Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
MIGUEL
Dad has a “work thing,” which is how I know it’s not really optional.
“It’s just dinner,” he says over coffee, like we didn’t all almost spontaneously combust the last time we sat at a restaurant together. “A few partners and their spouses. Nothing formal.”
Nothing formal, my ass. The place he names is the kind of spot where they don’t list prices and the lighting makes rich people look mysterious.
Mom squeezes my arm. “We’ll go,” she says, like it’s decided. Then, to me and Caleb, “You boys have nice shirts, right? Ones that can be worn to a nice place?”
Caleb snorts into his oatmeal. “Yeah, Ma… It’s kind of required to have nice clothes when you play for a college basketball team.”
The drive over is fine. Better than fine.
Caleb commandeers the Bluetooth, putting on his chaotic playlist that veers from Peso Pluma to Sleep Token to some old rock song Ashton secretly likes.
By the second chorus, even Dad is mumbling along.
Caleb is pressed against my side in the back seat, knee tucked against mine, thigh warm where our jeans touch.
At the red light, his hand sneaks over to rest on my thigh, fingers drumming to the beat.
Little stolen touches.
Nothing anyone could yell at us for.
His eyes are bright in the passing streetlights. Spring break: no practices, no alarms. He looks… lighter.
I want to keep it that way.
The restaurant is all low ceilings, dark wood, and white tablecloths. A long table’s been pushed together for the group. Eight, twelve… fourteen people. Partners, associates, and a couple of significant others.
The introductions begin with a blur. “This is my wife, Celeste.”
“And my son, Caleb. You’ve heard me brag about him and his basketball stats.”
“And my stepson, Miguel.”
The word always lands weird, “step.” Like the universe put a little asterisk on my existence.
Everyone smiles the way lawyers do in public—measured, calibrated.
There are handshakes and shoulder claps.
Someone jokes about Caleb’s last game and about the scout, and he ducks his head, grinning, cheeks going pink.
Dad looks proud.
We sit with Mom on Dad’s right. I end up across from the managing partner’s wife. Caleb is next to me, between me and some junior associate who looks twelve and keeps calling Dad “sir” like we’re in court.
Menus go up and so start the orders of water, wine and other alcohol. Dad gets a nice red and Mom gets a margarita and winks at me over the rim like she’s about to start trouble on purpose.
Under the table, Caleb’s knee hits mine, and he leaves it there. I rest my hand on my thigh, palm up. Not pushing, just a silent invitation.
A second later, his fingers slide into mine, twisting and lacing. It’s nothing from the outside. Two grown “brothers” sitting close at a crowded table. His thumb strokes my knuckle once, twice. I’m here.
Conversation hums all around us about cases, clients, and some judge everyone mutually hates. I can tell Dad is half-performing, half-genuinely engaged. He’s in his element here. Confident. Razor-sharp.
Someone asks Caleb about the season and he talks about the last three games, about the scout, and about maybe taking time off if the NBA isn’t in the cards. His voice is steady. He doesn’t mention panic attacks or grounding exercises or the nights his brain tries to convince him he’s a burden.
“You raised a good kid, Ashton,” one of the partners says. “Hell of a shot on him.”
Dad’s jaw softens. “He did the work,” he says. “I just drove him to practice and put up the money.”
Caleb squeezes my hand under the table, quick and grateful. I squeeze back.
Things are… okay. Not perfect. But okay.
Until they’re not.
It happens in a tiny, stupid moment.
It always fucking does.
One of Dad’s colleagues gets up to use the restroom and has to squeeze past our end of the table.
Caleb’s laugh hits some story my mom is telling, and he leans into me, head tipping toward my shoulder.
His hand tightens around mine, thumb brushing over my wrist. I’m looking at him, not at the room, so I see it all reflected in his eyes—how the guy glances down, sees our hands, and registers the intimacy.
There’s a flicker of surprise, then the quick, polite mask.
“Excuse me, boys,” he murmurs, moving past us with an awkward look on his face.
When he’s gone, I feel Dad’s gaze like a spotlight.
I look up.
His eyes are pinned to where our hands are joined in my lap. His face doesn’t change much—just a tightening around the eyes and a fractional press of his mouth.
Caleb follows my line of sight. His fingers loosen, then pull away, like he’s been burned. The loss of contact is small and stupid and it hurts in a way I wasn’t braced for.
Dad clears his throat, low. “Can I… ah… have a word with you two?” he says. “Let’s just step outside for a moment?”
He says it lightly enough that nobody else at the table looks twice. He could be asking us to help him take a call.
My stomach drops.
Caleb swallows. “Sure,” he says.
We stand and Mom looks up, eyes narrowing.
She knows his tone. But she doesn’t say anything with all these people watching.
My eyes find hers and we both already know where this is going.
Dad leads the way toward the entrance, then veers off toward a little hallway between the bar and the bathrooms. It’s quiet there, just the faint clink of glassware and the muffled restaurant hum.
He turns to face us, hands in his pockets. “Look,” he starts, voice low. “I’m… trying. You know that.”
My shoulders go tight. “Okay,” I say carefully. “What’s going on?”
He glances back toward the table. Then at us. “This isn’t about… policing your feelings,” he says. “It’s about… appearances. Professionalism. When we’re out with my colleagues, I need you to be… mindful.”
Caleb’s jaw tics. “Mindful of what?”
Dad’s gaze drops, just for a second, to where our hands were. “You can’t… do that in public,” he says finally. “Not… when you’re with me. It puts me in a difficult position.”
What a subtle, “You’ll make me look bad.”
Caleb goes very still next to me.
I can feel his breathing change more than I can hear it—shorter, shallower. That tiny, telltale tremor just under his skin.
“‘Do that,’” he repeats quietly. “You mean… hold his hand.”
Dad flinches, like hearing it out loud makes it worse. “You know how people are,” he says. “This is… not something everyone understands. The stepbrother complication, the… queerness. I’m still getting my head around it. I’d appreciate if you didn’t… force the issue in front of my colleagues.”
Caleb laughs. Once. A short, bitter sound. “Force the issue,” he says. “We were sitting there. At the table you invited us to. Holding hands under the table like scared teenagers, Dad. We weren’t making out on the dessert cart.”
His voice shakes on the last word.
Dad exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Caleb, that’s not what I—”
“But it is,” I cut in, before he can lawyer his way out of it or guilt trip Caleb into a corner. My voice comes out lower than I intend. No, fuck that. I meant it too. “That’s exactly what you’re saying.”
He looks at me, eyes sharpening. “Miguel—”
“No,” I say, because I can feel my own temper rising and if I don’t keep it focused, it’s going to blow.
“You told us you’re trying to see us. You told him you were proud of him for being honest. For telling you who he is.
Now we’re here, being exactly who we said we are, and your main concern is how it plays with your partners. ”
“It’s not that simple,” he says.
“It is that simple,” I say. “You want your son to trust you? Don’t ask him to be proud of himself in private and ashamed of himself in public.”
Caleb makes a small noise in his throat, like the words hit him somewhere raw.
Dad’s jaw tightens. “It’s not shame,” he insists. “It’s… discretion. There’s a difference.”
“Feels the same from over here,” Caleb whispers.
I glance at him and see it, the glassy look in his eyes, the way his hands curl toward his palms like he’s trying not to dig his nails in. He’s not standing in a hallway of a nice restaurant anymore. His brain is already trying to drag him somewhere else.
“Caleb,” I say softly, but he’s already shaking his head.
“I need a minute,” he rasps. “Bathroom.”
He turns and walks away fast enough to almost be a jog.
I let him go. For the moment.
Dad drags a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to upset him,” he says, and I believe that. I do. It doesn’t make me less pissed. “I’m just… trying to balance—”
“You don’t get to balance us against your comfort,” I say, cutting him off again. “You invited both parties. The son you like to brag about and the son he loves. You don’t get to cherry-pick which one shows up, so your night is easier.”
“Miguel,” he says, voice warning.
I step closer, not backing down. “You want us at these dinners?” I ask. “You get us as we are. Not as your colleagues think we are. If you’re embarrassed to be seen with us, say that, so we can stop putting ourselves through this.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is asking him to go back into the closet for the sake of your reputation,” I say. “He spent years contorting himself into whatever shape he thought you could handle. He has the scars to prove it. I’m not watching him do it again.”
We stare at each other for a long, tight second.
I’m ten seconds away from saying something I can’t take back when a door down the hall opens and the sound jolts me.
I step back. “He’s probably spiraling,” I say more quietly. “I’m going to go get him grounded.”
Dad swallows, throat bobbing. “Is he—”
“He’ll be ‘okay’ if we stop doing this to him,” I say, and I mean all of us. Him. Me. The universe. “We’ll talk later. Maybe.”
I don’t wait for an answer.