Chapter 28 Caleb #2
Dad clears his throat. “We thought we might take you both out for dinner,” he says. “If you’re not… obligated to the team, that is.”
The plural is what gets me. “You both.”
Miguel’s hand presses a little more firmly against my back, like a secret question. You okay?
I am not okay.
“I think some of the guys are grabbing food,” I say, brain running the options. Stay in the safety of my team’s noise or go sit at a table with my dad, my boyfriend and my stepmom.
I already know which choice I’m going to make. Dr. Kaur would call it exposure therapy. I call it masochism.
“I can text Coach,” I say. “He won’t mind if I skip tonight. I just have to be back at the hotel for curfew because we have the bus ride home in the morning.”
Dad nods, just once. “Good,” he says. “There’s a place near the hotel that looks decent.”
Miguel meets my eyes for a beat. There’s a question there but he doesn’t ask.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. Okay.”
The restaurant Mom picked is one of those slightly nicer chain places—dimmed lights, fake wood paneling, and too many TV screens in the bar area. Public enough that nobody can really raise their voice without making a scene.
Probably part of why Dad agreed to this.
We cram into a booth near the back. Parents on one side, me and Miguel on the other. My knee bumps his under the table, and he leaves it there.
Menus open, all of us pretending to care about chicken versus salmon.
Mom mercifully fills the first ten minutes with commentary. How long the drive was. How she made Dad stop at a roadside fruit stand because “California strawberries are fine, but you should try Oregon’s, mijo.”
Miguel adds color commentary, doing an impression of her cussing at traffic that makes her swat him and Dad crack a reluctant smile.
I cling to the normal like a lifeline.
The server comes and takes drink orders. Miguel and I stick to soda, Coach’s voice in my head, no alcohol on the road. Mom gets wine and Dad orders a beer, which feels like foreshadowing.
When the server leaves, the bubble of safe small talk starts to thin.
Dad taps his fingers against his glass. It’s a lawyerly rhythm, one I know like the back of my hand. “You really did play well tonight,” he says finally, looking at me. “Scoring, facilitating. Your defense has improved.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Coach says a guy from the NBA was here. Asked about me.”
Dad’s brows lift. “Is that something you’d consider?” he asks. “Professional ball?”
“Maybe,” I say, my stomach knotted. “I… don’t know yet. It would be a lot. New city, new everything. But… yeah. It’s kind of insane anyone even noticed me.”
“Not insane,” Dad says. “You’ve worked hard.”
His eyes soften for a second, and I flash back to being sixteen, him in the driveway rebounding for me while I shot free throws under the porch light. Before I told him anything. Before I asked him to see the whole picture.
It’s all here in this booth. Miguel’s leg pressed to mine. Mom’s ring catching the light. Dad, in the middle.
He clears his throat. “I, ah… appreciate you texting me the other night,” he says, shifting gears. “About needing more time before we… talk in more depth.”
I feel Miguel’s hand slide over my knee under the table, his thumb drawing one slow circle. I breathe around it.
“Yeah,” I say. “We just wanted to… Go into it prepared.”
A faint smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “That is very you,” he says. “Preparing for a conversation like it’s a midterm.”
“It’s either that or a panic attack,” I say lightly. “Could go either way.”
His face tightens briefly at the word panic. I don’t apologize for it.
“I know this isn’t… easy,” he says, glancing between me and Miguel. “For any of us.”
Not just the stepbrother thing. The queerness. The taboo of it all in his head.
“I want to… be honest,” he says slowly. “Without… being cruel. I’m… still struggling.”
Here we go.
Miguel’s hand tightens on my knee. Mom sets her wineglass down with a soft clink, watching my dad like she’s ready to jump in if he veers off script.
“I believe you when you say you care about each other,” Dad continues. “I see that. I saw it tonight. The way you look for him in the stands, the way you—” He gestures vaguely between us. “—move in orbit.”
“But I… keep wondering.” He exhales and looks down at his hands.
“If this is… something you’ll grow out of.
A… concentrated attachment, brought on by…
everything Caleb’s been through. If you might…
one day… find a partner who isn’t entwined with all this history.
A… woman, maybe. Someone who could give you a… more straightforward path.”
“The ‘right girl,’” I say quietly. I can hear my voice go a little flat.
He winces. “I know how that sounds,” he says. “I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings. I’m trying to… ask if you’re sure this isn’t a… detour.”
Miguel’s knee presses harder against mine, his grip firm. Under the table, our fingers brush, then lace together.
He says it the same way he did on the phone. Is this real?
Say it like you’re telling the truth, not asking permission.
“I’m sure,” I say, and I am.
My heart is trying to punch its way out of my ribs and I force my shoulders down. “I’m bisexual, Dad,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “That’s not a… side effect or a coping mechanism or a blip. It’s… who I am. Women are beautiful, amazing, terrifying creatures—no offense,” I add to Mom.
She snorts. “None taken.”
“But men…” I take a breath. “Men do the same thing for me. They always have. And my person—” I squeeze Miguel’s hand under the table. “—just happens to be a man. This man. It’s not a placeholder until the ‘right girl’ shows up. He is my right person.”
Dad’s jaw strains, looking between us, and I can see the muscle in his cheek twitch.
“I’m sure that’s… not what you pictured,” I say more softly. “When you thought about my life. I know. But I can’t… untangle those feelings just because it would make your version of my future neater.”
His eyes close for half a second. When he opens them, they’re bright with something I can’t fully read.
“I don’t… want you to untangle yourself,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to understand the knots.”
“Then believe me when I tell you what they are,” I say. “Please.”
Our server appears, oblivious, carrying drinks and a basket of bread. He sets everything down and asks cheerfully if we’re ready to order. We scramble through it—the salmon for Mom, burger for Miguel, steak for Dad, and pasta for me.
Once he leaves, our mom breaks the quiet.
“I’m just happy,” she says, looking between us, “that you both feel safe enough to tell us. To let us see you. That’s…
not something I take for granted.” Her eyes shine, and there’s a little edge to her voice now.
She glances at Dad, not subtly. “I love you both. That will never change. For me, there is no condition on that.”
Miguel huffs out a breath that might secretly be a choked laugh. “Thanks, Mamá,” he says, voice rough.
Dad’s mouth twists. “I love you both,” he says quickly, as if he’s afraid we won’t believe it if he doesn’t say it now. “That’s not… in question. I’m not… rescinding that, for the record.”
“For the record,” I echo.
He hesitates, then pushes on. “But I…” He sighs, looking down at the table like the next words are written in the wood grain. “I do still have concerns. Practical ones.”
Here we go, part two.
“What about… children?” he asks, looking at me first, then Miguel. “Don’t you want to be able to have your own someday? I would like to be a grandfather. And I’m sure your mother would like that too, Miggy.”
Straight line: man + woman = baby + happy grandparents.
My stomach does a weird flip. Not because I’ve given a lot of serious thought to kids—I’m twenty-two. My biggest responsibility right now is my grades, for fuck’s sake, but because I know the story beneath his words.
Gay equals no kids, which equals tragedy.
“Ashton,” Mom says softly, a warning in it. “You know that’s not—”
“No, I… it’s okay,” I cut in, because part of me wants to answer this. On purpose. Not years from now when I’m blindsided by it.
I take a breath. My fingers tighten around Miguel’s under the table. He squeezes back. “I don’t… have a five-year plan,” I say. “I can barely plan my course schedule, let alone even think about being a parent. But… yeah. I’ve thought about it. Kids. Someday.”
The admission feels huge and fragile and terrifying.
Dad looks… surprised. “You have?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean… you know my past better than anyone at this table beside myself. Part of me thinks I’d be a disaster as a parent.
Another part…” I swallow. “Another part thinks maybe… I’d be really careful.
In good ways. That I’d… never do to a kid what they did to me and that I’d want to give them… something better.”
Miguel’s thumb stills on my hand. I don’t look at him because if I see his face right now, I might cry in this chain restaurant.
“The point is,” I force myself to keep going, “being bi doesn’t cancel that option. Neither does being with Miguel. There’s… adoption. Surrogacy. Donor stuff. Science, Dad. The timeline of queer people having kids is not just ‘never.’”
A corner of his mouth quirks despite himself. “Science,” he repeats.
“Also…” I exhale, giving him a look. “Please stop reducing my entire life to your hypothetical grandchild. I get that you want that. I… love that you can imagine that part of me. But you have to trust that if I want kids, I’ll figure out how to make that happen.
And if I don’t…” I shrug again, smaller.
“It’ll be because of who I am and what I ultimately want. Not who I sleep with.”
Dad stares at me for a second. The lawyer part of his brain is probably cataloguing every word.
Mom jumps in before he can rebut. “And you know,” she says, tilting her head, “I have heard there are many, many children who need homes. Who already exist. You do not need to make one with your body for it to count, mijo.”
Miguel clears his throat. “Also,” he adds, voice steady, “I’m only twenty-four. I can barely be trusted with a plant.”
“Barely,” I mutter. “That thing is clinging to life on vibes alone.”
“Shut up,” he says automatically, then goes on.
“My point is, if I ever get to a place where I want kids? I’ll talk to my partner about it.
” He looks at me when he says it. “We’ll figure it out.
The question right now is not ‘how will you give me grandchildren,’ with all due respect.
” His mouth twitches. “It’s, ‘Can you respect the person your son is choosing to build a life with in the present tense?’”
There it is. The legalese. With all due respect.
Dad’s eyes narrow, but not in anger. More like… assessing.
“I’m not… uninterested in your future,” he says. “It’s my job to think ahead. To see possible paths and consequences.”
“That’s your job as a lawyer,” I say. “As my dad, your job is… also to be here. With me. In this version of my life. Not just the one you imagined.”
He flinches. My heart is pounding too loud in my ears to calibrate.
“You’re… right,” he says finally, the words sounding like they’ve been dug up. “I am… clumsy with this. I’m trying to fit it into my existing frameworks and there… isn’t one.”
“No shit,” Miguel mutters under his breath, soft enough that only we hear it. My knee bumps his in warning.
“I can… adjust,” Dad says slowly. “I don’t… promise instant understanding. But I can… listen. I can stop asking whether this is a… phase. That’s not… fair to either of you. You’ve made it very clear you’re… serious.”
It’s not a confession, but it’s something.
He’s still struggling. That hasn’t magically gone away because I hit twenty points in Oregon. But he’s walking himself back from the “everyone else is wrong but me” ledge.
“That’s all I’m asking,” I say. “Listen. And… try.”
Mom reaches across the table then, laying a hand over his. “And in the meantime,” she says gently, “maybe we can just… enjoy dinner? Our boy played one hell of a game. That is a good day, Ashton.”
Miguel snorts. I huff out a breath that might be a laugh.
“Agreed,” Dad says after a beat. He squeezes her hand back, then looks at me. Really looks at me. “I am proud of you,” he says again, quieter than he did in the hallway. “For how you played. For… how you spoke.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
Miguel squeezes my hand under the table so hard it nearly hurts.
The food arrives. Conversation slides, a little awkwardly, back toward safer topics. How Anderson almost took out the mascot at one point. Mom’s ongoing feud with the GPS voice. Miguel’s latest nightmare wiring job.
Dad didn’t exactly give us his blessing. Didn’t give us some glowing paternal speech about love being love. This isn’t a tidy acceptance arc. It’s messy and uneven and full of barbed points we’ll still hit.
But he also didn’t pull away.
He didn’t say, “Break up or else.”
He said, “I’m proud of you.”