"And now he knows you." My father's voice drops lower. "The gay son of Caleb Huntington II, who's running for Senate. Convenient, wouldn't you say?"
I want to dismiss it. Should dismiss it. But cold works its way through my ribs. James never mentioned knowing people like this. Never brought up these connections.
"He's never once asked me about your campaign." I hate that I feel the need to defend him.
"Of course not. He's smarter than that." My father leans forward. "Tell me, has he encouraged you to attend certain events? Introduced you to particular people?"
A memory surfaces, last month, James mentioned a Pride Resource Center event. He thought it might be interesting, and he loved the advocacy work they were doing. How his expression shifted, softened, talking about Rainbow Haven House's Christmas program.
"No more than anyone would who's passionate about causes they care about." My voice has lost some of its conviction.
My father notices. Of course he does. "Caleb. I understand you're attracted to him. He's exactly your type: intelligent, independent, with that chip on his shoulder that you find so appealing. But don't be naive."
"I'm not discussing this with you." I turn to leave, but his next words freeze my hand on the doorknob.
"He came to see me, you know."
"What?"
"The day after Christmas. He came to my office." He sounds almost sympathetic now. "I thought you knew."
Slowly, I turn back. "What are you talking about?"
"James requested a meeting. Said he wanted to discuss his future. His opportunities."
"You're lying." But even as the words come out, James's behavior since Christmas plays through my head. He's avoided talking about that day, changing the subject whenever it comes up. That moment two days ago when his phone rang and he stepped into the hallway, he came back tense and distracted.
My father leans back in his chair, studying me. "You don't believe me."
"Should I? You've been trying to undermine my relationship since you learned of it."
"Fair point." He opens a drawer and pulls out his phone. "I record all meetings in my office. Professional habit, you'd be surprised how often people claim they never said things they absolutely did say. Would you like to hear it?"
The casual offer makes my stomach drop. It’s too smooth, too prepared. "You just happen to have it ready?"
"Caleb, I recordeverything. Ask my assistant, she deletes hundreds of hours of useless footage every quarter." He taps the screen. "December 26th. Eleven-thirty AM. Do you want to hear it or not?"
Everything in me screams this is a trap. That I should walk out right now, go straight to James, and ask him directly. But my father's watching me with that politician's patience, the kind that knows I won't be able not to know.
"Play it."
He presses a button. The audio quality is crystal clear; professional recording equipment, not a phone mic. Background hum of his office HVAC system, the faint sound of traffic from the street below.
"I appreciate you meeting with me, Mr. Huntington." James's voice. Unmistakable despite the slight echo of the office space.
"Of course. Though I must admit I was surprised by your call." My father's voice is infuriatingly calm.
A pause. The sound of someone shifting in a leather chair.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About Caleb's future. About... expectations." James again, and something in his tone makes my stomach drop.
"And?"
"I care about Caleb. A lot. But maybe you're right that we're... heading in different directions."
The sick feeling grows low in my stomach, cold and heavy.
My father stops the recording. Just stops it, right there, his thumb hovering over the screen.
