Chapter 24 Miguel #2
The words land like a punch. He’s not wrong. I know on the outside he’s a popular basketball star, but inside I’m all he’s got. The guys on the team aren’t real friendships because Caleb never lets anyone get close enough to care.
I’ve been his best friend since we were kids.
And in reality, while I have “friends,” he’s been my best friend too. Caleb is who I would turn to for anything. I take a breath, slow and deliberate, because the first thing that wants to come out of my mouth is, “If he makes you choose, fuck him, I’ll burn his office down.”
Which, while emotionally satisfying, is not the most helpful thought when Caleb is hanging by a thread.
“Jumping straight to arson,” rolling his eyes. “How very you.”
“Okay,” I say again, because that word is a bridge. “First thing? There is absolutely no decision on the table right now. None. He didn’t tell you to choose. He said he needs time and that he doesn’t want to lose you. You told me that.”
Caleb’s mouth twists. “Yeah, but—”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “We’re not going to bleed out over hypothetical knives, baby. If he does come back later with some bullshit ultimatum, we’ll deal with it then. Together. Not alone. Not you in your dorm with a loaded brain and a phone. You hear me?”
His eyes shine. “Yeah.”
“Good,” I say. “Second thing: even if—if—he flips on us? Fuck him.”
His eyebrows shoot up despite himself.
“There it is,” he says weakly, rolling his eyes. “I was waiting for it.”
“I mean it,” I say, steady. “If he decides that you being honest about who you are and who you love is a deal-breaker, that’s on him, not you.
That’s his failure as a father, not your failure as a son.
You don’t need his approval to live your life out in the open, Caleb.
You don’t need his approval to love me.”
“How do you just… say that like it’s simple?” He whispers. “He’s my dad. He’s the only biological parent I’ve got left.”
“I know,” I say softly. “And I’m not pretending it is simple. I watched you for ten years waiting for that man to say, “Good job.” I know how deep it goes, Caleb. I’m not saying it won’t hurt like hell if he handles this the wrong way.”
I tilt his chin so he can’t look away.
“I’m saying your worth does not belong to him,” I continue.
“Your father doesn’t get to stamp ‘valid’ or ‘invalid’ on your forehead like some customs officer at the border of your own life.
You are not a project he either passes or fails.
You’re a person. My person. His kid. Those are not conditional titles. ”
His face crumples, just a little.
“What if he can’t separate it?” he asks. “What if he can’t see me outside of the stats, or the… the mental shit, or the fact that we’re… this?”
“Then we keep building a life where other people do,” I say.
“We let my mom fuss over you and feed you. We let the people you call friends on your team watch you be happy and get used to it. We let my cousins give you shit at carne asadas. We let Dr. Kaur and whatever poor therapist I end up with help us figure out how to carry this without it crushing us. And we keep choosing each other.”
I squeeze his hand.
“His acceptance would be nice,” I say. “But it’s not oxygen. We can breathe without it. You have been breathing without it for a long time.”
He flinches because it’s true.
A few tears finally break free, tracking down his cheeks.
“I hate that he makes me feel like I’m twelve again,” he says. “Like I’m waiting to see if I passed his test.”
“I know,” I say, thumb brushing the tears away. “But look at you. You called him back. You told him the truth. You didn’t fold, didn’t lie, and didn’t say ‘it’s a phase’ just to make him comfortable. That’s not twelve-year-old you. That’s grown-ass, terrifyingly brave you.”
His laugh comes out watery. “Terrifyingly brave.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m scared of you a little.”
That makes him snort, the sound breaking into a sniff.
“Hey,” I murmur. “You did something huge today. Your nervous system is gonna be shook about it. That doesn’t mean you did the wrong thing.”
Caleb chews on his bottom lip, considering that.
“He really did say he wants to talk to you,” he says after a minute, quieter. “Like, both of us. Together. He said he’d prefer in person, but he’ll ‘accept’ a phone call as a start.”
“Very generous,” I mutter.
“He’s trying,” Caleb says reflexively, then winces like he hates himself for saying it.
“I know he is,” I say. “And I’ll give him that. I’m not gonna walk into a conversation with him, guns blazing, when he’s at least saying he wants to learn. But I’m also not going to play polite while he pokes you like a lab rat or if he acts disgusted.”
His eyes flick up to mine, a little startled by the steel in my tone.
“So yeah,” I continue. “When you’re ready, I’ll talk to him.
On the phone, in person, whatever. I’m not hiding.
I’m not ashamed of us, Caleb. I’ll be respectful, because he’s your dad and he’s done good by you in a lot of ways.
But I’m not gonna pretend I’m a temporary inconvenience you’ll grow out of. ”
His throat works. “You’re not scared?”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” I admit. “Your dad could out-argue God in a courtroom. But I’m more scared of you thinking you have to handle him alone. I’d rather walk into that ring with you than sit at home imagining him saying whatever he wants without me there to back you up.”
Something eases in his shoulders at that, like a knot loosening.
“I keep feeling like this is all going to implode,” he says. “Like I just pulled hard enough on a loose thread and now my whole life’s gonna unravel, and I’m gonna be left standing there holding you in one hand and nothing in the other.”
“You won’t be holding ‘nothing,’” I say. “You’ll be holding us. Which, not to brag, is pretty fucking solid.”
He makes a wounded noise that’s half laugh, half sob.
“I’m serious,” I say. “We’re not the consolation prize. We’re not the thing you get stuck with if your dad drops you. We’re the life you’re choosing.”
His breath hitches. “You really think it could… work?” he asks. “Us being… out. Not just hiding in your condo and my dorm and fucking in hotel showers?”
I smile, soft and a little sharp.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do. It’s gonna be messy as hell. People are going to have opinions. Some of them are going to suck. But we can handle that. You know why?”
Shaking his head, a little dazed.
“Because we’ve already done harder things,” I say. “You survived what you survived as a kid. I watched my dad walk out and had to learn that love doesn’t always look the way it’s supposed to. This?” I gesture between us. “This is complicated. It’s not impossible.”
Caleb leans into me then, full weight, like the little last bit of tension finally gives out. His forehead drops to my shoulder.
“I don’t feel brave,” he mumbles.
“That’s what makes it brave,” I say. “Doing it anyway.”
“But,” I continue, “if he chooses not to? If he decides his fear and his idea of what your life should look like matter more than you? Then that’s his loss, not ours. I’ll be pissed but you need to know I’ll still come home to you.”
He looks like I just handed him something fragile and heavy.
“You promise?” he asks.
“I promise,” I say. “And if he tries to blame me for… I dunno, turning you onto cock or some stupid shit, I will politely and firmly tell him to go fuck himself. In lawyer language, so he understands.”
A weak smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “You’re gonna cuss out a lawyer in legalese.”
“Damn right,” I say. “Gonna hit him with a ‘with all due respect, your honor, that’s some world-class bullshit.’”
That gets him to snort again, the sound of it loosening something in my chest.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”
I press a kiss to his temple, and he leans into it like a plant toward sunlight.
“You proud of yourself at all?” I ask after a minute.
Frowning, he looks at me with a look of annoyance. “For what? Having a breakdown?”
“For telling the truth,” I say. “For not hiding. For giving your dad the chance to step up, even if he’s not sure how yet. For choosing to tell me instead of letting this fester until three in the morning, when I then have to go break down your door and scare the shit out of your roommate.”
He considers that, brow furrowing.
“Dr. Kaur would be,” he says slowly.
“Then steal her opinion,” I say. “You trust her.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re not wrong.”
“I know,” I say, smug.
He elbows me, weak but affectionate.
“So, can I stay here tonight?” He asks after a minute, voice small.
This fucking man.
“Is that even a question?” I scoff. “You think I’m letting you sleep alone after all that? Hell no. I have a weighted blanket on the bed and a clingy boyfriend to wrangle.”
“I am not clingy,” he protests, then immediately reaches for my hand again.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Tell that to the death grip you have on me right now.”
Looking down at our joined hands like he forgot they were there.
“I’ll let go when my heart stops racing,” he says.
“Take your time,” I murmur. “I’m good right here.”
We stay on the floor for a while longer, foreheads touching, our breathing falling into sync. Eventually, the jitter in his muscles fades, leaving behind the bone-deep exhaustion of someone who’s done too much emotional heavy lifting in one day.
I haul us both up, steer him toward the bedroom, and shove an old band tee into his hands. He changes, moving on autopilot, then collapses onto the bed. I switch off the light, slide in beside him, and pull the weighted blanket up over us both.
He immediately rolls into me, tucking his face into my neck, with one leg thrown over my hip.
“Hey, Miguel?” Mumbling, voice already thick with sleep.
“Yeah, baby?”
“If he flips on us,” he says, letting out a drawn-out breath, “I’m gonna need you to say the ‘fuck him’ thing again. Like, a lot.”
I huff a quiet laugh, my hand spreading over his back.
“You got it,” I whisper. “As many times as you need me to.”