Chapter 22 Miguel
TWENTY-TWO
MIGUEL
My phone is the first thing I see when I wake up. Not the light coming through the blinds. Not the mess on the dresser I swore I’d clean yesterday. Just the black rectangle on my chest, like it spent the night guarding my heartbeat.
There’s dried drool on my cheek.
Attractive.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and tap the screen awake. The FaceTime call ended hours ago, the last thing on display a blurry freeze-frame of Caleb’s ceiling. Battery at twenty percent.
It’s six, and I’m still up before my alarm for work. A text waits under the stream of notifications.
Caleb
Alive.
Only slightly hungover.
We won again in my dreams, though. Does that count?
A laugh punches out of me, sleepy and rough. Shifting to a sitting position, I text back.
Miguel
You’re dreaming about basketball now?
Tragic. I’ve lost you to the sport.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Caleb
Please
Like I’d ever leave you for squeaky shoes and a rubber ball.
The bus leaves in an hour.
I’ll text you when we’re back on campus.
Promise.
Miguel
Good
Drink water.
Eat actual food. No more “nachos are a food group” bullshit.
Caleb
Ugh, fine. Yes, Daddy.
Miguel
Say that again and I’ll show up in Reno and bend you over the nearest slot machine.
Caleb
Pretty sure that’s illegal.
Hot.
But illegal.
He sends a selfie: hood up, hair a mess, eyes still soft from sleep, my hoodie swallowing him whole. There’s a crease from the weighted blanket pressed into his cheek. His smile is small and a little sheepish.
He looks beautiful.
The hangover looks minor. The exhaustion doesn’t. I save the picture without even pretending I’m not going to.
Miguel
You look good, pretty boy.
Try to sleep on the bus.
Caleb
Yes sir.
I stare at the little heart longer than I should, then drag myself out of bed. Work awaits. Wiring doesn’t give a shit how much your chest aches for a man in another state.
By noon I’m in another stranger’s kitchen, crouched in front of an open panel, feeding cable through a wall that was not designed by anyone who liked electricians. My helper for the day, Benny, is on the other end, swearing under his breath as he tries to catch the fish tape.
“Lift it higher,” he grunts. “Pull back a little—no, not that much.”
“You say that like I’m psychic, cabrón,” I mutter, adjusting the angle. “You got it, or am I doing all the work again?”
“Got it!” he yells finally. “Pull!”
We work in the kind of comfortable silence that only comes after months of nearly zapping yourselves together.
Sweat runs down my back, the smell of drywall dust and coffee hanging in the air.
My brain keeps drifting back to the way Caleb said, “I love you,” like it was the easiest thing in the world.
On the way he fell asleep with my voice in his ear and my hoodie on his skin.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe my hands on my jeans and check it.
Caleb
Look mountains…
He sends a picture of nothing but trees and rocks.
Caleb
Sitting in the last row with Martin, pray for me.
He snores.
Miguel
Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll suffocate and stop snoring. Text when you get back to your dorm, baby.
Caleb
I tuck the phone away and force myself to focus on the wires in front of me. Hot, neutral, and ground. Black, white, and green. Things that make sense if you respect them and treat them carefully.
Not like people.
They should’ve been back by now and no text. It’s three-thirty, I’m back at the condo, showered and in clean clothes, pacing my kitchen with my phone in my hand like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back.
Nothing.
No “California Sign” text.
No “back on campus” selfie.
No dumb complaining about the guy next to him hogging the armrest.
He probably fell asleep. Fully possible. Hell, hopeful.
I open our thread anyway. “Typing…” doesn’t appear.
“Stop being insane,” I mutter, dropping the phone on the counter like that’ll keep me from checking it. I grab leftovers out of the fridge, pop them into the microwave, and stare at them through the little window without seeing anything.
When the timer beeps, my appetite is gone.
I check again.
Still nothing.
Okay.
The bus got delayed. He had no service. His battery died because he was watching too many YouTube videos on basketball commentary.
He got distracted talking to his teammates and doesn’t want to be that guy glued to his phone.
My brain’s explanation… something’s wrong.
I scroll up to the safety plan he texted me a picture of after that session with Dr. Kaur. It sits in my photos, a crumpled sheet with his sloppy handwriting.
Step one: text Miguel.
Step two: call mom
Don’t be clingy.
Don’t make him feel like he has to report in, like he’s on probation. If something happens and you didn’t call, you’ll never forgive yourself. I grab the phone and hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings.
Once. Twice. Five times.
Voicemail.
His recorded voice tells me to leave a message. My throat locks up.
I hang up.
“Okay,” I say out loud. “Okay. It’s fine. He could still be on the bus.”
I try again twenty minutes later.
Then forty.
Each time, voicemail. No text following up with a “sorry, dead battery” or “coach made us do film review” or “busy, call later.” The microwave beeps again because I never opened it. I turn it off with more force than necessary and snatch my keys off the hook.
Fuck it.
I’m going.
Campus looks different at dusk. The buildings are washed in orange light, shadows long and soft. Students drift across the paths in clumps and singles—backpacks slung, headphones in, wrapped in hoodies against the evening chill.
The parking lot near his dorm is half full. I kill the engine and sit there, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.
If he’s fine, he’s going to think you’re insane.
If he’s not fine…
I get out before my brain finishes the sentence.
Inside, the dorm smells like floor cleaner and stale pizza. The RA at the front desk barely glances up from her laptop when I walk in.
“Hey,” I say, forcing my voice even. “I’m just visiting Caleb Burton. He’s on the third floor.”
She nods. “Sign in.”
I scribble my name on the clipboard and head up the stairs two at a time. The hallway on his floor is mostly quiet, punctuated by bursts of laughter behind some doors and the tinny sound of someone’s music leaking out of headphones.
His door is closed.
I knock.
No answer.
“Caleb?” I call, keeping my voice low so I don’t look like a psychopath. I knock again, harder this time. “Baby, it’s me. Open up.”
Still nothing.
I press my ear to the door. Silence. No music. No movie sounds. Not even the rustle of movement.
Okay. Okay. Think.
Roommate.
I tap on the door next to his, then knock for real. It takes a minute, but eventually there’s some shuffling, and the door cracks open, chain still latched.
His roommate blinks at me, hair sticking up in every direction. “Uh, Miguel, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, man. I know… but is Caleb… Is he in his room? He said he’d text when he got back from the game and he never—”
“Yeah,” the guy says quickly, unlatching the chain. “He got in like an hour ago. Came in and I heard him say something about ‘Miggy’s gonna kill me, my phone died,’ and then face-planted on the bed.”
“Can I…?” I nod toward the shared side of the suite.
“Yeah, dude.” Roommate swings the door open wider. “He’s out cold. I checked to make sure he was breathing and everything. Come in, it’s cool.”
I cross the small shared bathroom and push open the door to Caleb’s room with a fingertip.
He’s there.
He’s fine.
He’s sprawled on his stomach, half under the weighted blanket, hair a mess, mouth open just enough to snore softly. My hoodie is bunched up around his shoulders. His phone is plugged into the wall, the dark screen blinking with the little charging icon.
There’s an empty Gatorade bottle on the nightstand and a crumpled granola bar wrapper. The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh, so violent it makes my vision swim. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and stare at him.
I scared the shit out of myself.
Because he… fell asleep.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand, finally booted back to life, and the screen lights with a flood of notifications. One of them is my name. I step closer and put a hand on his back. His skin is warm through the fabric.
“Caleb,” I say softly, squeezing. “Baby. Wake up.”
He groans into the pillow, then turns his head, eyes blinking open, unfocused. “Mmmph. What—?” He squints. “Miggy?”
“Yeah.” I try to keep my voice light. “Your phone died and you forgot how to communicate like a human, so here I am.”
He flips onto his side, pushing up on one elbow. His hair’s plastered to his forehead, pillow creases on his cheek. He looks so young it hurts.
“Shit.” He reaches for the phone, sees the missed calls, and winces. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I thought I plugged it in on the bus and it didn’t, and then I… I just crashed as soon as we got here. I was gonna text you, I swear.”
“I know,” I say automatically. “It’s fine.”
It’s not fine.
He sits up straighter, blanket pooling in his lap. “You came all the way to campus?” Guilt flickers across his face. “Miggy…”
“Yeah, well.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly aware of his roommate pretending not to listen from the other room. “Maybe I freaked out a little.”
“A little?” he echoes, eyes widening and looking behind me. I peer over my shoulder at his roommate that’s flitting around the bathroom like he’s actually doing something.
“Miguel.” He reaches out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. His hand is still warm from sleep. “I’m sorry. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve… I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “You don’t have to report in to me every second, Caleb. I’m not your keeper.”
“You sure?” he asks, a weak laugh slipping out that doesn’t quite land. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re my emotional parole officer.”
I know he’s joking.
My stomach doesn’t.