Chapter 26 Miguel
TWENTY-SIX
MIGUEL
Ispend the whole morning pretending I’m fine. The trick to pretending you’re fine is to give your hands something to do. Hands can carry the lie your mouth can’t.
So my hands are busy as hell—cutting holes for boxes, stripping insulation, twisting wire nuts, and anchoring staples along joists. It’s a kitchen remodel in Live Oak, in one of those mid-century houses with just enough charm to make up for the rat’s nest of old wiring behind the walls.
“Feed me that twelve-two,” Benny calls from the other side of the stud bay.
“Say please,” I mutter, grabbing the coil and threading it through. My wrists ache from the angle, but it’s a clean run. Thank God for small miracles.
“Please, Your Majesty,” he sing-songs.
“That’s right,” I say. “Show some respect.”
He snorts, tugging the wire through. “Got it. You running out after lunch?”
My stomach clenches like I swallowed a fist. “Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “Got… an appointment.”
“For sure. Just don’t get lost on your way back.”
I don’t specify what kind. I let him decide.
“You good?” he asks, like it’s a casual question. “Peachy,” I say. “Watch that bend. Don’t kink it.”
We trade bullshit like that all morning. Him talking about some girl he met at a party last weekend, me making smart-ass comments, and both of us sweating through our shirts as the heater roasts the already cramped site.
Every time my phone buzzes in my pocket, my shoulders go tight.
The first one is a calendar alert: Therapist—1:30 p.m.
The second is from Caleb.
Caleb
How’s your morning?
I wipe drywall dust off my hands and fish the phone out, leaning against a half-demolished wall so I don’t clock my head on a beam.
Miguel
Wires haven’t killed me yet. You?
Caleb
Slept through my first alarm and nearly died sprinting to class. But I’m here. Trying not to think about you going to therapy for the first time.
Staring at that last line for a second too long.
Miguel
Ah, so we’re both pretending we’re chill. Cute.
Caleb
Shut up.
Are you… nervous?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard—No feels like a lie and a yes feels like too much weight to drop in his lap when he’s already dragging his own shit to Dr. Kaur every week.
Miguel
Little bit. Mostly I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
“Hi, my name is Miguel and I bring emotional casseroles to people in crisis.”
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Caleb
You could literally say that and she’d probably love you.
You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to feel like you have to because of me.
Miguel
I want to, pretty boy. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna complain about it like a man.
Caleb
Gender equality means you’re allowed to whine.
Text me after? Even if it’s just “didn’t die.”
Miguel
Deal. Go learn things. No talking shit to the professor.
Caleb
Can’t make promises I won’t keep.
I tuck the phone away and drag a hand down my face.
“Yo, Veracruz,” Benny calls. “You fall in love with that stud bay or what?”
“Yeah, it spoke to my soul,” I say, grabbing my drill. “Said, ‘please save me from whoever wired me in 1978.’”
He laughs. “House of horrors, man.”
He’s not wrong. The breaker panel on this place looks like someone closed their eyes and shoved wires wherever they fit. It’s satisfying in a way, undoing other people’s bad decisions. You can’t fix everything, but you can fix this circuit, this line, this junction.
People aren’t that simple.
By twelve-thirty, we’ve got most of the new runs in, and my shirt is sticking to my back.
“Take your lunch,” I tell Benny, rolling my shoulders. “I’m gonna bounce. Appointment.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hot date?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Me and my emotional baggage. Very romantic.”
He laughs like it’s a joke.
“Don’t let the wires kill you while I’m gone,” I add, grabbing my hoodie off the back of a chair.
He salutes with his lineman’s pliers. “No promises.”
Outside, the air is crisp and cool, with a little bite off the ocean. I stand on the front walk for a second, eyes closed, letting the breeze cut through the fog in my head.
I can still bail.
There’s a version of me that does. Texts the number, cancels, and says something about work running late. Easy. I have a real job. Real responsibilities. No one could argue with that.
I picture Caleb’s face if I told him.
The way his voice went soft when he said, I don’t want to break you.
I get in the truck.
The counseling center Dr. Kaur’s referral was for is on the edge of downtown, in a squat building wedged between a yoga studio and a laundromat. It looks like every other office I’ve ever seen—neutral, like it’s trying not to offend anyone.
I park and just… Sit there for a second, forehead against the steering wheel, hands resting at ten and two.
I fix things for a living. I walk into places with faulty wiring and figure out what’s wrong. This is the first time I’m walking into a room where I’m the one who might blow a breaker.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, and climb out.
Inside, the lobby smells like coffee and lemon cleaner. There are chairs lined up along the wall, a table with magazines no one reads, and a little plant that’s either thriving or dying.
The woman at the front desk glances up when the door chimes. “Hi there,” she says, professionally bright. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Uh. I’m Miguel Veracruz. I have a one-thirty?”
She types something and nods. “First-time intake. Got you.” She slides a clipboard toward me. “If you can fill this out, your counselor will be right with you.”
The form is exactly what I expect and worse.
Name. Date of birth. Emergency contact.
I pause at that, pen hovering.
I write Mom’s name, then scratch it out and add Caleb’s under it, because that’s the number they should call if everything goes sideways. Then I add Mom again because if they call him and something’s wrong with me, he’ll self-destruct.
The next section is a checklist.
Have you experienced any of the following in the last month?
— Difficulty sleeping
— Changes in appetite
— Persistent feelings of sadness
— Anxiety or worry
— Thoughts of self-harm or suicide
I hate how long I stare at that last line.
Eventually, I check the box.
I don’t live there. Not like Caleb does. But there are nights when the world feels very small and very hopeless, when the weight of holding him up and keeping the lights on and making sure Mom’s okay presses in all at once. Nights where the thought flickers—
What if I just stopped?
I don’t let it stay. But it passes through.
I’m not going to lie about that. Not here.
The door to the interior hallway opens, and a guy steps out.
Late thirties, maybe, darker complexion, and dark hair going a little silver at the temples.
He wears a button-up and slacks, but he doesn’t have that stiff lawyer posture I’m used to from Ashton’s world.
More like someone who spends a lot of time leaning forward.
“Miguel?” he asks, voice nice and even.
“Yeah.” I stand, the clipboard suddenly heavy in my hand.
He smiles, small but real. “I’m Dr. Ortega,” he says. “You can call me Luis, if you’d like. Come on back.”
Something in my shoulders relaxes half an inch at the last name.
His office is down a short hall, the second door on the left.
It’s smaller than Dr. Kaur’s—and I know that because I’ve built a mental picture of hers from everything Caleb’s told me.
There’s a chair, a couch, and a small desk in the corner.
One wall is all books. Another has a big framed photograph of a beach at sunset.
It smells faintly like tea.
“Have a seat wherever’s comfortable,” he says, gesturing to the couch.
I sit on the very end of it, like I’m ready to bolt.
He takes the chair across from me, not behind the desk. Clipboard in hand, but angled away.
“How’s your day been so far?” he asks.
“Electrical,” I say automatically. “Ran cable, yelled at a breaker, insulted some very old wiring. Same as usual.”
His mouth twitches. “So you’re an electrician?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Work with a small crew in town. We do mostly residential and some small commercial stuff.”
He nods like he’s actually interested, not humoring me. “And what brought you in today?”
There it is.
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans, pulling it tight.
“My partner,” I say finally. “He… uh. He goes to the campus counseling center. A lot. His therapist suggested I might want…” I wave a hand, searching for a word that doesn’t make my skin crawl.
“…support. For myself. To help him. Without turning into a crazy person.”
“How long have you been with your partner?” he asks. “And how long has he been in therapy, as far as you know?”
“We’ve been together since Halloween,” I say. “But we’ve known each other since we were kids. He’s been seeing his current therapist since… last year? The beginning of the year. Before that, it was… ‘find a new shrink every time he breaks,’ courtesy of his dad.”
Luis’s eyebrows go up slightly at that, but he doesn’t comment. “So you’ve known him a long time,” he says. “You said since you were kids?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “He’s… my stepdad’s son. We were thrown together when I was ten and he was eight.”
“And when you say ‘support for yourself’…” He trails off, leaving it open.
I exhale slowly. “He’s been through some shit,” I say. “Like… I don’t even have words for how bad. Abuse. Neglect. The kind of childhood you see in documentaries and think, ‘there’s no way that happens in real life.’ It does. And it happened to him.”
Luis is very still, eyes on my face. “And where were you in that?” he asks, gently.
“Waiting,” I say. “His dad didn’t know where his mom took him.
Or what she was doing. Or that she had this assh—this boyfriend who liked hurting kids.
We didn’t know any of it. Then his dad got the call when he was eight, and he just showed up and moved in…
it was different.” My jaw locks for a second.
“I’ve been… trying to catch up ever since. ”