“Oh, that’s where you’re mistaken,amor. Watch me,” I say.
We eat, and for a little while, it’s easy. Everything’s flowing and I can tell he’s relaxing. He tells me about a class debate that went off the rails because some econ major tried to argue the “benefits” of gentrification, and the guy got booed out of the lecture hall. I tell him about Leo almost stapling his own shirt to a beam and how Mrs. Ramírez tried to send me home with a whole tray of enchiladas “because you look thin,mijo.”
Caleb rolls his eyes when I mimic my mom’s voice, but he’s smiling the whole time. Under the table, our ankles bump once.Then again. Eventually, he leaves his pressed gently against mine.
It’s small.
Shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Our main dishes arrive—his some fancy pesto pasta, mine a steak that came with a name and a whole life story from the waiter. We dig in. Caleb closes his eyes on the first bite like it’s a whole religious experience.
“Good?” I ask, amused.
“Shut up and let me have this little moment of joy,” he says around a mouthful.
“Yes, sir.”
If anyone’s watching, we probably look like any other couple in their twenties—tired, hungry, and dressed up just enough to feel different. No one’s staring. No one’s whispering. The world doesn’t end when my hand rests on his wrist while I make some joke.
For a tiny, perfect bubble of time, it’s just us.
Then, like all things, the bubble pops.
“Caleb?”
The voice comes from my left. Male, mid-fifties maybe. Smooth, practiced. The kind of voice that’s spent a lot of time in courtrooms and boardrooms.
Caleb goes very still.
I look up.
The man is standing at the edge of our table, in a suit that says “billable hours” and a tie that probably costs more than my entire outfit. Salt-and-pepper hair, sharp eyes that take in everything. There’s a woman beside him, his wife, maybe, holding a clutch, looking politely curious.
“Wow,” the man says. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Caleb Burton, right?”
Caleb’s smile appears like he flipped a switch. “Hey, Mr. Harrington,” he says, his voice doing that polite, careful thing. “Yeah. Hi.”
Ah.
One of Dad’s partners from the firm.
Fantastic.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without the jersey,” Harrington says with a chuckle, like that’s original. “Good game the other night. Your dad’s very proud. Speaks of you often.”
Caleb’s throat works. “Thanks.”
Harrington’s gaze slides to me. It’s not hostile. Not really. Just… assessing like a good lawyer does.
“And this must be…?” he prompts.
My spine straightens, and Caleb goes rigid across from me.
There’s a split second where I want to say it.
I want to look this man in his expensive, harmless-looking face and say, This is my boyfriend. The love of my life. The reason your colleague’s son is still breathing.
