Chapter 27 Caleb #2
“Hey,” Miguel says softly, noticing. His hand finds my knee under the counter, thumb rubbing slow circles. “We’re just brainstorming. Nothing we put here obligates you to do anything. We’re giving your brain something concrete to look at instead of letting it play horror movies on loop.”
I stare at the note. The blinking cursor feels like it’s judging me.
“Fine,” I say, dragging a breath in. “Rule number one: we don’t take the call if I’m already hanging by a thread. Like, no calling him right after a panic attack or a terrible practice or… whatever.”
Miguel types it out:
1. Don’t schedule the talk on a day when Caleb is already emotionally tapped out.
“Good,” he says. “Rule two: we pick a time when we can both be in the same place. No split-screen chaos. No you in your dorm and me in the truck.”
My shoulders drop a fraction. “Yeah,” I say. “I want to be… near you. Physical proximity is my favorite coping skill.”
He smirks and types:
2. Take the call together, in person, at the condo.
“Okay,” he says. “Now, questions we’re willing to answer. Stuff we’re okay talking about, even if it’s uncomfortable.”
The idea of answering questions about us makes me want to disappear into the floor. But if I don’t think it through now, my brain’s going to do it alone later and it’ll be worse.
I push my plate away and lean on my elbows, staring at the screen. “I can talk about how long I’ve had feelings,” I say slowly. “I already kind of did. He knows it’s not just… sudden.”
Miguel nods. “We can answer stuff like, ‘How did this start?’ without giving him every sexual detail he’s trying not to imagine.”
I grimace. “God, please.”
He types:
Okay to answer:
– How long we’ve had feelings
– How it shifted from brothers to something else
– What we see for our future in general terms (not sex details, Ashton, calm down)
I snort despite myself. “He’s gonna hate that parenthetical.”
“Sweet,” Miguel says, lips quirking. “Now, what’s off-limits? Stuff that’s none of his business.”
“Anything to do with specific sexual acts,” I say immediately, face flaming. “He does not get to interrogate what we do in bed. Or on couches. Or…”
“Okay, focus, horny,” Miguel says, thumbs flying.
Off-limits:
– Details about our sex life
– Play-by-play of fights/arguments that aren’t his business
– Therapy session content that belongs only to Caleb & Dr. Kaur
“He doesn’t get to treat you like a witness on the stand,” I add. “No cross-examining you on my diagnoses. He can ask me about my mental health. He does not get to grill you for ‘intel’ like you’re my handler.”
“Love when your metaphors cross genres,” Miguel murmurs, but he types it in.
Off-limits:
– Miguel spilling Caleb’s private mental health details
The more he writes, the more I feel the tight pressure in my chest… shift. Like we’re building a little fence around the parts that scare me most.
“Okay,” Miguel says. “Red-flag phrases. Shit he could say that means we take a time-out.”
I don’t even have to think. “If he calls you a bad influence,” I say. “If he uses words like ‘corrupt’ or ‘perverted.’ If he suggests I’d be fine if you weren’t around.”
Miguel’s jaw clenches. He types:
Red flags = pause or end call:
– “bad influence,” “corrupting,” or “perverted.”
– blames Miguel for Caleb’s trauma or mental health
– talks about Caleb like a problem to solve instead of a person
“And if he starts talking like I ‘owe’ him being straight because he rescued me,” I add, stomach churning. “Like, ‘I did all this for you, the least you could do is give me the life I pictured for you.’”
Miguel’s eyes go dark. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “He tries that we’re done for the night.”
He adds that to the list. I swallow around the rock in my throat. I can see it so clearly—Dad’s face tight, his voice cool, saying something that makes my skin crawl and my brain automatically go, okay, you’re right, I’ll fix it, just don’t leave.
My breathing stutters.
Miguel’s hand squeezes my knee. “You’re doing good,” he says. “You’re allowed to take a break. Want to?”
My first instinct is to say no, to plow forward and get it all out while I have momentum. But my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and my fingers are starting to tingle.
“Maybe… just a second,” I say. “Before the hamsters unionize.”
He chuckles softly. “Okay. Grounding break. Five things you can see, go.”
I roll my eyes, but it works. “Your stupid plant on the windowsill,” I say, eyeing the scraggly green thing clinging to life. “The crack in the ceiling paint. Your ugly coffee mug—”
“Hey! I love that mug.”
“—my hoodie on the chair, and… the dent on your fridge from when you slammed it too hard last month.”
Miguel hums. “Three things you can feel.”
“The edge of the counter under my arm,” I say, focusing on the cool surface. “Your hand on my knee. The way my toes are all… scrunched up in my socks.”
“Two things you can hear,” he prompts.
“The fridge humming,” I say. “And… you. Breathing. Talking.”
“One thing you can smell.”
I sniff. “Coffee,” I say. “And you. Which is cheating, that’s two.”
“‘You’ is not a scent, but I’ll allow it,” he says. “You back in your body?”
“Mostly,” I say. “Still hate everything. But less floaty about it.”
He nods, thumb still drawing lazy circles on my knee. “We can stop there for now,” he says. “We’ve got big stuff down. We can add more later if we think of it.”
I glance at the screen again. The list looks… real. Not perfect. But something.
“What do you want out of that call?” Miguel asks suddenly. “Like… best realistic outcome. Not fantasy Dad, who marches in a Pride parade with us. What would actually feel… okay?”
The question lodges in my chest. I stare at the note, then close my eyes for a second, trying to listen past the fear.
“I want him… to see you,” I say slowly. “Like actually see you. Not just some… variable that messed up his equation. I want him to understand that you make my life bigger, not smaller.”
Miguel’s throat works. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We can aim for that.”
“And I want…” My voice wobbles. “I want to stop feeling like his love is contingent on me being… correct. Straight. Successful. Composed. I want to know if there’s any version of me that isn’t a constant project in his head.”
Miguel’s eyes soften in that dangerous way that makes me want to cry on the spot. Reaching over, he slides his hand up from my knee to cup the side of my neck, thumb pressing into the hinge of my jaw and leveling my face with his.
“You are,” he says, slow and sure, “no one’s project.”
“Tell him that,” I say, trying for a laugh and not quite making it.
“Oh, I will,” he says. “But first we’re telling you that. A lot. Until it sticks.”
I look back at the list. It’s still terrifying. But it’s terrifying with bullet points.
“What about you?” I ask suddenly. “What do you want out of it? Besides the chance to call my dad on his world-class bullshit in legalese.”
He smiles faintly. “Honestly?” he says. “I want to walk out of it knowing you didn’t get smaller. That even if he says the wrong thing, you don’t shrink yourself to fit his comfort.”
His fingers tighten on my neck. “And I want him to understand that I’m not going anywhere,” he adds. “That if his plan is to scare me off so he can get you back into some neat little box, he’s gonna be very disappointed.”
Something cracks open, clean and sharp.
“And if he does…” I start, then stop, because the words burn. “If he flips. If he decides he can’t… handle this. And he pulls away.” I swallow hard. “What happens then?”
Miguel’s eyes search my face. “Then,” he says slowly, “we handle that grief. Together. With other people. With my mom. With Dr. Kaur and Dr. Ortega. With whatever support we can find. We don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. But we also don’t let his limitations dictate whether we’re allowed to be happy.”
My vision blurs. I blink hard. “That sounds… hard,” I say, voice small.
“It will be,” he says. “I’m not gonna lie and say, ‘you won’t even miss him.’ You will. You love him. He’s done good things. Losing that would suck. But we’d survive it. You are not alone in the fallout.”
The words sit heavy and warm in my chest. For a second, I picture the after. This same counter. Miguel’s hand on my knee. Celeste squeezing the air out of me. Dr. Kaur’s office. Luis’s quiet questions. More than just me and Miguel braced against the flood.
The image is terrifying.
It’s also… less terrifying than the idea of being alone with it.
“I hate that we have to think about all this,” I mutter.
“Me too,” Miguel says. “But I’d rather think about it at this counter with coffee than at midnight when your brain’s doing an interpretive dance with worst-case scenarios.”
A reluctant laugh slips out of me. “Interpretive dance.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine.
I do.
I pick up my fork again and force another bite of eggs. They’ve gone lukewarm, but they’re still decent. Miguel takes a sip of his coffee and watches me.
“You’re doing good,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t even cry. Dr. Kaur’s gonna be disappointed.”
“Give it ten minutes,” he says. “We’ll get you there.”
“Asshole.”
“I’m your asshole, hermoso,” he says again, easy. “You’re stuck with me.”
“The only person I’d want to be stuck with is you,” I say, before my brain can slap a joke on it.
His mouth softens and for a second, the whole world narrows down to his eyes and the thumb rubbing absently against my throat.
We let the conversation drift after that—into safer waters. Practice schedule. Whether my coach is actually possessed by a demon or just really needs a vacation. Miguel’s latest encounter with a particularly cursed breaker panel.
But the list sits between us on the counter, a tiny monument to the fact that we’re not just reacting anymore. We’re planning.
When I finally pull my phone over and read it again, I add one last line at the bottom, my thumbs hovering for a second before I type.
Non-negotiable:
– We don’t sacrifice ourselves to keep him comfortable.
Miguel reads it over my shoulder. His breath warms my ear. “I like that one,” he says quietly. “Keep that one at the top of your brain.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
Later, when I’m walking across campus with my headphones in and my backpack slung over one shoulder, the old fear creeps back in. What if the plan doesn’t matter? What if he still blows everything up?
But then my phone buzzes.
Miguel
Alive?
I snort, thumbs flying.
Caleb
Alive.
Did emotional homework. Still hate it.
Miguel
Proud of you. Tell your boss I said she has good ideas.
I glance toward the squat beige counseling building in the distance. The thought of actually telling Dr. Kaur about this makes my stomach flip, but in a different way than it used to. Not dread. More like… handing in an assignment you didn’t think you could finish.
Caleb
I’ll tell her.
She’ll probably make it a worksheet.
Miguel
Sexy.
Rolling my eyes at my screen I keep walking with my brain still scared.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But instead of just shoes, there’s a list in my pocket.
There’s Miguel in a hoodie, going to therapy so he can keep loving me without burning out.
There’s a therapist who doesn’t think we’re doomed.
A mom who will show up with food and prayers and inappropriate jokes in Spanish whenever we need her.
And there’s me.
Scared. Shaky. Still here.
It’s not much, but it’s a helluva lot more than I had before and I’ll fucking take it.