Chapter 26 Miguel #3
“That Caleb will shatter,” I say bluntly.
“His dad is… complicated. But he’s still Dad.
Still the one who got him out of that house.
Still the one who paid for everything. Losing that…
” My throat tightens. “I don’t know what that would do to him.
And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold him through it. ”
“Notice,” Luis says quietly, “how quickly you went back to holding.”
I shut my eyes for a second.
“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he adds. “I’m trying to show you how automatic it is. Your default is, ‘If something hurts him, I have to absorb it. Alone.’ That’s what I want us to work on. Not decreasing your love, not stepping back emotionally, but spreading the load.”
“How?” I ask. “What does that even look like?”
He lets out a slow breath. “It looks like small, practical boundaries,” he says.
“For example: deciding what constitutes an emergency that requires you to drop everything and go, and what does not. Agreeing with Caleb on a check-in word, like the ‘alive’ you already have so you’re not left in the dark for twelve hours.
Practicing telling him, ‘I’m scared right now,’ instead of only showing up in action. ”
He taps his pen lightly against his notebook. “It might also look like you giving yourself permission to step away for an hour after a hard conversation with him and calling someone—your mother, a friend, even me down the line—instead of immediately pushing your own feelings down to be strong.”
“That’s… a lot,” I say.
“It is,” he agrees. “And we don’t have to do it all at once. Today, I just want you to notice. Notice when your brain tells you, ‘If I don’t handle this, he’ll die.’ Notice when you feel responsible for everyone in the room. We’ll build from there.”
The clock on his desk ticks quietly. I realize my shoulders are halfway to my ears and force them down.
“What are you feeling right now?” he asks.
“Exposed,” I say. “Like you took the cover off my wiring panel and are looking at how bad it really is.”
“And how bad is it?” he asks. “On a scale from ‘mild code violation’ to ‘immediately condemned’?”
A surprised laugh slips out of me. “Somewhere in the middle,” I say. “Like… ‘this is functional but messy.’”
“Messy is workable,” he says. “Condemned is when we worry. You’re here. That tells me you’re invested in keeping this house standing.”
He closes his notebook gently. “We’re almost out of time,” he says. “I’d like to see you again next week, if that works for you. Same time?”
I hesitate.
There’s a part of me that wants to say, Thanks, this was cute, but I’m good. To walk out of here, tell Caleb it went fine, and never come back. But then there’s another part that remembers saying, I’d bleed for him. Gladly. And realizing I never specified how much.
“Yeah,” I say. “Next week works.”
We pick a time. He walks me back to the lobby.
“If things spike between now and then,” he says at the door, “you can call the front desk and leave a message for me. I can’t always respond immediately, but we can adjust if you’re really struggling.
And if it ever gets to a point where you’re thinking about hurting yourself, there are emergency numbers on that brochure.
” He nods toward a rack by the door. “You don’t have to go through that alone, either. ”
I shake my head instinctively. “I’m not—”
“I know,” he says calmly. “You checked the box. That tells me you have the thoughts. Not that you’ll act on them. I’m not trying to scare you. Just letting you know support is there.”
I stare at him for a second, then nod. “Got it,” I say.
“See you next week, Miguel,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “See you.”
I sit in the truck with the engine off and my hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at nothing. The session replays in my head in flashes.
You’re not the only line.
You’re not a raft.
Martyrdom isn’t love.
Who are you if you’re not the handler?
I feel… wrung out.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder.
Caleb
Still alive?
A breathy, involuntary laugh escapes me. I pick up the phone and stare at the screen for a second before typing.
Miguel
Alive.
Didn’t spontaneously combust in the therapist’s chair.
Caleb
Proud of you. How was it? You don’t have to answer that now if you don’t want to.
I rest my head against the headrest, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Miguel
He was… fine.
Asked a lot of questions. Told me I’m not allowed to be a full-time human life raft because of physics.
Three dots. Stop. Start again.
Caleb
That sounds like something a therapist would say.
Are you okay?
Miguel
Tired. But like… good-tired, not demolition-tired.
Caleb
You still wanna talk to me and not run away to Mexico?
Miguel
Tempting. And if I remember correctly, you were supposed to come with me.
But yeah. I still wanna talk to you.
You at the dorm?
Caleb
Yeah. Just finished getting yelled at by Coach after film review. Can I come over?
Miguel
You. Have. Keys. For the love of God, use them.
I’ll be home in 20.
Caleb
Okay. I’ll bring snacks so you can trauma dump in style.
I snort, tuck the phone away, and start the engine. On the drive back, I keep catching myself reaching for old thoughts.
You’re being dramatic. You don’t need this. This is overkill.
Then I see Caleb’s face when he opened the door last night—eyes blown wide, shoulders up around his ears. Clinging to me like someone might rip us apart. My own heart trying to pound out of my chest because his dad could take him away with a word.
I grip the wheel tighter.
If I want to keep loving him the way I say I do—for a long time, not just until the next crisis—I need more than instincts and anger and willpower. I need structure. Tools. Other hands on the net.
It’s not just for him.
It’s for me.
The condo smells like coffee and Caleb’s body wash when I walk in. The lamp in the living room is on, casting everything in that soft gold light Caleb always says makes the place feel like a safe house.
He’s already here.
Curled up on the couch, one knee up, my sweatpants on, his hair damp at the ends like he showered right before coming over.
There’s a bag of chips and a box of those chocolate-covered pretzels he likes on the coffee table.
The TV’s paused on the streaming menu. He looks up the second he hears the door unlock, his eyes scanning my face.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey, pretty boy,” I say.
Getting up, he crosses the room in about three steps and wraps his arms around my middle. Not as desperate as last night. Just making sure. I fold him up, nose in his hair, breathing him in. The tight, buzzing energy I carried out of the appointment loosens a little.
“How’d it go?” he asks, voice muffled in my shirt. “You don’t have to… like, report. I just… wanna know if you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “He didn’t bite.”
“Lame,” he says. “It’s not a real therapy session if you don’t feel chewed up and spit back out afterward.”
I huff a laugh and steer him backward until we hit the couch. We sit, his knee touching mine, the weight of his thigh a quiet anchor.
“You want the long version or the ‘It’s fine’-length version?” I ask.
“Give me the medium version,” he says. “We can work up to the long one.”
I nod, reaching over and picking up his hand. “His name’s Luis,” I say. “Dr. Ortega. He’s chill. Asked about you, about Reno, about why I drove to campus like a lunatic instead of waiting for you to text.”
Caleb winces. “Sorry.”
“Not the point,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “He kept coming back to me. To how I’m… treating myself like your full-time security system. How I go to the worst-case scenario every time your phone hiccups.”
“That’s… accurate,” Caleb says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “He said I’m allowed to not do that. That I’m not the only line between you and the dark. And that if I keep acting like I am, I’m gonna burn out.”
Caleb’s throat works. “He’s not wrong,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Hate that he’s not wrong, but yeah.”
We sit in that for a second.
“He asked me who I am if I’m not the handler,” I add.
Caleb looks at me, eyes wide. “And?”
“And I… didn’t have an answer,” I say.
Something flickers across his face—sadness, guilt, something in between. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Hey.” I tap his knee. “None of that. This isn’t your fault. I signed up for the role. Took it. Wore it like a damn badge.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t take advantage of it,” he says quietly. “Even if I didn’t mean to.”
“Maybe sometimes you leaned a little hard,” I say. “But you got handed a brain that tries to kill you on Tuesdays. You’re allowed to lean. The problem isn’t you needing me. It’s me thinking I have to be the only one you lean on.”
He bites his lip. “So… what does this mean?” he asks. “In practical terms. Are you… going to stop answering when I call? Because I—”
“No,” I cut in. “Absolutely not. Don’t even let your brain finish that sentence.”
Caleb exhales, his shoulders dropping a fraction.
“It means…” I think for a second, trying to pare Luis’s therapist-speak down into something that fits in my mouth.
“It means when I get scared, I’m gonna try not to immediately go to DEFCON 1.
It means maybe we figure out a rule, like if you’re going on an away game, you send me the word even if your phone’s at one percent. ”
Caleb nods slowly. “I can do that,” he says. “That actually… helps me, too. Gives me something concrete.”
“And it means,” I add, “if I’m fried and you’re spiraling, I’m gonna tell you, ‘Hey, I’m here, but my brain’s also not great. Can we also loop in someone else? Maybe mom. Dr. Kaur. A hotline.’ Not drop you. Just… share the load.”
His eyes get shiny. “You’re allowed,” he says. “To say that. I don’t want to be the reason you… end up in a waiting room filling out the same forms as me.”
“I already filled them out,” I smirk. “We’re matching now. Cute couple activity.”
He laughs, a wet sound, and wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “What did he say about my dad?” he asks. “Did you… talk about him?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Told him about Lawyer Dad wanting to have a little chat with us. He asked if I felt responsible for how your dad reacts.”
“You do,” Caleb says softly.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I do. That if he flips and cuts you off, that’s gonna be put on me. Even if it’s bullshit.”
“And what did he say?” Caleb asks.
“That it’s not my job to manage your dad’s feelings,” I say.
“That I’m allowed to have limits in that conversation, too.
We talked about setting some lines before we even talk to him.
Stuff we’re not willing to answer, stuff we are.
And the option to say, ‘We’re done for tonight’ if he starts poking at you like a lab experiment. ”
Caleb stares at our hands. “That feels… illegal,” he says. “To tell my dad we’re done.”
“It’s not,” I say. “It’s called a boundary. They’re free. You should try them sometime.”
He snorts, the sound a little shaky. “You really think we could… hang up?”
“If he starts hurting you on purpose?” I say. “Yeah. I do. And if you freeze, I’ll do it. I’m not gonna sit there and watch him twist you up so he feels better about himself.”
His throat works. “You’re really not scared of him, huh?” he says.
“Oh, I’m terrified of him,” I say honestly. “But I’m more terrified of you walking out of that conversation believing his worst-case version of you.”
Caleb’s eyes shine again. He leans in, resting his forehead against my temple.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?” I ask.
“For going,” he says. “For letting someone… look at your wiring. For… not just white-knuckling it because you think that’s what loving me requires.”
“Loving you requires a lot of things,” I say. “Turns out, martyrdom isn’t one of them. Who knew?”
He huffs a laugh and tips his head back to look at me. “Dr. Kaur said something today,” he says slowly. “Almost the same. That you getting help is… proof you want to stay. Not proof that I broke you.” He swallows. “I’m trying to make myself believe her.”
“Maybe we can both try,” I say. “You stop thinking you’re toxic. I’ll stop thinking I’m a shitty partner if I ever say, ‘I need help too.’”
Caleb considers that, his lips quirking. “Joint homework,” he says. “Look at us go. Power couple.”
“Don’t ever say ‘power couple’ again,” I groan. “You’ll jinx us. Next thing you know, some Netflix producer will want to make a documentary.”
“Stepbrothers in Love: A Cautionary Tale,” he says in his best announcer voice.
“Absolutely not,” I say, chucking a throw pillow at his face.
He catches it and hugs it to his chest. The laughter fades, leaving behind something softer, quieter.
“I’m proud of you,” he says suddenly. “For going. For talking. For… letting someone tell you you’re allowed to be human.”
The words hit some raw place I didn’t realize was exposed. Between those and Dr. Kaur’s and his dad’s reluctant attempts, I’m starting to feel like someone opened a fire hydrant of “proud of you”s and forgot to shut it off.
“Yeah, well,” I say gruffly. “I’m proud of you first. I said it more. I win.”
He rolls his eyes. “Competitive asshole.”
“You love me,” I say.
“Unfortunately,” he says, but his hand finds mine again, fingers lacing tight. “Yeah. I do.”
We sit there like that for a while, the TV playing some game highlights we’re not really watching, our hands tangled on the couch between us.
We’re not fixed.
We’re not safe from everything coming.
But for the first time in a long time, I feel like we’re not standing alone on the cliff edge, daring the waves to come get us.
I’ve been pretending I can outrun the ocean with sheer stubbornness.
Maybe it’s time to learn how to swim.