“You know he’s going to mention it, though,” he says quietly. “To my dad. ‘Oh, I saw Caleb and Miguel at dinner, they seemed… close.’ And my dad’s going to do that thing where he overthinks everything and then never actually asks me the question.”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” I say. “If it comes up, we deal. Together. Look, I know disappointing him is your biggest fear, but other than him yelling, what can he really do? Hmm? You’re on a scholarship, so it’s not like he pays for anything school-related. Insurance for your car and what... your phone? I’ll pay for those so he doesn’t have to.”
Okay, maybe the whole health insurance thing too… but not right now.
He searches my face. “You’d do that for me? You’re really not… mad? That I didn’t introduce you as…?”
I exhale slowly. “I’d do so much more for you, baby. And do I want to shout it from the rooftops that you’re mine?Every fucking day.” I squeeze his fingers. “Do I want your dad’s coworker to be the first one to hear it? Fuck no. You’re not ready for that fallout, baby. I get that and I’m not gonna shove you into it in the middle of dinner.”
His eyes shine a little. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not making me feel like a coward,” he says.
I shake my head. “You’re not a coward. You’re someone who survived shit that should’ve killed you. You get to choose the terms of your own freedom. You hear me?”
Inhaling a shuddery breath, he nods. “Yeah. I hear you.”
“Good.” I let go of his hand only so I can steal a piece of burrata from his plate. “Now eat your bougie-ass cheese, pretty boy, before I decide you don’t deserve it and I eat it all because goddamn,” stealing some more. “That’s fucking good.”
Snorting, some of the light coming back into his eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah… but I’m your asshole,” I say automatically.
He glances toward where Harrington is sitting. Then back at me.
Under the table, he slides his foot along mine. Above, he takes another bite of pasta.
It’s small.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
On the drive home,he’s quieter, but not in that hollow way. More like his brain’s jammed full, processing. “You still want to stay over?”
He looks at his phone, checking the time, then over at me. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”
“It’s always okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ll make popcorn. We can put something stupid on and ignore all old white men in suits.”
He laughs, just a little. “Deal.”
Once we’re home and he’s changed into my sweats and one of my hoodies, he curls up against me on the couch with his head on my shoulder and his legs tangled with mine.
What stays is this.
His weight against me.
His hand resting over my heart.
The quiet, stubborn fact is that no matter who sees us, no matter who pretends not to, we’re still here.
Choosing each other and nobody can take that away from us.
TWENTY-ONE
CALEB
