Chapter 13
Walk away
CALEB
"Your father sounds like a real fucking piece of work," he says finally.
A strangled laugh escapes me. "That's one way to put it."
"And Christopher..." James continues, his voice carefully neutral. "He tried something when you were eighteen?"
Shutting my eyes, the memories are coming back even though I'm trying hard to keep them down.
"It was at a campaign fundraiser barbecue.
Everyone was mingling very casually. Christopher kept bringing me drinks and being overly friendly.
I didn't think much of it at first; he was always around at those events. "
James waits, silent, giving me space to continue at my own pace.
"I realized too late he'd been giving me stronger drinks than I thought. I wasn't drunk, but I was... impaired. He suggested we take a walk, get some air. Led me to a guest house on the property."
My voice tightens. "He tried to kiss me, and I pushed him away. He said I was a tease, that everyone knew I was gay.” I wasn't out publicly yet, but he said, “It would be good for me to fuck someone experienced."
James's expression darkens, but he doesn't interrupt.
"When I tried to leave, he grabbed me and pushed me against the wall.
Said no one would believe me anyway, that his father owned mine.
" My throat works; I can swallow past the tightness.
"I had to knee him in the groin and fight him off.
Ran back to the main house and told my parents.
My father was angry at me for making a scene.
Said I must have misunderstood Christopher's intentions. "
"Fuck that," James snarls.
"The official story became that I had too much to drink and misinterpreted a friendly gesture. The Montgomerys made a significant donation the following week. Case closed.
"Even after all this time, it makes me sick that my family blew off what happened. And now, four years later, my parents think it would be 'appropriate' for me to date him. For the campaign's sake, of course."
Finally, I look up, ready for whatever might be on James's face: pity, awkwardness, or wanting to get away from this drama he never asked to be part of. Instead, I find barely contained fury. I realize his hands are clenched at my sides, and his jaw is tight.
"That's fucked up," he says simply. "All of it. Your parents, that Christopher guy, the whole situation."
The way he just says it straight out, not feeling sorry for me or judging me, makes something crack inside me. A shaky breath escapes me before I look away, trying to pull it together.
James's arms are still around me. I could step back now, probably should. But I don't.
Instead, I let myself actually lean into him, not just letting him hold me steady anymore but actually wanting the comfort. He responds immediately, pulling me even tighter, and his hand moves to the back of my neck, thumb brushing the tense muscles there.
This isn't part of our plan. There's no one here to see. Just me, finally too tired to keep holding everything together alone.
"I've got you," he says quietly, his thumb keeps stroking across the back of my neck. "It'll be okay."
We stand like that for several minutes, his steady breath against my ear gives me something to focus on. When I finally pull back, I am steadier, though embarrassed by my momentary weakness.
"Sorry," muttered. "That was—"
"Don't," he interrupts. "Don't apologize. What happened to you was wrong, and how your family handled it was worse. You have every right to be upset."
Looking up at him, what I see surprises me. The fury in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, it's all directed at protecting me. My family never—
Can't finish that thought. "Thank you. For listening. For believing me."
"Of course I believe you," he says, like he couldn't imagine doing anything else. "And just so you know, if that guy comes back tonight, I won't hold back like you did."
That should worry me; violence at a campaign event would be a nightmare, but instead, it makes me feel strangely warm inside.
James is angry on my behalf, protective in a way no one has ever been before.
"As satisfying as that might be, let's try to avoid assault charges tonight," I say, attempting to lighten the mood. "Though I appreciate the sentiment."
He smiles at me, but his face is tense, and something darker remains in his eyes. "Fine. But I reserve the right to accidentally spill a drink on him if he gets too close."
"Deal." Straightening my bow tie, I try to shake the phone call off and reclaim my composure. "We should get back inside before my mother sends a search party."
James nods, but before we can move, he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead; the move is surprisingly gentle. "For what it's worth," he says quietly, "your parents are fucking idiots if they can't see what an incredible son they have."
The unexpected compliment leaves me momentarily speechless. When I find my voice, it's soft. "We should get back."
He holds out his hand, and I grab it right away. This time, we're not faking it for anyone. I need someone to hold onto right now, and somehow, he gets that without me having to say a word.
As we head back inside, my brain won't shut up. His hand in mine. He said I was incredible, how none of this feels like pretending anymore.
Which is absurd. It's been one event. One conversation.
Should pull away. Don't want to.
And there's this thought, creeping in sideways where I can't quite shove it back down: what if this wasn't fake? What if James and I were actually...
No. Absolutely not. This is James Hunter. Grumpy webmaster whom I've barely tolerated for months. Except he held me on that balcony like I mattered, and defended me to Christopher without hesitation, and now I'm apparently considering whether—
Fuck.
Something shifted. Can't un-shift it. Can't pretend I didn't imagine what really dating James would look like.
And that's—
Not tonight. Can't deal with this tonight.
The rest of the night goes by in a haze of fake smiles and boring small talk. James doesn't leave my side, and I'm grateful for it. He's my rock while I wade through all these people.
"Caleb." Christopher's voice comes from behind us. "Surely you have a moment for an old family friend?"
James turns first, positioning himself squarely between Christopher and me. "No."
"I'm sorry?" Christopher's practiced charm falters.
"You should be." James's voice is conversational, almost pleasant. Terrifying. "But the answer is still no. Move along."
"I wasn't talking to you," Christopher says, trying to look past James at me.
"And I don't give a fuck." James's voice stays quiet and conversational. But there's steel underneath. "You're done talking to him. Period."
Christopher's smile tightens. "I'm not sure you understand who you're speaking to—"
"I understand you're three seconds from a very public conversation about what happens to men who assault teenagers." James takes a step forward. Christopher takes one back. "Two seconds."
"That's—that's slander—"
"Is it?" James tilts his head. "Caleb, want to file a police report right now? I'm sure the statute of limitations hasn't run out on sexual assault."
My voice won't work, but apparently, James doesn't need my confirmation.
"Didn't think so. And you're about to become the guy who learns what happens when you approach my boyfriend without permission."
"This is ridiculous," Christopher sputters. "Caleb, tell your... friend... that he's making a scene."
James doesn't let me answer. "Make a scene?
I haven't even started. But I'm happy to explain, loudly, exactly what kind of man preys on barely-legal teenagers at family events.
Do the Montgomerys want that conversation happening in front of everyone here?
So much harder to buy your way out of it when there are witnesses. "
Christopher's face goes pale. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Guest house. Bruises on his wrists. Sound familiar?" James's smile is vicious.
Christopher looks at me, but James shifts again, blocking his view completely.
"Let me make this abundantly clear." James's voice drops even lower.
"You're going to fuck off to whatever corner of this event is furthest from us.
You're going to stay there. And if I see you within ten feet of Caleb for the rest of the night, hell, for the rest of your life, I will make it my personal mission to ensure every person in this room knows exactly what you did. "
"His father won't allow—"
"His father," James says coldly, "protected you once. Want to bet he'll do it again with witnesses and a formal complaint? Because I'm very good at documentation. It's literally what I do."
Christopher glances around, clearly aware that people are starting to notice that something is happening over here. "You're being absurd."
"And you're a predatory fuck who thinks money protects you.
" Still quiet. Still calm. "Here's the thing, I don't give a shit about your family's donations.
I don't need your father's connections. Which means I have absolutely nothing stopping me from uploading this conversation.
Oh, did I mention I started recording a few minutes ago? It's legal to do that, by the way."
James barely pauses as he takes Christopher apart. "I will upload this to every social media platform I can think of, complete with context about what you did four years ago."
"You wouldn't dare—"
"Try me." James's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm a computer science student, and while I specialize in security, I know exactly how to make things go viral. And I'm petty enough to make it my fucking thesis project if necessary."
The color drains from Christopher's face.
"Walk away," James says quietly. "Right now."
Can't move. Can't think.
Did James just threaten to make destroying Christopher his thesis project? Recorded the whole confrontation. Said he'd make it go viral. That was… fuck. That was hot. No. Focus. Protective. Appreciated. And absolutely making me reconsider what this fake dating thing actually means.
My mother notices, of course. She notices everything.
I catch her watching the confrontation between Christopher and us from across the room.
Her expression is unreadable, but her posture is rigid.
When she pulls me aside near the end of the evening, giving it just enough time to seem natural, her disapproval is obvious.
"Your friend seems quite... territorial," she observes. "He's not very subtle." Right. Because the problem is James defending me, not Christopher assaulting me.
"James is protective. With good reason."
She sighs, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her perfectly tailored dress. "Caleb, darling, you know I only want what's best. Christopher's family is important to your father's campaign."
"I don't care. He's not coming near me again, and please tell Father that I'm not attending any events with him. If that's a problem for the campaign, maybe Father should reconsider taking money from people who raised a predator."
Her eyes widen at my bluntness. "That's a severe accusation."
"It's the truth." I’m beyond caring about diplomatic phrasing. "And you know it. You were there when I came back from that guest house. You saw the bruises on my wrists."
She looks away, the only tell in her otherwise perfect composure. "That was a long time ago."
"Not to me." Spotting James waiting patiently a few feet away, he’s watching me with quiet concern. "We're leaving now. Thank you for the lovely evening, Mother."
Walking away before she can respond, I return to James's side with as much composure as I can muster.
"Ready to go?" he asks.
"More than ready."
The ride back to campus is quiet. James leaves his hand on the seat between us, palm up, an open invitation. After hesitating for a second, I put my hand in his, letting myself have this small bit of comfort.
"Your mother seemed upset when you spoke to her." He misses nothing.
"I said some things she didn't want to hear again. About Christopher and about my father's campaign priorities."
"Good," he says simply. "It's about time someone did."
Look at him. When did James Hunter become, whatever this is?
"This wasn't what you signed up for." My voice is quiet. "Fake dating was supposed to be about avoiding fraternity activities, not family drama and political minefields."
He shrugs, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. "I don't mind."
"You should." My voice cracks. "This is a mess. I'm a mess."
"You're not a mess, Caleb," he says firmly. "You're someone who's been dealing with incredibly difficult things and somehow remained true to yourself despite it all. That's not a mess. That's strength."
His words sink into places long neglected, warming cracks I've tried to ignore. "When did you get so insightful, Hunter?"
"I've always been insightful," he says with a small smile. "You were too busy being grumpy to notice."
Laughing helps ease the tension gripping my core slightly. "Pot, kettle."
His smile widens, and I find myself cataloging the sight, the small crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the slight asymmetry that makes it more charming than perfect. When did I start noticing these details? When did James Hunter become someone whose smile I want to memorize?
"Thank you. For tonight. For everything."
"You don't need to thank me," he says, squeezing my hand gently. "That's what boyfriends are for, right?"
Boyfriends. The word hangs between us, loaded with implications. This is still pretend. A fake relationship that's gotten messier, maybe, but still not real at its core.
Except it doesn't seem fake when he looks at me like that, his dark eyes soft with concern, it doesn't feel fake when his hand holds mine, warm and steady. It's like the first real thing I've experienced in years.
Eventually, this will end. It has to. And when it does, I'll need to remember that it was never meant to be real in the first place.
This is fine. Everything's fine. Just casually wanting my fake boyfriend to be real. Totally normal.