Chapter 23 #3
Throughout the meal, the conversation continues in this vein, with subtle reference points that exclude me, inside jokes I can't possibly understand, and mentions of people and places meant to establish their world as separate from mine.
Caleb gets stiffer and stiffer next to me, his answers getting shorter every time they say something.
"James isn't familiar with the Southampton property, Mother," he says sharply when Caroline mentions some summer gala. "Perhaps we could discuss something everyone at the table can contribute to."
"Of course, darling," Caroline replies with a thin smile. "I was merely reminiscing. James, could you tell us about your family? What do your parents do?"
The question lands like a grenade at the table. Caleb's fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
"I don't have a family." I feel no shame in my past, so it's easy to keep my tone level. "I grew up in foster care."
Silence follows this statement, the awkward kind where people are recalculating their approach.
"How interesting," Caroline finally says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. "And yet you've managed to attend university. How... inspiring."
"Scholarships." Why am I even explaining this? I don't owe these people anything. "And I've worked since I was sixteen."
"Character-building," Caleb II comments, as if my life choices have been some kind of deliberate self-improvement exercise rather than necessity.
"Very." Meeting his gaze head-on.
Caleb's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once in support or apology, I'm not sure which.
After lunch, the gift exchange is moved to the formal living room, where another impeccably decorated tree stands. I sit beside Caleb on a sofa that probably costs more than everything I own, watching as presents are distributed with the precision of a military operation.
The gifts are exactly what you'd expect: expensive but impersonal items that look good when unwrapped.
Cufflinks for the men and jewelry for the women, all from recognizable luxury brands.
Caleb receives a custom leather portfolio with the family crest embossed on it, and he politely thanks his parents, though I can tell he doesn't really care about it.
Then, unexpectedly, Caroline produces a small package wrapped in the same silver-blue paper as the other gifts.
"Oh, we mustn't forget Caleb's... friend," she says with a practiced smile. "I always keep something on hand for unexpected guests."
She hands me the package, which is heavier than its size suggests. I unwrap it carefully, revealing an expensive bottle of Scotch with a label indicating it has been aged for thirty years.
"Thank you," trying to sound genuinely appreciative, even though I rarely drink hard alcohol and certainly not expensive scotch.
"That's a thirty-year single malt," Robert informs me, as if I can't read the label myself. "Probably wasted on someone used to keg beer, but it might be an educational experience."
Beside me, Caleb has gone very still, his jaw tight enough that I see a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"James doesn't actually drink scotch," Caleb says, somehow keeping his voice mild. "Though I'm sure it'll make an excellent addition to the punch at our next party. Very generous, Mother."
Robert inhales his drink. The coughing fit that follows is so very satisfying.
Silence, except for Robert's coughing. Caroline smoothly changes the subject, directing everyone's attention to the last few presents.
The afternoon drags on, each hour more excruciating than the last. Caleb and I are never alone long enough to talk; whenever he tries to pull me aside, someone interrupts or needs his attention.
His father watches these attempts with barely concealed satisfaction, confirming my suspicion that the separation is deliberate.
By late afternoon, Caleb looks as tense as I've ever seen him, wound tight enough that I fear he might snap at the next backhanded comment. I place a hand on his knee when no one is looking, a silent reminder that we can leave soon.
As the gathering begins to wind down, people begin drifting towards the front of the house. Caleb II corners me by a painting in the hallway. His casual move doesn't fool me; he wants another private chat.
"You've survived the Huntington Christmas," he says with another fake smile. "Congratulations."
"It's been illuminating."
"I hope you understand that everything I do is with Caleb's best interests at heart."
"Including offering to pay me to leave him?"
His expression doesn't change. "As I said, that was merely a test of character."
"Right," I say, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "A test."
"You know, James, I've watched my son make many questionable choices over the years. He has a habit of attaching himself to people he thinks will help him rebel against his family." He straightens a cufflink. "These attachments never last. Eventually, he remembers where he comes from, who he is."
"Maybe he knows exactly who he is. And it's not who you want him to be." Choke on that.
He studies me for a moment. "You seem like a reasonable young man, despite your... background. You can surely see that some things are simply not meant to be. The Huntington name comes with certain expectations, certain responsibilities."
"Caleb is more than a name."
"Is he? Or is that what attracts you to him?" His voice drops lower. "Some people are only interested in what the Huntington name can give them, after all."
The accusation hits harder than it should. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," he replies. "I know about the foster homes, the scholarships, the precarious existence you've built for yourself.
I know ambition when I see it, James. And there's nothing wrong with that; it's the American way, climbing the ladder.
Just be honest with yourself about what you're climbing toward. "
Before I can respond, Caleb appears at the end of the hallway, his expression darkening as he takes in the scene.
"Everything okay here?" he asks, coming to stand beside me.
"Just admiring the Sargent," his father replies smoothly, gesturing to the painting. "James has quite an eye for detail."
Caleb doesn't look convinced, but his mother's arrival prevents further discussion.
"You're not leaving already, are you?" Caroline asks, though her tone suggests she'd be perfectly happy if we did.
"We should get back," Caleb says. "I promised to help with some things at the fraternity."
"Of course," she replies. "Those... fraternity obligations. So important."
The goodbyes are mercifully brief, a series of handshakes and air kisses that contain no genuine warmth. As we wait for the car to be brought around, Caleb II shakes my hand one last time.
"Remember what we discussed, James," he says quietly. "Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for those we care about is to let them follow the path they're meant for."
Caleb looks between us, suspicion clear on his face. "What did you discuss?"
"Some friendly advice," his father replies before I can speak. "Man to man."
The car arrives, saving me from having to respond. As we slide into the back seat, Caleb immediately turns to me.
"What did he say to you?" he demands as the car pulls away from the house. "And don't tell me 'nothing.' You've been off since before lunch."
Looking out the window at the perfect house receding into the distance, I weigh my options. If I tell Caleb what his father did, it will destroy what little relationship they have left. If I don't, I'm protecting a man who tried to buy me off as if I'm some inconvenient problem to be solved.
"James?" Caleb presses, concern replacing anger in his voice. "What happened?"
The truth hovers on my lips, but something holds me back. Maybe it's the vulnerable look in his eyes or the echo of his father's words, but some things are not meant to be.
"He just... made it very clear that I don't belong in your world," I finally say, which isn't exactly a lie. "That this thing between us has an expiration date."
Caleb's expression hardens. "That's bullshit. You know that, right?"
Do I? Looking at the perfectly manicured lawns passing by outside, the houses that cost more than I'll make in my lifetime, I'm not so sure. For the first time since we started this relationship, I feel the full weight of our differences.
"James?" Caleb's hand finds mine, his grip tight, almost desperate. "Tell me you know that's bullshit."
Turning back to him and pushing aside the doubts his father planted. "I know," I lie, squeezing his hand back. "It's bullshit."
But as the car takes us back to campus, away from the cold, perfect Huntington estate, I can't shake the feeling that something has changed between us. The cracks his father pointed out have started to spread, tiny breaks that will someday pull us apart.
Fuck. No. That's precisely what he wants me to think.
Clever bastard, planting those seeds and then acting like he was being "helpful.
" Like, he gives a shit about anyone's happiness beyond his own political career.
That's what he wanted—to make me doubt, to make me feel like I'm not enough.
Mission accomplished, you manipulative prick.
But the doubts are there now, whether I want them or not.
What if Caleb does eventually choose them?
The family, the money, the perfect political future?
He keeps saying he won't, but he also keeps showing up to these things, keeps trying to please them even when they treat him, treat us, like garbage.
And I'm pissed at myself for even letting that man's words matter. For standing in that perfect house and feeling small. For wondering, even for a second, if seventy-five grand was a reasonable offer.
Seventy-five thousand dollars. The number echoes in my head, not because I want the money, but because someone thought that was the price of walking away from Caleb.
The truly fucked up part of today is that somewhere, Caleb Huntington II is probably convinced he made a very reasonable offer.