Chapter 9 #2
Again, there's an edge when he mentions his family, a subtle tightening around his eyes, a slight strain in his voice.
"Green suits her?" Better to focus on colors than whatever just flickered across his face.
"It's her favourite colour," he says, sounding surprised that I asked. "Though she only wears it when she's not at official functions. Says it doesn't photograph well for campaign materials."
Before I can respond, loud voices interrupt from behind us. I turn to see a group of guys wearing Epsilon Beta Mu jackets, clearly already halfway drunk.
"Well, look what we have here," one of them calls out, his voice carrying across the market. "Delta Psi Omega's out on a field trip."
Caleb is tense beside me. The rivalry between our fraternities isn't friendly. Earlier this year, several EBM members vandalized our house during a particularly heated weekend.
"Just ignore them." The words come out quietly, my hand landing on Caleb's arm in what I hope looks casual to someone watching. Don't do anything stupid. Drew worked hard to keep your name out of the Michael and Cher mess. One incident with the university and you're done.
The grip on his arm tightens slightly. He's tense under my touch, coiled like he's ready to do something we'll both regret.
Just walk away. Please just walk away.
The largest of the group, a beefy guy I recognize as their vice president, steps in close. "Surprised they let you all out without supervision. Especially since DPO became the campus fag house."
The slur hits like a physical blow. Several market-goers turn to stare, looking uncomfortable but not intervening.
"Walk away, Brandon." My voice is low, but the warning is clear. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"I'm embarrassing myself?" he sneers. "You're the ones parading around with your gay bullshit, ruining the whole Greek system."
At this point, other DPO brothers have noticed the confrontation and are beginning to move toward us. Drew and Gavin are pushing through the crowd, but they're still too far away to intervene.
"Your outdated homophobia is both tedious and unoriginal," Caleb says, his voice surprisingly calm. "Find new material."
Brandon's face darkens. "What did you say to me, you little—"
What happens next occurs so quickly that I barely register it. Brandon reaches toward Caleb, maybe to grab his sweater or shove him, I'm not sure. But before his hand makes contact, Caleb moves with unexpected speed.
His fist connects solidly with Brandon's jaw, sending the much larger guy stumbling backward in shock more than pain.
"You fucking psycho!" Brandon shouts, holding his face. "I'm pressing charges!"
Suddenly, Emily steps up, her phone held up clearly in video mode. "I'd reconsider that if I were you," she says calmly. "I've been recording since you approached. You know, for the sorority Insta. I'm sure the university board would be very interested in seeing what you said."
Brandon looks from Emily to Caleb, fury and calculation warring on his face. "He hit me! Everyone saw it!"
"We all saw a much smaller student defending himself after being threatened with a hate crime," Emily counters. "How do you think that's going to play out in the disciplinary hearing? Especially when Caleb's father is running for Senate on a platform that includes LGBTQ+ protections?"
The mention of Caleb's father seems to make Brandon pause. He glances at his friends, clearly reassessing the situation.
Drew arrives, stepping between the groups. "I think we're done here," he says, his usual cheerfulness replaced by a steely authority I rarely see. "Unless you want to make this official with campus security?"
Brandon spits on the ground near Caleb's feet. "This isn't over."
"Actually, it is," Drew replies. "Walk away while you still can."
The EBM assholes back away, shooting glares over their shoulders. Only when they're gone does everyone's attention turn to Caleb, who's flexing his hand with a wince.
"Dude!" Gavin exclaims. "That was awesome! Where did you learn to throw a punch like that?"
"Boxing lessons," Caleb mutters. "Another one of Mother's ideas for a well-rounded education."
Emily hurries over, showing Caleb her phone. "I got everything. If they try anything, we have proof they started it."
I'm still processing what happened. Caleb, the reserved and controlled one, punched someone. For us. For the fraternity. The realization makes me smile.
Without thinking, I step in close and wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back against my chest in what looks like a supportive move but feels strangely protective. He stiffens for a second, then relaxes into me.
"You okay?" I ask quietly, close to his ear.
"Fine," he says, but I can feel the slight tremor in his body. "Just adrenaline."
The brothers are gathering around now, all talking at once about what happened. Several clap Caleb on the shoulder or offer fist bumps, clearly impressed by his unexpected skills.
"Alright, everyone, calm down," Drew calls out. "Show's over. Let's get back to enjoying the market."
As the group disperses, I realize I'm still holding Caleb against me; my arm has dropped to his waist, now in a much more intimate position than our plan called for at this stage. He's still here. Still letting me hold him. Huh.
"Want to get out of here?" Too many people are watching. Need to check if he's actually okay without an audience.
He nods, and as we turn to leave, I take his hand without thinking. It's only when he glances down at our joined hands that I realize what I've done.
"For show." Smooth, James. Very convincing. "In case they're watching."
"Right," he agrees. "Good thinking." His cheeks have this cute pink color right now.
Even after we're away from the market, walking back toward campus in the quiet of the December evening, neither of us lets go. His hand is smaller than mine, but strong, his fingers interlaced with mine like they belong.
We don't talk about it. We don't talk about much of anything on the walk back, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. The sound of his fist connecting with Brandon's jaw. The way he relaxed into me afterward, trusting. My brain keeps replaying it all over and over again.
It's nearly 10 PM when we reach the frat house. Most of the brothers chose to stay at the market or head elsewhere, so the house is unusually quiet for a Friday night.
"I should put some ice on this," Caleb says, finally releasing my hand to examine his knuckles, which are starting to bruise.
"I'll grab some from the kitchen, meet you in the common room?"
He nods, and we separate for the first time in hours.
In the kitchen, I fill a plastic bag with ice and wrap it in a dish towel, trying not to overthink everything that happened tonight.
According to our plan, we're right on schedule with our public escalation.
This is all unfolding exactly as we designed it.
So why does it feel so different from what I expected?
As I head back toward the common room, I hear Caleb's voice coming from the hallway phone alcove. His tone is tense, defensive in a way I haven't heard before.
"No, Mother, I told you… I already have someone to bring."
My steps slow, knowing I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I'm not going to walk away.
"It's not a lie," he continues, frustration evident. "Yes, he's real. No, he's not like Michael or Christopher or any of the other 'nice young men' you've tried to set me up with."
There's a pause as he listens, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side.
"Because those 'nice young men' are all sons of Dad's donors who have been instructed to keep me occupied and out of trouble during campaign events." Another pause. "Yes, I'm aware of how it works. That doesn't mean I have to like it."
I should leave. This is clearly private. But something keeps me rooted to the spot, the ice pack melting slowly in my hand.
"His name is James," Caleb says suddenly, making my heart skip. "James Hunter. Yes, from my fraternity."
He listens for a moment, then lets out a sharp laugh that contains no humour. "Of course, that's your first question. Computer science major. Graduating this year. Heading to graduate school for cybersecurity."
The fact that he knows my post-graduation plans is surprising. I don't remember mentioning them to him.
"Look, I have to go. We'll be there. Yes, appropriate attire. Goodbye, Mother."
He hangs up the phone with more force than necessary, then turns and freezes when he sees me standing there with the ice pack.
"How long have you been there?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"Long enough." There’s no point in lying. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop."
He takes the ice pack from my hand, applying it to his bruised knuckles with a wince. "Well, now you know about my delightful family dynamics."
"Your mom is trying to set you up?" I follow him into the common room, where he drops onto the couch with more force than necessary.
"As always," he sighs. He drops onto the couch with more force than necessary, the ice pack pressed against his knuckles like a shield. His free hand drags through his hair, leaving it even messier than usual.
"There's a charity gala next weekend for my father's campaign. Black tie, extremely boring, full of people who donate obscene amounts of money to hear themselves talk."
"And you need a date."
"If I show up alone, it's proof I'm spiraling into some kind of gay crisis. Her words, not mine." He shifts the ice pack with unnecessary force. "She'd rather parade me around with whatever donor's son is available and who won't say anything controversial."
Sitting beside him, I watch as he adjusts the ice pack. "So you told her about me. Your fake boyfriend."
He looks up quickly. "I panicked. It was either that or be paired with the son of the state's biggest weapons manufacturer. A nineteen-year-old who still giggles when someone says the word 'penis.'"
I start laughing. "That bad, huh?"