Each reunion is another little visual shock running through him, that initial live-wire incomprehension of seeing Demi with these two. Two opposite and disparate pieces of his life colliding. The image doesn’t line up, and his brain doesn’t know what to do with it—doesn’t seem to know which emotion to sift through and present to the people at large.
While he’s standing there waiting (not the most patiently) for them to conclude their business, it gives his mind quite a lot of time to think. To consider the email he hit ‘send’ on this morning. (He can’t quite tell if he still feels that savage little pleasure when he thinks of it, or if there’s something new churning in his awareness, like a dab of poison in the water supply.)
There’s time for him to stare balefully at the blonde. She’s not meeting his eye at all, and Cal is completely absolutely fine with that. This blonde is one of the biggest thorns in his side from the Hellhounds. He can’t even count the number of times they’ve circled each other, nipping at each others’ heels, coyote and roadrunner; it might almost have sounded like a game, if the results of a single misstep on his end weren’t so fucking dire.
His drink sits on the table, completely forgotten.