Page 88 of Disarm
But Caleb’s eyes flick to mine for a heartbeat, panic sparking, then gone as fast as it appears.
He’s not ready to blow his entire life up over pasta for two.
So I swallow the truth.
“This is Miguel,” Caleb says smoothly. “My stepbrother.”
Harrington’s eyebrows go up. “Ah, yes, of course,” he says, like it clicks now. “I’ve heard your name thrown around. You do electrical work, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Miguel Veracruz. Nice to meet you.” I don’t stand. I don’t offer my hand. My body’s too busy vibrating with all the things I’m not saying.
He doesn’t seem to notice the slight. Or he’s too polite to call it out. “John Harrington,” he says anyway. “This is my wife, Eleanor.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says with a soft smile. Her eyes linger on Caleb’s face with warmth. “We’ve heard such lovely things about you.”
Caleb gives a tight little nod. “Thank you.”
Harrington glances between us. Two plates, one candle, bordering intimacy, no matter how you spin it. “Well,” he says after a beat. “I won’t keep you. Just wanted to say hello. Your father will be pleased to hear you’re… getting out and enjoying yourself.”
Caleb’s shoulders hitch, just barely.
“Yeah,” he says. “Trying to.”
“Good man.” Harrington raps his knuckles lightly on the table in some weird older-guy gesture of camaraderie. “Keep up the good work—on the court and in class. The NBA will be lucky to have you someday.”
He says it like my man’s future is a path that is already laid out by other men in suits.
“Take care,” Eleanor adds.
They move on to their table, deeper in the restaurant. The noise swallows them back up.
All I can hear is Caleb’s breathing.
He’s staring at his plate, fork lying in a smear of pesto, shoulders drawn tight again.
“He’s not gonna tell him,” I keep my voice low. “Not anything specific. Just ‘oh, I saw Caleb at dinner with his brother.’ It’s not that deep.”
“I know,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “I know.”
“Then why do you look like you just got called into the principal’s office?”
He huffs out a humorless breath. “Because that’s what it feels like. Every time someone from his world sees me, it’s like I canfeel the report forming in their head. How did I look? Who was I with? Was I saying the right things? Wearing the right thing?”
I let my hand slide across the table, palm up.
After a second, he puts his hand in mine, fingers cool and a little shaky.
“You did fine,” I say. “You were polite. Perfect little future lawyer. You passed the test.”
His mouth twists. “That’s the whole problem. I don’t want to be a lawyer, Miggy.”
“I know,” I say. I squeeze his hand. “Baby, Harrington’s got his own shit to worry about. His opinion doesn’t get to take this from you.”
“This?” he echoes.
“Being out with me,” I say. “Having a night that’s just ours. Not your dad’s. Not your coach’s. Not your therapist’s. Ours.”
Something in his face softens at that.
