cal, someone with a wholesome, old-fashioned way of viewing the world, would find her lacking.
But at the same time, it doesn’t really fit. He’s never been anything but perfectly gracious with her. From the first time they met, not a single one of his smiles has ever struck her as forced, and he doesn’t avoid her, doesn’t look for opportunities to see Zac in her absence. He’s told her more than once that he can see how much happier Zac is now that she’s in his life, that he’s glad that Zac has her, and he legitimately seems to mean it.
No. She knows she can be divisive, but whatever this thing with Cal is, this barrier between them, it isn’t that he disapproves of her.
When PJ coughs up, she soothes him and wipes up the drool, because if there’s anything she is sure of with Cal, it’s that he’ll instantly make a beeline for the baby when he comes in. And she’s not disappointed. He barely waits for her nod when he asks, “Can I?” before he’s picking up PJ’s heavy, squishy body and tucking him close. He whispers things to the baby before pressing a loud kiss to his fat little cheek, making him gurgle a laugh. PJ adores Cal, and proves it by yanking on his hair. Cal’s enough of a sucker that he doesn’t even wince. He just gently eases the tiny fist away.
Only then does he aim his smile at her. “Hey, Anya. How’s it going?”
She studies him for a moment, not answering. She was right when she said he was a good-looking man. Thick black hair, serious dark eyes, cheekbones and jaw to die for. His heavy forehead and straight, slashing brows give him a somber, thoughtful air. On any other man, you could call that full, wide mouth sinful. On Cal, it’s simply generous. His nose is kind of big, and there’s a bump along the bridge from where it’s been broken. A sports injury probably. But though the break has healed somewhat crooked, it suits him, gives him a rough edge that takes him from Clark Kent to Bruce Wayne. It’s a deeply masculine face, a handsome face, and, best of all in her opinion, a kind one.
The fact that he’s got the solid, strong body of someone who works out a lot doesn’t hurt either. She doesn’t remember exactly, but from comments Zac has made over the years, she has a vague idea that Cal’s the sort of masochist who runs daily. It can’t only be running, though—she’s never met a man with shoulders like that who doesn’t lift weights. Yes, Calvin Keller is a very attractive man.
“I’m fine,” she says. “And you?”
He jiggles the baby ever-so-slightly and his smile becomes self-deprecating. “Better now. Can I help?”
“If you could take the water pitcher over, please.”
When the table’s set, Zac offers to take PJ, but Cal won’t hear of it. He feeds the baby and makes ridiculous expressions the whole time, his own bowl getting cold. She and Zac carry most of the conversation, arguing good-naturedly about how to handle the lack of space in the upstairs now that there’s a baby in the house. They both underestimated how much more cramped it would get in the addition of a human that only weighs twenty pounds.
“We could renovate,” Anya points out. “It’s not a lack of square footage. It’s a bad flow. It’s easily fixed.”
“Less trouble to move,” Zac replies.
“Moving is never less trouble than anything. Moving sucks.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t. But you don’t know how much of a pain in the ass it’ll be to renovate the entire upstairs.”
“And you do? When have you ever renovated anything in your lifetime?”
“It’s not like we don’t have plenty of money.” Zac looks at Cal as if to say can you believe this?
Cal only gives Zac a small, bland, oblivious smile. Until lately, it would’ve been the definition of boring, in Anya’s mind. But it also strikes her as familiar, that smile. It takes a few seconds for her to place where she’s seen it: it’s the same smile Cal always gives when Zac tries to pull Cal to his side in debates like this. It isn’t bland or oblivious or boring, she realizes. It’s Cal’s polite way of refusing to team up with Zac against her.
Discomfited, she tells her husband, “You’ll pick out some absurd mansion with a dozen bedrooms that we’ll never use.”
“So we’ll have a dozen kids. No problem.”
“No problem,” she mimics. “Says the one without a uterus.”
“You liked being pregnant.” He gives her that grin that makes her insides go melty. When he’s not talking about another dozen pregnancies, anyway. “We were good at being pregnant.”
“Buying me ice cream when I have a craving is not the same thing as sharing the duties. Nuh-uh. Your contribution will take about ten minutes, and then I’ll have to deal with the rest of it.”
Zac looks at Cal. “It’s longer than ten minutes. A lot longer.”
Cal’s smiling as he scoops up more peas for PJ. “Sure,” he says easily, and Anya must be losing her mind, because at some point she apparently learned how to read Cal’s voice well enough to pick up on the current of subtle disbelief.
“It’s like an hour,” Zac tells Cal.
Anya can’t believe how ridiculous he is. “Sure.” She manages to replicate Cal’s tone perfectly. Then she glances at Cal, running the tip of her index finger around the lip of her wineglass. “Actually, I’d like your opinion on it.”
“A clock would probably be more useful.” Cal sounds wary.
She can’t help laughing, surprised at his wit. “I don’t mean about Zac’s stamina. I mean the house.”
Zac opens his mouth, then pauses, eyes flickering between Anya and Cal before he abruptly closes his mouth again.
“Oh, I really couldn’t say.” Cal makes another goofy face as he slides the spoon of peas into PJ’s mouth. “I don’t know what kind of trouble the upstairs is giving you.”
“But in general,” she asks. “Big house? Lots of kids? Or a small house and a tight-knit family?”
He glances at her, a quick flick of his eyes, gauging her interest maybe. He taps the little rubber spoon on the jar of baby food. Eventually he says, “I like a
noisy house.”
“Oh?” She’s careful to keep her tone inviting.
He studies the green mush on the spoon, thoughtful, or maybe hesitant. It seems to take ages before he says, “Well, I’m nine years younger than my only sibling. And June was kind of an outgoing teenager. Had a lot of friends. She wasn’t home much.”
She waits, but he doesn’t say anything else. She gives Zac a look that she hopes conveys the futility of pulling teeth with this man, and he gives her a miniscule head shake, holding his fingers up in an inconspicuous wait gesture.
After another twenty seconds or so, Cal quietly adds, “It’s one thing, maybe, if you’re like Zac, and you’re good at filling up the silence yourself. But not all kids are. And if you’re not...it gets lonely.”
“You were a lonely child?” she asks.
He keeps his attention on PJ. “I suppose.”
It fits him, now that she thinks about it. She doubts, actually, that he’s ever outgrown it. Cal has never once said no to coming over for dinner unless he already has plans, and on those occasions, he promptly arranges for another time. He attends the smallest social function that anyone in the band or label sets up. Anytime there’s a party, Cal’s the first one there and the last one gone, helping to set up, helping to clean up, easing his way into any conversation, playing games with the kids, playing fetch with somebody’s dogs. He’s not needy and he doesn’t cling, so it’s not annoying. But she can see the loneliness now that she’s looking.
“Not anymore, I hope,” she says, watching him.
“How could I be, with you guys around?” Cal replies, and she’s not sure if he means it. He’s so damned hard to read.
He finishes feeding PJ, and she gets up to wipe her son down, kissing his forehead, adoring the way he sighs a tiny baby sigh of happiness to be with her. “I love you too,” she whispers. When she returns to her seat with him squirming in her arms, she turns to Cal. “You know, Zac tells me that you wrote ‘Bedrock.’”
Cal pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, his shoulders hunching. “Well, I don’t—”
She ignores his attempt to deflect. “It’s good. I know ‘Livid’ broke all those records and won all those awards, but I like ‘Bedrock’ better.”
He blinks, turning his head to study her. “Most people say the opposite.”
“‘Livid’ is an earworm,” she admits. “It’s catchy as hell. But ‘Bedrock’ is...haunting.”
He puts his fork down, his expression unreadable. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t let Zac help.”
Cal ducks his head, but she can see his amusement.
“Assholes,” Zac pronounces them. “Both of you.” Then he tips his narrowed eyes at Anya. “I know what you’re doing. You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are. Also, I’m way more important to the band than him. I’m the front man. I stand in front.”
You’d think she was trying to murder kittens instead of making a more concerted effort to help Cal feel like he can open up a little. Honestly, Zac should be thanking her, and instead she gets this. “You strut around on the stage gyrating like you’re fucking ghosts against an imaginary wall in front of everyone. That’s not important.”
Zac’s eyes go wide in offense, but Cal bursts into laughter and Zac clearly doesn’t know how to feel about that. Cal’s not a man who laughs easily. Even Anya knows that. She’s sort of proud of herself for managing it, and she loves that she’s going to get away with teasing her husband because he can’t help being impressed with her too.
“You do look like you’re trying to fuck a ghost,” Cal gasps. He’s laughing so hard that his hands are shaking. He’s getting beef bourguignon splatters all over the table, and Anya doesn’t care. Her stomach has gone weirdly tight, and she can’t help but notice that while Cal is a good-looking man when wearing his usual serious expression, he’s beautiful when he laughs.
“That ghost-fucking has made you millions, so yeah, keep laughing at it,” Zac grumbles, but he can’t hide the slight pull of his smile. “We should watch a movie. I’m tired of being made fun of.”
“Pick something good,” Anya suggests. “Or we’ll make fun of you more.”
“Cal should pick, then,” Zac says.
“Oh, no, I’m fine with anything,” Cal says, and Anya would roll her eyes, except that she’s expecting it. He looks longingly at PJ, not even subtle about it, and Anya kisses her son once more on his chubby cheek and passes him back into Cal’s arms.
She sits on the sofa and Zac sprawls across both her and the couch, one leg propped up on the back, one arm dangling into space. He puts his head in Anya’s lap and pinches her side and thigh until she curses and consents to rub her fingers through his thick hair. “You’ll probably go bald soon,” she tells him meanly and he turns on his side to bite her knee, making her yelp.
Cal’s in the armchair, watching them and smiling.
“What?” Zac demands.
“You’re both eight,” Cal says, his smile growing. PJ’s making fussy noises, but when Cal murmurs to him, he tucks his face into Cal’s throat, settling down. Anya’s heart swells at the sight.
“You’re eight,” Zac tosses back. “Pick a movie, you bastard.”
Cal smiles and politely pretends he’s never seen a movie in his life and therefore can’t possibly be expected to know how to choose one. Anya ends up scrolling through Netflix until Zac hollers his interest at something he sees. It’s some action flick that can’t fully wrest anyone’s attention, and she strokes her husband’s head, smiling at his contented noises, and watches Cal cuddle her son, enjoying the way they all talk through the movie about nothing important.
* * *
In bed that night, she nudges Zac with her toes. She likes conversations at night, once they’ve turned the light off and they’re snuggled in close. They’ve never had a problem being honest with each other, but there’s an added tone of intimacy to talks that happen in a dark bedroom, one that she finds satisfying.
“So tell me more about Cal,” she says.
“Anya,” he says warningly, as if that’s ever worked on her.
“I don’t mean so we can fuck him.” She makes a face even though he can’t see it. “I mean that he’s a part of your life. He’s your bandmate and your friend and maybe I could learn to like him better if I knew more about him.” She found him surprisingly tolerable tonight anyway.
The sheets rustle as he rolls toward her. “Really? You’d—you’d want to? Try to be friends?”
Oh, God, he’s wanted this. Perhaps for quite some time. She must’ve missed something crucial in the beginning, back before she knew his tells, evidence that it bothered him that his best friend and his wife didn’t hit it off. She certainly hasn’t seen signs of it since she’s gotten to know him well. He might’ve given up on the idea of it ever happening. It makes her sad to think of it.
She doesn’t really care much about Cal, but for Zac, she’d hang the moon. “I’ll try. No promises. But if you tell me things, I’ll try to like them.”
“It’s all right if you don’t like him. You don’t have to care about him just because I do. It doesn’t mean you’re being a bad wife.”
“What do I care about being a bad wife? I don’t even like you.”
He laughs and puts a hand on her hip, thumb trailing affectionately over the curve. “So you say.”
“I do say.” She wrinkles her nose. “Now, tell me about your supposedly not-boring friend.”
“I’m not sure where to begin. Growing up, he was really close to his family.”
“That’s boring.”
“How do you figure?” he asks, tone full of laughing outrage.
“Happy families are always boring! It’s the unhappy families that are interesting. Tolstoy said so, even. Don’t you read?” She pu
ts as much scorn into her voice on that last sentence as possible, as if she’s read more than a dozen books since she dropped out of high school at fifteen to go make a fortune as a model. The fortune and modeling thing worked out; the poor reading skills bit her on the ass once she changed professions and needed to learn as much about photography as she could to be successful. It still takes her half an hour to read a page. It’s pathetic. But if she’s read ten books in the last decade, Zac’s read two, and that makes her better than him.
“Like you fucking know anything about Tolstoy. Ten bucks says you got that off a fortune cookie.”
“Pay up.” She got it off Jeopardy, which she sometimes puts on in the background because PJ’s crankiest days can only be soothed by two people in the whole world: Alex Trebek, and, irritatingly, Cal Keller.
“Can I give you my cock instead?” Zac asks.
“No.”
“That hurts my feelings.”
“Stop whining and give me my money.”
He laughs again. “Tomorrow. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, right.” She isn’t an idiot. Zac’s a terrible reneger of bets. “So Cal grew up in an episode of Full House.”
“I said he was close to them, not that it was easy. There’ve been definite rough patches. I’m not sure how close they are now. He doesn’t really talk about it, but I suspect Tolstoy would be pleased.”
“Is there anything he does talk about? You don’t know his orientation. You don’t know his family history. You don’t know what made him write ‘Bedrock.’ How are you best friends when you barely know each other?”
“Dramatic.”
“Oh, shut up. You want me to get to know him, but you don’t have anything to tell me.”
“I know that when I told him I was never talking to my parents again, he let me crash on his couch for months and never said a single word about money or the time it took for me to get my shit together. I know that he works harder than anyone I’ve ever met, and that he’ll smile at jokes that aren’t funny so people won’t feel bad, and that he has never, not once, let me down, not even when his own life was a fucking mess. He’s not my best friend because of the shit I know about him, he’s my best friend because of what he does. He’s the only person in the whole world who’s ever loved me as much as you do, and I don’t care that he doesn’t like to talk about shit. Okay?”