Chapter 20 Miguel #2
The voice comes from my left. Male, mid-fifties maybe. Smooth, practiced. The kind of voice that’s spent a lot of time in courtrooms and boardrooms.
Caleb goes very still.
I look up.
The man is standing at the edge of our table, in a suit that says “billable hours” and a tie that probably costs more than my entire outfit. Salt-and-pepper hair, sharp eyes that take in everything. There’s a woman beside him, his wife, maybe, holding a clutch, looking politely curious.
“Wow,” the man says. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Caleb Burton, right?”
Caleb’s smile appears like he flipped a switch. “Hey, Mr. Harrington,” he says, his voice doing that polite, careful thing. “Yeah. Hi.”
Ah.
One of Dad’s partners from the firm.
Fantastic.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without the jersey,” Harrington says with a chuckle, like that’s original. “Good game the other night. Your dad’s very proud. Speaks of you often.”
Caleb’s throat works. “Thanks.”
Harrington’s gaze slides to me. It’s not hostile. Not really. Just… assessing like a good lawyer does.
“And this must be…?” he prompts.
My spine straightens, and Caleb goes rigid across from me.
There’s a split second where I want to say it.
I want to look this man in his expensive, harmless-looking face and say, This is my boyfriend. The love of my life. The reason your colleague’s son is still breathing.
But Caleb’s eyes flick to mine for a heartbeat, panic sparking, then gone as fast as it appears.
He’s not ready to blow his entire life up over pasta for two.
So I swallow the truth.
“This is Miguel,” Caleb says smoothly. “My stepbrother.”
Harrington’s eyebrows go up. “Ah, yes, of course,” he says, like it clicks now. “I’ve heard your name thrown around. You do electrical work, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Miguel Veracruz. Nice to meet you.” I don’t stand. I don’t offer my hand. My body’s too busy vibrating with all the things I’m not saying.
He doesn’t seem to notice the slight. Or he’s too polite to call it out. “John Harrington,” he says anyway. “This is my wife, Eleanor.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says with a soft smile. Her eyes linger on Caleb’s face with warmth. “We’ve heard such lovely things about you.”
Caleb gives a tight little nod. “Thank you.”
Harrington glances between us. Two plates, one candle, bordering intimacy, no matter how you spin it. “Well,” he says after a beat. “I won’t keep you. Just wanted to say hello. Your father will be pleased to hear you’re… getting out and enjoying yourself.”
Caleb’s shoulders hitch, just barely.
“Yeah,” he says. “Trying to.”
“Good man.” Harrington raps his knuckles lightly on the table in some weird older-guy gesture of camaraderie. “Keep up the good work—on the court and in class. The NBA will be lucky to have you someday.”
He says it like my man’s future is a path that is already laid out by other men in suits.
“Take care,” Eleanor adds.
They move on to their table, deeper in the restaurant. The noise swallows them back up.
All I can hear is Caleb’s breathing.
He’s staring at his plate, fork lying in a smear of pesto, shoulders drawn tight again.
“He’s not gonna tell him,” I keep my voice low. “Not anything specific. Just ‘oh, I saw Caleb at dinner with his brother.’ It’s not that deep.”
“I know,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “I know.”
“Then why do you look like you just got called into the principal’s office?”
He huffs out a humorless breath. “Because that’s what it feels like. Every time someone from his world sees me, it’s like I can feel the report forming in their head. How did I look? Who was I with? Was I saying the right things? Wearing the right thing?”
I let my hand slide across the table, palm up.
After a second, he puts his hand in mine, fingers cool and a little shaky.
“You did fine,” I say. “You were polite. Perfect little future lawyer. You passed the test.”
His mouth twists. “That’s the whole problem. I don’t want to be a lawyer, Miggy.”
“I know,” I say. I squeeze his hand. “Baby, Harrington’s got his own shit to worry about. His opinion doesn’t get to take this from you.”
“This?” he echoes.
“Being out with me,” I say. “Having a night that’s just ours. Not your dad’s. Not your coach’s. Not your therapist’s. Ours.”
Something in his face softens at that.
“You know he’s going to mention it, though,” he says quietly. “To my dad. ‘Oh, I saw Caleb and Miguel at dinner, they seemed… close.’ And my dad’s going to do that thing where he overthinks everything and then never actually asks me the question.”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” I say. “If it comes up, we deal. Together. Look, I know disappointing him is your biggest fear, but other than him yelling, what can he really do? Hmm? You’re on a scholarship, so it’s not like he pays for anything school-related.
Insurance for your car and what... your phone?
I’ll pay for those so he doesn’t have to. ”
Okay, maybe the whole health insurance thing too… but not right now.
He searches my face. “You’d do that for me? You’re really not… mad? That I didn’t introduce you as…?”
I exhale slowly. “I’d do so much more for you, baby.
And do I want to shout it from the rooftops that you’re mine?
Every fucking day.” I squeeze his fingers.
“Do I want your dad’s coworker to be the first one to hear it?
Fuck no. You’re not ready for that fallout, baby.
I get that and I’m not gonna shove you into it in the middle of dinner. ”
His eyes shine a little. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not making me feel like a coward,” he says.
I shake my head. “You’re not a coward. You’re someone who survived shit that should’ve killed you. You get to choose the terms of your own freedom. You hear me?”
Inhaling a shuddery breath, he nods. “Yeah. I hear you.”
“Good.” I let go of his hand only so I can steal a piece of burrata from his plate. “Now eat your bougie-ass cheese, pretty boy, before I decide you don’t deserve it and I eat it all because goddamn,” stealing some more. “That’s fucking good.”
Snorting, some of the light coming back into his eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah… but I’m your asshole,” I say automatically.
He glances toward where Harrington is sitting. Then back at me.
Under the table, he slides his foot along mine. Above, he takes another bite of pasta.
It’s small.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
On the drive home, he’s quieter, but not in that hollow way. More like his brain’s jammed full, processing. “You still want to stay over?”
He looks at his phone, checking the time, then over at me. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”
“It’s always okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ll make popcorn. We can put something stupid on and ignore all old white men in suits.”
He laughs, just a little. “Deal.”
Once we’re home and he’s changed into my sweats and one of my hoodies, he curls up against me on the couch with his head on my shoulder and his legs tangled with mine.
What stays is this.
His weight against me.
His hand resting over my heart.
The quiet, stubborn fact is that no matter who sees us, no matter who pretends not to, we’re still here.
Choosing each other and nobody can take that away from us.