"Education has always been important to the Huntington family," Caroline says. "All three of my boys went to prep school before university. Caleb was at Westfield Academy. Did he tell you about that, James?"
"He mentioned it," Caleb looks even more tense beside me.
"Such formative years," she continues. "The connections one makes at institutions like that last a lifetime. Thomas met Audry at a Westfield alumni event, didn't you, dear?"
Thomas nods. "A family friend introduced us. Her father and mine were in the same class at Harvard."
The message couldn't have been clearer if they'd written it on the walls: You don't belong in this world, you don't fit.
Throughout the meal, the conversation continues in this vein, with subtle reference points that exclude me, inside jokes I can't possibly understand, and mentions of people and places meant to establish their world as separate from mine. Caleb gets stiffer and stiffer next to me, his answers getting shorter every time they say something.
"James isn't familiar with the Southampton property, Mother," he says sharply when Caroline mentions some summer gala. "Perhaps we could discuss something everyone at the table can contribute to."
"Of course, darling," Caroline replies with a thin smile. "I was merely reminiscing. James, could you tell us about your family? What do your parents do?"
The question lands like a grenade at the table. Caleb's fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
"I don't have a family." I feel no shame in my past, so it's easy to keep my tone level. "I grew up in foster care."
Silence follows this statement, the awkward kind where people are recalculating their approach.
"How interesting," Caroline finally says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. "And yet you've managed to attend university. How... inspiring."
"Scholarships."Why am I even explaining this? I don't owe these people anything."And I've worked since I was sixteen."
"Character-building," Caleb II comments, as if my life choices have been some kind of deliberate self-improvement exercise rather than necessity.
"Very." Meeting his gaze head-on.
Caleb's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once in support or apology, I'm not sure which.
After lunch, the gift exchange is moved to the formal living room, where another impeccably decorated tree stands. I sit beside Caleb on a sofa that probably costs more than everything I own, watching as presents are distributed with the precision of a military operation.
The gifts are exactly what you'd expect: expensive but impersonal items that look good when unwrapped. Cufflinks for the men and jewelry for the women, all from recognizable luxury brands. Caleb receives a custom leather portfolio with the family crest embossed on it, and he politely thanks his parents, though I can tell he doesn't really care about it.
Then, unexpectedly, Caroline produces a small package wrapped in the same silver-blue paper as the other gifts.
"Oh, we mustn't forget Caleb's... friend," she says with a practiced smile. "I always keep something on hand for unexpected guests."
She hands me the package, which is heavier than its size suggests. I unwrap it carefully, revealing an expensive bottle of Scotch with a label indicating it has been aged for thirty years.
"Thank you," trying to sound genuinely appreciative, even though I rarely drink hard alcohol and certainly not expensive scotch.
"That's a thirty-year single malt," Robert informs me, as if I can't read the label myself. "Probably wasted on someone used to keg beer, but it might be an educational experience."
Beside me, Caleb has gone very still, his jaw tight enough that I see a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"James doesn't actually drink scotch," Caleb says, somehow keeping his voice mild. "Though I'm sure it'll make an excellent addition to the punch at our next party. Very generous, Mother."
Robert inhales his drink. The coughing fit that follows is so very satisfying.
Silence, except for Robert's coughing. Caroline smoothly changes the subject, directing everyone's attention to the last few presents.
The afternoon drags on, each hour more excruciating than the last. Caleb and I are never alone long enough to talk; whenever he tries to pull me aside, someone interrupts or needs his attention. His father watches these attempts with barely concealed satisfaction, confirming my suspicion that the separation is deliberate.
By late afternoon, Caleb looks as tense as I've ever seen him, wound tight enough that I fear he might snap at the next backhanded comment. I place a hand on his knee when no one is looking, a silent reminder that we can leave soon.
As the gathering begins to wind down, people begin drifting towards the front of the house. Caleb II corners me by a painting in the hallway. His casual move doesn't fool me; he wants another private chat.
