Chapter 15 Caleb
FIFTEEN
CALEB
By the time the bus gets back to campus, it’s close to midnight.
We’re dropped off in front of the athletic center, and everyone peeled away fast, guys calling goodbyes, the sound of rolling duffels echoing off the wet pavement.
It’s still warm for winter, that strange California kind of night where the air sticks to you and the sky looks bruised instead of black.
I love it.
My legs ache from sitting too long, and my head’s still half stuck in the game. Winning didn’t even feel like winning last night. We crushed it, and all I want is silence.
Okay, maybe not complete silence. I’d kill for Miguel in my bed with me. Even if he snores sometimes.
The dorms are dead when I get there. Everyone is asleep or—as I hear a headboard hitting the wall as I walk past a closed door—engaged in other activities.
I unlock my door, popping my head into the shared bathroom, checking to see if my roommate’s door is closed.
And it is. Dropping my bag by the bed, I click the door shut and stand there for a second, just breathing.
In and out.
That’s when my phone rings.
Fuck. My. Life.
Dad.
Of course.
I stare at his name, lighting up the screen, thumb hovering over decline. But that’ll only make it worse later. So I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” I say. My voice sounds rough, like it’s coming from somewhere else.
“Caleb,” he says, in that warm, clipped lawyer tone that’s supposed to sound like care. “Hey bud! I just watched the replay. Great game. You were on fire out there.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve been working hard,” he says. “I’m proud of that. Looks like you really had your head in the game. Did you celebrate with the guys afterward?”
“Not really.” I rub my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed. “We all kinda went and did our own thing. They got food.”
“Everyone but you, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. “Did you meet any girls down there? Bet there’s some cute SoCal girls itching to meet up with a basketball player.”
I force out a quiet laugh. “I told you I’ve been seeing someone.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to… live a little. You’re so young. Monogamy can wait until after college. Just remember to use protection. I’m too young to be a grandfather.”
Not like that’s going to be an issue with Miguel.
My mouth goes dry. “I didn’t meet any girls, Dad.”
He hums like he expected that. “Well, I hope you at least spent time with your teammates. That kind of bonding matters, especially for a sport like basketball. You can’t isolate yourself.”
Something in my chest tightens. “I wasn’t isolating. Besides, Miguel came down to watch me play. So we hung out at the hotel.”
There’s a beat of silence and I can already tell this is gonna be a shitty conversation.
“Caleb,” he says, careful now. “Look, I know he’s your stepbrother, and you’ve always been close, but you can’t make him your universe. He’s older. He’s… different. And he prefers to be alone. That’s fine for him, but not for you. Don’t let that drag you down.”
Drag me down.
It hits harder than I expect.
My hand curls into a fist against my knee. “He’s not dragging me down,” I say, voice low. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hey,” he says sharply. “I’m just saying—”
“I don’t care what you’re saying. You don’t get to tell me what he is.”
There’s a long exhale on the other end. “You’re tired. I’ll let you go. But Caleb… You can’t keep shutting people out. That’s what worries me.”
“You mean not being who you want me to be?”
“Don’t twist my words. You know that’s not what I mean.”
The silence after that stretches and stretches until I can hear my own pulse in my ears.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say finally.
“Caleb—”
But I hang up before he can finish.
The sound of it echoes in the empty room, sharp and final.
I throw the phone down on my bed, watching it bounce before pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see stars. I don’t even know why I thought he’d understand. Why do I still keep trying to make him see me—the real me—when it’s clear he never will?
He doesn’t see what Miguel sees.
He still sees the kid who flinches.
The one he has to fix.
I get up, strip off my hoodie, and toss it on the chair. I can’t sit still, can’t stop pacing. The room feels too small, the fluorescent lights too bright.
So I do what I always do when I need to feel in control of something.
I clean.
Laundry first. Then the pile of papers on my desk. I organize them by class, stack the textbooks, plug in my laptop, and start answering old emails. Anything to fill the space, to stop thinking. When my phone buzzes again, I tell myself I won’t look. But the screen lights up and his name is there.
Just leave me alone.
Dad
You’re acting strange, Caleb. Like you’re regressing. I thought the therapy was supposed to be helping.
My throat goes tight.
Regressing.
Like everything I’ve been fighting to hold together is just slipping.
I sit down hard on the bed. The words blur for a second, the sting behind my eyes sharper than the pain in my heart.
I don’t reply. I can’t. Because what would I even say? Yeah, sorry, Dad. The therapy’s going great. My stepbrother has his bruises and marks all over my skin and I feel safer with him than I ever did with you.
That’d go over well.
I scroll up through the texts and see all the old ones, reminders about class, about therapy, and about how proud he is when I perform well.
Always when.
Never because.
He means well. I know that. He doesn’t know what to do with me.
And I don’t know how to tell him that every time he asks if I’ve met a girl, every time he says Miguel’s “different,” it feels like he’s telling me to be someone else.
I hate that loving Miguel is the one thing that makes me feel whole and also the one thing I have to hide.
Because I remember what happens when you show the wrong part of yourself.
I remember hands that hurt instead of held. I remember being eight years old and praying for someone to come for me when I watched her bleed out on the carpet.
I’ve never felt safe.
Not until Miguel.
And now I can’t even give him that truth without risking losing everything else.
The guilt twists deep. Miguel deserves someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who can hold his hand while walking down the street and not worry who’s watching.
But I can’t even say his name out loud without my voice shaking.
My timer for the laundry beeps on my phone. I ignore it. My hands tremble as I unlock my phone.
I open our thread. His name glows soft against the screen.
Caleb
Hey. You home yet?
It’s only a minute before the dots appear. Then his reply comes through—a voice message, that lazy, deep drawl even through the phone.
“Yeah, baby. Just pulled into my parking spot. You okay?”
I swallow hard.
Caleb
Just tired. Long night.
Another pause, another burst of dots. A text this time.
Miguel
You want me to call?
I shake my head even though he can’t see.
Caleb
No, just needed to hear from you.
The next message comes slower, like he’s thinking through each word.
Miguel
I’m here, baby. I’m guessing Dad got ahold of you, like he always does. Whatever he said, whatever’s eating at you, it’s just noise. You’re okay. You’re safe. You hear me?
A lump rises in my throat. My fingers hover before I type back.
Caleb
Yeah. I hear you.
Then one last message buzzes through, his words steady, warm, and unshakable.
Miguel
You’re okay, Caleb. I’ve got you. Just breathe and let me be here with you. Even if it’s just words on a screen.
Those words are going to have to be enough for tonight.
The next morning starts badly and keeps getting worse.
I sleep through my first alarm, the second one, and half of the third. When I finally open my eyes, sunlight’s already spilling through the blinds. I’m twenty minutes late to my first class.
Fuck.
Throwing on whatever’s clean—a pair of black joggers, a UCSC shirt and a grey crew neck sweater—jam a notebook into my bag, and sprint out the door.
My head’s pounding, throat dry, and body lead-heavy from too little sleep.
By the time I get to English Lit, the class is half over.
Professor Thompson looks up when I slide into the back row, her expression gentle but concerned.
She doesn’t say anything, which I am eternally grateful for.
I couldn’t handle being the center of attention right now. Frantic, I dig through my bag for my essay, the one that was due today, and come up empty. My stomach drops.
It’s not there.
I know I printed it. I remember setting it on my desk last night.
On the pile of papers I sorted by class.
My chest starts to tighten. My vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges. I flip through my notebook again, hands shaking harder now.
Not there.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
The room feels too small. The voices around me are too loud.
“Caleb?”
I look up. Professor Thompson is watching me, concern deepening. “You okay?”
Nodding too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” My voice sounds high and wrong.
“Stay after class,” she says quietly. “We’ll talk.”
When everyone files out, she closes her laptop and gives me that careful, motherly look she does when she’s worried.
“You’ve been doing so well,” she says. “But you seem… off today. Are you okay?”
I force a smile. “Just tired. Travel day yesterday. The game.”
She nods slowly. “And the paper?”
“I’ll email it to you tonight,” I say automatically, even though I know I’ll have to rewrite the whole thing from scratch. “Sorry. It’s my fault. I printed it but I started cleaning and it got lost in the shuffle. I—”
“Don’t apologize. Just take care of yourself, Caleb.”
I promise I will, but the words don’t mean anything.
Math is worse. I can’t focus on the formulas. The numbers blur on the page. When the professor calls on me, I give the wrong answer and everyone laughs, lightly, not cruelly but it still hits somewhere tender.
By Sociology, I’m running on fumes. I keep checking my phone between slides, waiting for Miguel to text.
Nothing.
Not even a good morning.
He’s working and has jobs to finish. He said he’d be busy this week.
But logic doesn’t stop the ache under my ribs. Doesn’t stop the voice whispering that maybe he’s sick of me. Maybe he realized I’m too much.
When my phone finally buzzes, my heart jumps, only to drop when I see it’s Dad again.
Dad
I hope you’re in class. Let’s talk later tonight.
I don’t reply. But that’s gonna be a hard motherfucking pass.
A few minutes later, another message.
Mamá
Mijo, your dad says you seemed tired last night. Is everything okay? Eat something good today. You’ll feel a little better.
That one I do reply to.
Caleb
Love you. I’m okay.
It’s at least half true.
By the time I’m walking back across the quad, the sun’s low and my chest feels like it’s been stepped on. I stop near the fountain, pull my phone out again, and scroll through Miguel’s name. Still nothing.
I could call. I want to. But what if he’s busy? What if I become the clingy one, the burden my dad already thinks I am?
The thought makes me dizzy.
I sit down on the edge of the fountain, elbows on my knees, and exhale slowly through my teeth. My hands are still shaking.
I unlock my phone again, open my contacts, and scroll until I find Dr. Kaur’s office number.
It takes three tries before I hit call.
The receptionist answers, cheerful and polite. “Counseling Center, this is Dana. How can I help you?”
My voice comes out small. “Hi. This is Caleb Burton. I… uh… I see Dr. Kaur.”
“Yes, Caleb. Hi there. Do you need to schedule your regular appointment?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean… yeah, but it’s kind of urgent. Is there any way she can see me sooner?”
There’s a pause as she checks the schedule. “Let me see… we can fit you in tomorrow morning at ten. Does that work?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That works.”
“Okay, you’re all set. Take care of yourself tonight, Caleb.”
“Yeah,” I say again. But I don’t hang up right away.
I just sit there, listening to the sound of the fountain and the buzz of campus life around me, trying to believe that tomorrow might actually help.
Once I’m finally at my dorm room, I’m wrung out from the day.
The air inside is stale, heavy with detergent and old coffee.
My bag hits the floor, and I just stand there for a second, staring at nothing.
Nothing feels right. I’m crawling in my skin and there is nothing that will make it go away.
The hum from the mini fridge hurts my ears.
The flicker of the desk lamp makes my eye twitch.
The muted voices outside the door make me want to pull my hair out.
My stomach growls. Loud.
I can’t even remember the last time I ate. Maybe a protein bar on the bus last night? Maybe not. My hands shake when I grab the box of cereal from the shelf and eat a handful dry. It tastes like cardboard, but it’s something.
Some functioning adult you are.
I sit down at my desk and pull my laptop closer, open my email, and stare at the essay attachment for too long before finally hitting send to Professor Thompson. One thing off the list.
A hundred left.
I try to focus on my math homework next, but the numbers swim in front of me, everything a jumble until they don’t make sense anymore. The more I blink, the worse it gets.
My chest feels tight again. Like the walls are shrinking.
Then—my phone buzzes.
No. I can’t deal with my dad right now.
Honestly, it would be a one-way ticket to student services with a mental breakdown.
It’s not him.
Miguel
Hey, pretty boy.
I swipe up, and our conversation is before me. Another bubble appears.
Miguel
Long day?
My breath catches and my shoulders drop.
Then come the sobs, full-on shoulders shaking and hot tears that roll down my cheeks. My fingers shake as I type out the words.
Caleb
I need you.
For the first time since last night, the world stops spinning.
Miguel
I’m on my way.