Chapter 39 Caleb #2
“I’d like more time with him,” he says carefully. “With both of you. But I understand if… dinners and public events feel like too much right now.”
“They do,” I say. “For him, especially. For me… less. But if he’s at a seven or eight, I’m not dragging him into a white-tablecloth arena so you can test-drive your new ally software.”
He winces, but there’s a flicker of something like appreciation there too. “That’s… reasonable,” he says. “Tell him he doesn’t owe me performance. Or proximity. I’m not entitled to them.”
I nod. “You can tell him yourself,” I say. “In your own words. When he’s ready.”
“I will,” he says. “If he… lets me.”
We stand, and there’s a weird moment where I think he might go for a hug. He doesn’t. Just reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, firm and a little awkward.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. “And for… not sugarcoating it.”
I shrug, mouth twisting. “I’m bad at sugarcoating,” I say. “Ask your son.”
His eyes soften. “You get it from your mother,” he says.
We part ways on the sidewalk, he makes his way back toward the courthouse, and I toward my truck. The sun is bright, the sky stupidly blue, and people are bustling past with laptops and briefcases and grocery bags.
It wasn’t a disaster.
It wasn’t a miracle.
Truce, not transformation.
And that’s okay. For now.
Caleb’s on the couch when I get home, laptop open, notebooks spread around him like a paper nest. He’s wearing my old UCSC hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair in full wavy-gone-feral mode.
He looks up the second the door opens. His eyes flick over my face, checking for damage.
“Hey,” he says. “How was the courtroom café summit?”
I kick off my boots and hang my keys on the hook. “Surprisingly non-explosive,” I say. “On a scale of one to ‘everyone cried,’ we were at like… a six.”
That makes him snort. “So… feelings, but no meltdown?”
“Yeah,” I say, dropping onto the other end of the couch and tugging at the hem of his hoodie until he scoots into my side. “Mostly grown-up conversation with minor emotional bleeding.”
“Sexy,” he deadpans, curling his feet under him.
I rest my arm along the back of the couch, my fingers automatically going to his hair. “He apologized,” I say.
Caleb goes still. “For… the dinner?”
“For the ‘you can’t do that in public’ comment,” I clarify. “He owned that it was about his fear. His reputation. Called it ‘old wiring.’ Didn’t try to pretty it up.”
Caleb’s mouth twists. “Okay,” he says slowly. “What else?”
“He said he doesn’t want his fear to make us hide,” I continue. “Said he’s proud of you—playing, talking to him, staying here. Proud of me for being your human shield all these years, even though that part wasn’t really fair.”
Caleb’s eyes get shiny and he looks away at the muted TV. “He said that?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “His exact words were longer and more lawyer-y, but that was the gist.”
He swallows. “Did it sound… real?” He asks, turning to me. “Or like something he practiced in the mirror first?”
“Both,” I admit. “He’d clearly thought about it. And he was still centering his own discomfort more than I’d like. But he wasn’t… bullshitting. He looked… scared. And ashamed. And like, he actually wants to be better, not just talk about it.”
Caleb lets out a breath he’s probably been holding since my truck pulled away from the café.
“What did you say?” he asks.
I rub my thumb over the curve of his ear. “That we’re not going back into the closet, so his colleagues are more comfortable. That if he wants to be in your life, he has to be a place of safety, not another arena. That we’ll show up where we feel safe. That’s the deal.”
He gives a choked laugh. “Bet he loved that.”
“He didn’t hate it,” I say. “He took it. Heard it. Didn’t try to argue me into being wrong. That’s new.”
Caleb’s shoulders slump, some tension melting out of them, some staying lodged in the tendons of his neck.
“I’m…” He trails off, searching for a word. “Torn,” he settles on. “Part of me is like, ‘okay, that’s good, that’s progress.’ And another part is like, ‘Cool, I’m so fucking tired of this. Of every step being a negotiation.’”
“I know,” I say softly. “Both are allowed.”
He tips his head back to look at me. “Does it make you… feel better?” he asks. “The apology.”
I consider it for a moment. “It makes me feel… less homicidal,” I say. “I still don’t trust him as steady support yet. But I trust that he’s at least looking at his own shit instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. That’s a start.”
Caleb nods slowly. “That’s kind of how I feel when he texts something thoughtful,” he says. “Like… it doesn’t erase the last sixteen years, but it’s… him moving his feet instead of planting them.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And we still get to decide how close we stand. Close enough to see the effort, far enough that if he trips, he doesn’t take us down with him.”
“Your metaphors are getting very dad-therapy,” he mutters.
“Well, you have to admit,” I say, “I’d make a pretty hot dad.”
“Not arguing with you about that.” He leans into me more, resting his head on my shoulder. “Did he… ask to see me?” He asks, voice small around the edges.
“Yeah,” I say. “He said he’d like more time with you. With us. But he understands if dinners and public events are too much right now. He told me to say you don’t owe him performance or proximity. That he knows he’s not entitled.”
Caleb goes quiet.
“Do you want to see him?” I ask carefully. “Not ‘should.’ Not ‘he expects me to.’ Do you want that?”
He chews on his bottom lip. “I… don’t know,” he says honestly. “Not this weekend. Not while my brain’s still doing the ‘what if I fail at the NBA and life’ tango. Maybe… coffee or something. Somewhere low-stakes with exits.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “You can tell him that. Or I can. Or we can not tell him anything for a few days and let your nervous system catch up.”
He hums, thinking. “I’ll… sit with it,” he says. “Right now, I’m just… relieved it wasn’t a blowup. And tired. So tired.”
“Then that’s the only thing you have to feel right now,” I say. “The rest can wait.”
His hand finds my thigh and rests there, fingers curling in the denim. “I hate that I can’t just be like, ‘yay, progress,’” he admits. “I hate that there’s always this… second voice going, ‘don’t trust it, it won’t last, don’t you dare relax.’”
“That’s not your fault,” I say. “That voice kept you safe for a long time. It’s going to take a while to convince it it can take weekends off.”
He snorts. “You and Dr. K really are in a group chat, huh?”
“We’re planning your liberation arc,” I say, straight-faced.
He laughs for real this time, some of the heaviness cracking. “God, I love you,” he says.
I kiss his hair. “I love you more,” I say. “Even when your dad is being a dumbass in progress.”
Caleb sighs and tilts his face up for a kiss. It’s soft, slow, and not about distraction this time. Just contact.
A slow reminder we’re here.
Later, when he goes back to his laptop and I pretend to watch the game, I catch myself thinking about Dad again. The way his hand trembled on his coffee cup. The way his voice caught when he said, “holding a lot for a long time.”
He’s trying.
He’s also… human. Flawed. Late as fuck to the party. But still capable of hurting us if we don’t keep our eyes open.
Useful information. Not a death sentence.