By nine that night, the welcome party ended.
I was already back in my hotel room when someone knocked on the door.
I knew who it was before I looked through the peephole.
Caleb stood in the hallway alone.
I opened the door but did not invite him in.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
He looked younger without the bourbon glass and the wedding crowd around him.
“Mom,” he said finally.
“Can we talk?”
“Yes.”
His eyes were red, although I could not tell whether he had been crying or simply arguing for hours.
“The venue says we can sign a new contract tomorrow morning if they still have staff available.”
I waited.
“They need payment when we sign.”
I kept waiting.
His jaw tightened.
“We don’t have it.”
“I know.”
He looked down at the carpet.
That familiar movement hurt more than I wanted it to.
Earlier, on the lawn, he had looked down because he was ashamed to defend me.
Now he was looking down because he needed something.
“Did you come here to apologize,” I asked, “or did you come here for my credit card?”
His head snapped up.
“Mom, that’s not fair.”
“Then answer me.”
He opened his mouth and closed it again.
There was my answer.
I nodded once.
“You should go.”
“Please.”
“What happened out there, Caleb?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Morgan was stressed.”
“No.”
“She’s been under insane pressure with the sponsors and the photos and—”
“No.”
He stopped.
“I am asking what happened between you and me.”
For the first time all day, he met my eyes and stayed there.
I watched the understanding come slowly.
“She insulted you,” he said.
“And?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked at your shoes.”
He winced.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer took too long.
“Because I knew if I defended you, Morgan would explode, and I didn’t want a scene.”
“So you chose the person least likely to make a scene.”
He swallowed.
I could see that sentence reach him.
He had counted on my restraint.
All of them had.
Morgan could insult me because I would probably stay polite.
