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 toldusyou’re trying to see us. You toldhimyou were proud of him for beinghonest. For telling you who he is. Nowwe’rehere, 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.
The men’sroom is nicer than most with dark tile, fancy sinks, and some framed black-and-white photos of the Boardwalk on the wall, which makes taking a piss here an elevated experience.
There’s one guy already at the urinal.
No one else in sight.
