Chapter 24
How to Lose a Guy in One Conversation
CALEB
The brass door knocker weighs heavily in my hand. Cold. Formal. Everything the last two days haven't been.
James is probably still in the common room, laptop balanced on his knees, running commentary on that terrible reality show someone put on the TV. Gavin's likely forcing more pancakes on Haru, who keeps insisting American portions will kill him while accepting seconds.
Should have stayed there in that almost-empty frat house that feels more like a home than this place ever has.
But Huntington's don't cancel.
With a sigh, I knock, even though I lived here for eighteen years and technically still have a key somewhere. The formality is appropriate somehow. I'm not coming home; I'm attending a meeting.
Maria answers, her same impassive expression softening slightly when she sees me. "Mr. Huntington. Your father is waiting in the study."
"Thanks, Maria. How was your Christmas?"
The question catches her off guard, and her professional mask slips for a moment. "It was... very nice, thank you. My grandchildren visited."
My smile's real this time. "How many do you have now?"
"Four," she says, a hint of pride breaking through. "The youngest is three months."
"That's great. Do you have pictures?"
She hesitates, glancing toward the study, then pulls out her phone. Her hands shake slightly as she shows me a photo of four children arranged around a Christmas tree. "They're beautiful, but Mr. Huntington, I should—"
"Caleb?" My father's voice cuts through the moment. He stands at the end of the hallway, perfectly dressed as always, expression neutral. "I don't pay Maria to show you family photos."
And just like that, the warmth evaporates. Maria straightens, slipping her phone away, but not before I catch the look she gives me—something between sympathy and warning. "Excuse me, sir."
What was she about to say?
Following my father into his study, irritation simmers under my skin. The room is exactly as I remember it, dark wood, leather-bound books, and the distinct sense that every object has been chosen to convey power and tradition.
"Sit," he says, pointing to the chair across from his desk. Not beside him on the sofa, not in one of the comfortable armchairs by the window. Across from his desk, like a student called to the principal's office.
"You said we needed to discuss the campaign schedule." His invitation to sit goes ignored.
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs. "Suit yourself." He takes his seat behind the desk, opening a leather portfolio. "There are several events in January I'd like you to attend. The Coastal Conservation Gala on the 15th, and the State Bar Association mixer on the 28th."
"I have classes starting January 11th," I point out.
"All weekend events. Shouldn't interfere with your academic obligations." His tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "Your brothers will attend as well, of course. With their wives."
The implied expectation hangs in the air between us. I take a deep breath, reminding myself not to rise to the bait.
"I'll check my calendar and let you know."
"No need. I've already had my assistant block these dates for you."
Of course he has. Why pretend I have any say in the matter?
"Fine." This fight isn't worth it. "Is that all?"
He closes the portfolio, but instead of dismissing me, he leans back in his chair. "Actually, there's something else we need to discuss. About your living situation at the fraternity."
The shift in tone immediately puts me on guard. "My living situation is fine."
"Is it?" He reaches for something on the corner of his desk, a folder I hadn't noticed before, manila and unmarked. Been sitting there the whole time, waiting. "I've had some concerns. About the influence you're under."
"The influence." My voice goes flat.
"James Hunter." He says the name like it tastes bad. "Your... boyfriend."
The way he pauses before 'boyfriend' makes my jaw tighten. "What about him?"
"I've been doing some research." He opens the folder with deliberate care. "Just due diligence, you understand. Making sure the people in my son's life are... appropriate."
"Research." The word comes out sharp. "You mean you had someone investigate him?"
"I prefer to think of it as staying informed." He slides a photo across the desk. "Did you know James has been systematically building relationships with key members of the LGBTQ+ donor community in this state?"
The photo shows James at an event, shaking hands with someone in a suit. "He does charity work. Web design for nonprofits. I know about this."
"Do you?" Another photo. "Rainbow Haven House. The Pride Resource Center. Alliance for Queer Youth. He's designed websites for all of them." He taps the second photo. "Pro bono work, he calls it."
"Because he believes in their causes." I’m not going to touch those photos. "What's your point?"
"My point is that your boyfriend has been very strategic in building a network that closely aligns with potential donors for my campaign." His eyes never leave mine. "A campaign that will need to demonstrate inclusion and diversity to win certain districts."
The implication hits like a slap. "You think James is dating me to... what? Network with potential donors?"
"I think James Hunter is a young man with no family, limited resources, and considerable ambition." His voice is maddeningly reasonable. "I think he sees opportunities in his association with you. With our family."
"That's ridiculous. You don't know him at all."
"Don't I?" He opens the folder wider, turning it so I can see more contents. Photos. Printed articles. Event programs.
"Here's James at a fundraiser for Rainbow Haven House last February. Note who he's speaking with." He points to a photo where James is shaking hands with someone. "Senator Mitchell's chief of staff. Mitchell, who sits on the Appropriations Committee."
My stomach twists. "So he met someone at a fundraiser. That proves nothing."
"Here's another. The Pride Resource Center gala last October. Pictured with Congressman Evans' daughter, who runs his foundation." He flips to another photo. "Tech conference, May. With three people who've since become major donors to progressive campaigns."
"He works in tech. He's involved in LGBTQ+ causes. Of course, he knows these people."
"And now he knows you." My father's voice drops lower. "The gay son of Caleb Huntington II, who's running for Senate. Convenient, wouldn't you say?"
I want to dismiss it. Should dismiss it. But cold works its way through my ribs. James never mentioned knowing people like this. Never brought up these connections.
"He's never once asked me about your campaign." I hate that I feel the need to defend him.
"Of course not. He's smarter than that." My father leans forward. "Tell me, has he encouraged you to attend certain events? Introduced you to particular people?"
A memory surfaces, last month, James mentioned a Pride Resource Center event. He thought it might be interesting, and he loved the advocacy work they were doing. How his expression shifted, softened, talking about Rainbow Haven House's Christmas program.
"No more than anyone would who's passionate about causes they care about." My voice has lost some of its conviction.
My father notices. Of course he does. "Caleb. I understand you're attracted to him. He's exactly your type: intelligent, independent, with that chip on his shoulder that you find so appealing. But don't be naive."
"I'm not discussing this with you." I turn to leave, but his next words freeze my hand on the doorknob.
"He came to see me, you know."
"What?"
"The day after Christmas. He came to my office." He sounds almost sympathetic now. "I thought you knew."
Slowly, I turn back. "What are you talking about?"
"James requested a meeting. Said he wanted to discuss his future. His opportunities."
"You're lying." But even as the words come out, James's behavior since Christmas plays through my head. He's avoided talking about that day, changing the subject whenever it comes up. That moment two days ago when his phone rang and he stepped into the hallway, he came back tense and distracted.
My father leans back in his chair, studying me. "You don't believe me."
"Should I? You've been trying to undermine my relationship since you learned of it."
"Fair point." He opens a drawer and pulls out his phone. "I record all meetings in my office. Professional habit, you'd be surprised how often people claim they never said things they absolutely did say. Would you like to hear it?"
The casual offer makes my stomach drop. It’s too smooth, too prepared. "You just happen to have it ready?"
"Caleb, I record everything. Ask my assistant, she deletes hundreds of hours of useless footage every quarter." He taps the screen. "December 26th. Eleven-thirty AM. Do you want to hear it or not?"
Everything in me screams this is a trap. That I should walk out right now, go straight to James, and ask him directly. But my father's watching me with that politician's patience, the kind that knows I won't be able not to know.
"Play it."
He presses a button. The audio quality is crystal clear; professional recording equipment, not a phone mic. Background hum of his office HVAC system, the faint sound of traffic from the street below.
"I appreciate you meeting with me, Mr. Huntington." James's voice. Unmistakable despite the slight echo of the office space.
"Of course. Though I must admit I was surprised by your call." My father's voice is infuriatingly calm.
A pause. The sound of someone shifting in a leather chair.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About Caleb's future. About... expectations." James again, and something in his tone makes my stomach drop.
"And?"
"I care about Caleb. A lot. But maybe you're right that we're... heading in different directions."
The sick feeling grows low in my stomach, cold and heavy.