‘It’s uhm… I’m Callum. Cal. You can call me Cal,’I managed to squeak.
‘Cal,’he repeated, his voice all breathy.‘Well, Cal, ain’t you just the cutest thing?’It wasn’t a question. The next part was, though. The most important question anyone had ever asked me. Way more important than his ‘Will you marry me, sweetheart?’a couple of years later.
‘So, Callum, you-can-call-me-Cal, you wanna hang with me sometime? I’ll show you a good time.’He was such a wannabe flirt back then, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. A baby gay trying to make up for lost time. Not my soft Mitch that he is now.
“Anything you need, babe. I’ve got you,” I repeat, meaning every word, every time, every day. Anything.
“Good,” he smiles half-heartedly. “Because he’s waiting outside.”
Chapter Four
Tyler
Mitch has a husband. He has ahusband. He lives in a small bungalow in Santa Clarita, and he has a husband. And he just murmured‘Come with me. Come meet Cal,’like it’s the most natural thing in the world to have your ex-stepdad introduce you to his gay husband. Because, yes, Mitch is gay. He’sgay. We arrived in the residential area where he lives with his husband, Cal, five minutes ago. I followed him there on my bike. He threw one glance at Patricia and decided that she was gonna swallow me whole and drag me to hell or something.
‘I’ve got my truck over here,’he told me after he’d convinced, or rather intimidated, me into listening to him. Nothing like the imminent threat of going to prison to get your boy to listen.
‘Where’re we going?’
‘My place,’he threw over his shoulder as he went to his car, a real sweet burgundyChevrolettruck, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.
‘Why the fuck are we going to your place? I ain’t going to your fucking place, Mitch.’I saw him wince again. He does it every time I call him Mitch, so I’ve made a note to do it all the time. Throw in a few extras just for good measure.
‘Because I want you to meet Cal,’he sighed, coming to a stop in front of his truck.‘Now, get in the truck, please.’
‘I’m not getting in that piece of shit hick truck,’I spat, trying for my best disdainful look. The one Dale taught me. Mitch groaned loudly, as he seemed to make a quick cost-benefit in his head.
‘Fine. Suit yourself. Follow me then.’He reached to open his door but stopped mid-movement.‘But don’t get any ideas. This is it, Tyler.’
‘Fiiine,’I threw him a sugary-sweet smile.‘Anything you want, Mitch.’
“So, what? You’re gay now?” I ask as I trail behind him up the wooden stairs to a deck that probably goes all the way around the bungalow. RealLittle House on the Prairie-style coziness in the middle of middle-class LA. The question’s been burning through my mind during the thirty-minute drive here and for the past five minutes since he left me in front of his house with a‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’
He turns around when he reaches the deck. He tilts his head but doesn’t say anything which is a little annoying. Because I was hoping he would give me the whole‘You don’t just become gay, Tyler. It’s not a choice. I was born…’blah blah blah speech. Because he could’ve fucking fooled me. For eight fucking years, he did. Fool me, that is.
“You comin’ in or what?” he says quietly, apparently going for Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected parole officer, Mitch Cain. Or maybe he’s not a Cain anymore. Maybe he took his husband’s—Cal’s—fancy name, whatever it is. Maybe Mitch is the bitch in their relationship.
“It’s just… I’m a little confused,Mitch.” I go for my best clueless look. The one that has gotten me out of quite a few misdemeanors over the years. My ‘I’m so sorry, officer. I didn’t know you weren’t allowed to relieve yourself against aMcDonald’s’ face.“So, you left Mom for a dude? Is that it? Am I getting all the details straight?”
“No, I didn’t leave your mom for Cal. I left her forme. Now, are you comin’ in or what?” He turns and opens the door, leaving it open for me as he takes off his boots.But what about me?I wanna scream in his face.Why the fuck did you have to leave me too? Was I just collateral damage, Dad?Oh, shit. No, not Dad. He’s not my dad. Never was. He’s Mitch, remember? He’s Mitch and you hate him.
Something smells really fucking great, though, and since I haven’t eaten today, I decide to put my hate on the back burner for a little while and follow him inside. Yeah, I’m only following him inside because I’m reaching the level of hunger where my stomach is trying to eat itself. I shuffle behind him in my biker boots—I ain’t removing ’em in case I need a quick contingency plan—all the way into a large, open-plan kitchen. The unidentified food smells even better in here, like real fancy restaurant type of shit good, and my stomach growls like a feral animal, causing Mitch to snigger.
“What?” I sneer.
“Nothing,” he shrugs. Was Mitch always this passive-aggressive? I don’t recall. There’s a loud clanging from somewhere behind the kitchen island, and a hissedfuck.Must be the infamous husband, aka Cal the Homewrecker.
“Cal? Sweetheart? Meet Tyler,” Mitch calls out, a soft nuance to his voice that brings back memories I’ve tried so hard to delete from my hard drive. Then, a giant of a man surfaces from behind the island, a roll of kitchen towel in his hands, cheeks flushed behind his light brown beard. With a tentative smile, his hazel eyes flicker between Mitch and me. Then he holds up his hands, shrugging apologetically.
“Sorry, Tyler,” he says like he fucking knows me. “Can’t shake your hand right now, man. Piss,” he lowers his voice, shaking his head, his slightly blonder hair spilling onto his forehead.
“Shit, again,” Mitch blurts, rushing to him, inspecting the floor. And… I’m confused. What the fuck is this? Did Cal the Homewrecker just piss himself? He doesn’t look that old. I mean, sure, he’s got that whole rugged-Daddy style going on, but he can’t be more than his late thirties or early forties. Huh, come to think of it, Mitch’s hubby is pretty fucking fine, but if he has an incontinence problem, I’m out. No impromptu golden showers for your boy.
“Yeah,” Cal says. “Third time this morning.” Third time. Wow. “I’ll just go wash up and then we can eat.” He leans in and presses a quick kiss to Mitch’s chin, and then he disappears behind the corner. Mitch glances after him; no, he actually ogles him, and although I should be fucking livid at their lame DDA—Domestic Display of Affection—there’s just something so tender about it that I want to fucking cry. Because they look happy. And I feel like an intruder looking in on a life that was once mine, or at least resembles what I once had with Mitch and Mom.
“You hungry?” Mitch asks as he walks to the stove and tips the lid on a large brass pot. And sweet Jesus at a sauna club, the scent that comes out of that old banged-up pot is heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven.
“No,” I say, my tongue trying to navigate the ocean of drool building in my mouth. But my stomach is the greatest traitorof all, eliciting a loud, pitiful growl. Mitch pretends to ignore it as he reaches for some ceramic bowls from a shelf above the counter.
