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 somestory 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… dothatin 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.”
