Chapter 23 Caleb #3
“I know,” I cut in. “I know you’ve done so much. I’m grateful. Trust me, I am. But you keep acting like that erased everything that happened before. Like I should be better by now. Like needing people is a moral flaw.”
“I have never said that,” he insists.
“You don’t have to say it,” I whisper. “I feel it every time you call me soft. Or imply Miguel is a distraction. Or act more worried about scouts than whether I ate today.”
He exhales, sharp and pained. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I’m finally saying the quiet part out loud.”
Another long stretch of silence.
When he speaks again, his voice is smaller than I’ve heard it in a long time.
“…Is it serious?” he asks. “With him.”
I stare at the floor, heart pounding.
This is it.
The lake I’ve been skating around for months, pretending the ice is solid.
I could lie.
I could tell him it’s casual, that it’s just confusion, that I’ll grow out of it when I meet the right girl and he can walk me down an aisle in a suit that matches his.
Or I can give him the truth and watch what he does with it.
My mouth feels numb.
“Yes,” I say, so quietly I almost don’t hear myself. “It’s serious.”
He breathes out like I hit him.
“For how long?” he asks, voice rough.
“In my head?” I laugh, humorless. “Since I was, like, fifteen or sixteen. In real life… since Halloween.”
There’s a little choking sound. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I thought about it every day,” I say, the words suddenly spilling out. “And every day I pictured your face when you looked at me after, and I couldn’t. Because I already feel like a disappointment most of the time, and I couldn’t risk losing… whatever version of approval I still have.”
“You are not a disappointment,” he says, low and fierce.
“Then why does it feel like everything I do is a test I’m one missed shot away from failing.” I fire back. “Why does every conversation circle back to my stats? My discipline. My composure. My progress. It’s like you only know how to love me in relation to my performance.”
“That is not—”
“True?” I say. “Maybe not in your head. But that’s how it lands in mine.”
“I’ve made you feel that way?” he asks.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Yeah. You have.”
Another pause. I can almost hear him reassembling himself on the other end, like a man straightening his tie after getting punched.
“I’m… sorry,” he says finally.
It’s so soft I barely catch it.
“Okay,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do with that.
He clears his throat. “As for Miguel…”
Here we go.
“… I don’t like that you kept this from me,” he says. “Either of you. I don’t like that my colleague is apparently better informed about my son’s love life than I am. That… stings.”
Guilt twists in my gut.
“I’m not… proud of that,” I say. “But I was scared.”
“I know,” he says, and this time there’s no edge, just exhaustion. “On my end, it looks like everyone knew but me. Your therapist knows?”
I wince. “Yeah.”
He sighs. “That makes me feel… shut out. Like you decided I couldn’t be trusted with the truth.”
“Can you blame me?” I ask softly.
There’s a heavy sigh. “No,” he admits. “I suppose I can’t.”
We sit in that admission for a minute, both of us breathing a little harder than normal.
“So what now?” I ask finally. “You going to tell me this is a mistake? That I’m ruining my future? That loving him is wrong?”
“I don’t know what to tell you yet,” he says honestly. “I’m still… processing. I won’t pretend I’m not worried. About how tangled this is with your history. About what happens if you break up. About how this affects your mental health long term.”
My heart stutters.
“But,” he says before I can spiral all the way down, “I also can’t ignore what you just said.
That he keeps you alive. That he shows up when you need him.
I’ve seen you since he came back into your life.
You… laugh more. You talk to me, even when you’re angry.
I don’t know what to do with all of that yet, but I can’t pretend it’s nothing. ”
I blink hard.
“So…?” I prompt.
“So I’m not going to issue some blanket prohibition just because I’m your father,” he says, a little wry. “You’re an adult. I can’t dictate who you love. I can tell you I’m struggling with it. That it’s going to take me time to adjust. That I will probably say the wrong thing more than once.”
“You already have,” I mutter, then instantly regret it. “Sorry. That was—”
“Accurate,” he sighs.
My mouth twists. “Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I don’t want to lose you over this,” he says quietly. “Even if I don’t understand it yet. Even if I don’t exactly agree.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” I whisper. “Unless you decide you’d rather let any relationship with me go than… accept who I am and who I love.”
He inhales, slow and shaky.
“I don’t want that,” he says. “So I suppose that leaves me with one option.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I learn,” he says simply. “I ask questions. I listen. I try to separate my fears from your reality. And I try very hard not to make you feel like a project I’m failing.” His voice drops. “Because you are not.”
“Okay,” I say, voice thick. “I can work with that.”
Another little silence.
“Are you… with him now?” Dad asks, cautious. “I’d like to speak with both of you, together.”
“Not yet,” I say. “I’m going to his place in a few. We were going to—” I swallow. “He wants to talk about getting his own therapist. To help him support me without… burning out.”
Dad is quiet for a minute.
“That’s… a good sign,” he says at last. “Shows maturity. Awareness.”
A small, fierce spark of pride flares in my chest on Miguel’s behalf.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “He’s… he’s trying really hard. For me.”
“You both are,” Dad says. “And I am… proud of you for that. Regardless of my other concerns.”
That comment lands weird, almost like a compliment dressed in caution tape but it’s something.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He clears his throat. “We’ll talk more. Preferably in person, when I can see your face instead of… projecting whatever expression I imagine you have right now.”
“You don’t want to imagine it,” I say, half-laughing. “I look like I got hit by a bus.”
“Twice,” he says, and there’s a faint smile in his voice. “Celeste said you liked that line.”
“She’s tattling again,” I mumble.
“As is her right,” he says. “She loves you.”
We both breathe for a few seconds.
“I love you, Caleb,” he says suddenly, like he remembered and had to get it in before the line cut.
My chest caves.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
We hang up before either of us has to listen to the other fall apart.
I sit there on the edge of my bed, phone still in my hand, staring at nothing while my heartbeat ricochets inside my ribs.
The screen lights up again.
Miguel
Home.
You alive?
A wet laugh sputters out of me. I wipe under my eyes with the heel of my hand, sniff hard, and type back.
Caleb
Yeah.
Alive.
Also kind of emotionally stabbed, but in a… semi-productive way?
Miguel
Christ… What did Dad do?
Do I need to come back and throw hands?
A choked sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob escapes my throat.
Caleb
No hands. Just… can I come over?
I’ll explain everything when I get there.
Miguel
You have keys, hermoso. For the love of God, use them for their intended purpose.
I stand, grab my bag, and head back out into the hall, my heart still shaking but my feet moving. It feels like everything is falling apart and knitting together at the same time.
And I’m still here.
For tonight, that has to be enough.