Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
CALEB
Iknow I’m not in my dorm before I even open my eyes. The mattress is way too good. My old mattress. The one Mom picked out “so you’ll feel safe, mijo.” It’s softer than Miguel’s bed at the condo, broken in exactly where my body always used to land when I flopped down after practices.
For a second, I hover in that floaty space between sleep and awake. The room is gray-blue with early light. My brain catalogues familiar shadows, the dresser, the crooked poster in the corner, and the closet where Miguel first kissed me.
Miguel.
My hand reaches out automatically, searching for his chest.
All I get are empty sheets and cool air instead.
My heart drops until my nose catches up. Coffee. Warm tortillas. Something sizzling in a pan. I exhale, the tension unwinding a little. Of course he’s up. Miguel is physically incapable of sleeping past eight in this house. Mom bakes this into the walls or something.
I soak in not having to get up early for practice or classes.
I roll onto my back and wince, the two of us sleeping in this bed together is rough.
I peel myself out of bed, grab clean sweats and underwear from the duffel, and shuffle to the tiny bathroom between our old rooms. Take a quick, scalding shower, just long enough to rinse off, clear my head, and talk myself out of a full-blown overthinking spiral.
It’s fine. It’s good. You survived dinner. Your dad did okay. Mom was a little fucking extra… but still Mom.
You’re okay.
By the time I’m pulling my hoodie on over still-damp skin, my stomach is growling loud enough to be its own character. The hallway is cool on my bare feet as I pad down toward the kitchen.
I’m two steps from the doorway when I hear them.
“…no puedes cargar todo tú solo, mijo,” Mom says, voice low but firm. “Eso ya lo hiciste de nino.”
I freeze, then shift back so I’m out of sight but close enough to hear. But my name hovers under everything in this house, and when they switch to Spanish, I always have that itch that says, “Time to pay attention.”
Miguel sighs. “Ya sé,” he says. “I know. Luis said the same thing. I’m trying. It’s just… hard to shut it off. Feels like if I stop watching him for one second, algo malo va a pasar.”
“You’re not his only net anymore,” she says. “Tienes que creer eso. Dr. Kaur, tú, Ashton, yo… no estás solo.”
There’s a clink of ceramic—a coffee mug, probably. I picture him leaning against the counter, hair a mess, eyes still tired.
He makes a small, frustrated sound. “Lo sé,” he says. “I know it here.” A pause. “But aquí…” He taps something—I imagine his chest. “A veces siento que si lo suelto poquito, lo voy a perder.”
My heart squeezes and Mom’s quiet for a beat. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Y tú, mijo,” she asks, “?qué quieres? No solo para cuidarlo. Para ti.”
There’s a pause long enough that I almost step away to give him privacy.
Then Miguel says, quieter than I’ve ever heard him, “Quiero… que un día él se sienta tan seguro conmigo que pueda pensar en futuro. De verdad.”
My pulse stutters.
“And that future is…?” Mom prompts, gentle but nosy in that mom way.
He exhales. I hear it and feel it in my ribs. “Casarme con él,” he says simply. “ése es mi final del juego, Mamá. Casarme con Caleb. Tener una vida normal con él. Lo más normal posible para nosotros.”
I put a hand on the wall.
Marry him.
But hearing him say it? Out loud? In that steady, matter-of-fact tone?
Something in my chest goes soft and feral at the same time.
Mom hums, this fond, devastating little sound. “Eso no me sorprende para nada,” she says. “Siempre supe que lo amabas así. Desde que tenían… qué, quince y diecisiete.”
I press my lips together hard.
She’s always known.
“?Y él?” she asks. “?Crees que algún día va a querer eso también?”
My heart is beating so hard it’s ridiculous. Miguel goes quiet. Long enough that my nerves start buzzing loud in my ears.
“No sé,” he admits, and it’s like a knife and a kiss all at once. “Quiero creer que sí. Pero él… ha pasado por tanto. Le cuesta pensar más allá de la próxima práctica, el próximo examen. No le voy a meter presión.”
My eyes burn, he has to know that I love him just as much as he loves me. As hard as it is to envision being married, he is the only person I’ve ever seen myself with.
“I just… hope,” he adds softly. “Que algún día se sienta tan seguro, tan… vivo conmigo, que pueda imaginar eso sin miedo. Y si no—” He shrugs, I hear it in his voice. “Igual me voy a quedar. No estoy con él solo si hay anillo.”
Head, meet wall.
I lean there, hoodie sleeve against the cool plaster, and let the image slip in. Just for a second.
Not a big church wedding—that’s never really been my style, and Dad might combust if we tried—but something small.
Maybe a courthouse with Mom crying through the whole thing.
Or something on the beach with Miguel in a suit that fits too well, tie loose by the end of the night because I can’t keep my hands to myself.
Rings that flash when we both reach for the same pan in our ridiculous little kitchen.
A kid, maybe. Dark curls, big eyes, running down the Boardwalk with a ridiculous prize stuffed animal under one arm, screaming for us to “watch this!” before almost face-planting in the sand.
Miguel would roll his eyes and then sprint after them anyway.
Me yelling, “Be careful!” from under an umbrella like my father.
But for three heartbeats, it feels… possible.
My chest feels too small for my lungs. I scrub my palms over my face and step back a few feet before I walk in like a creep who just eavesdropped on his own hypothetical wedding.
Noise. Make noise.
I yawn loudly and drag my feet the last few steps, then round the corner into the kitchen, blinking like I just woke up.
“Morning,” I mumble. “Smells good.”
Miguel’s head snaps toward me, eyes a little wide, then softens instantly. He’s in a faded T-shirt and sweats, hair sticking up, hands braced on the counter. Mom is at the stove. There’s a plate of eggs and tortillas already waiting at my usual spot.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smiling. “Siéntate. You want coffee?”
“Always,” I say, dropping into the chair. My heart is still racing, but I tuck it behind a familiar grin. “Black for my soul, sugar for my trauma.”
Miguel snorts, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You get one brown sugar latte,” he says, grabbing the mug he clearly already made. “Drink it and then you’re switching to water or your heart’s gonna tap out.”
He sets the mug in front of me and leans down to kiss the top of my head without thinking. Mom watches, fond and unsurprised.
“You sleep okay?” Miguel asks, sliding into the chair next to mine. His knee bumps mine under the table.
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. The foam on top has a little heart in it, the asshole. “Best sleep I’ve had in weeks, actually.” I hesitate, then add, “Thanks.”
His eyes crinkle. “De nada, hermoso.”
Mom sets a pan of scrambled eggs and a bowl of beans on the table. “Eat,” she orders. “I don’t like seeing that hollow under your cheeks, Caleb. You’re not a starving orphan.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like the skinny athlete look,” Miguel says, reaching for a tortilla. “I am, however, in favor of you not passing out during sex.”
“Miguel,” I hiss, eyes wide, kicking him under the table.
Mom laughs so hard she has to set the spoon down. “Ay, Dios,” she says, crossing herself. “I warned you boys about the walls. Don’t make me start blasting música cristiana at midnight.”
I want to dive into the sink and never come out.
But my heart is still humming with the echo of his voice saying casarme con Caleb, so it’s hard to be too mad.
We eat. We talk about nothing, midterms, work, and whether the Warriors are cursed this season. Mom mentions the Boardwalk, and my ears perk up.
“We should go,” she says. “It’s supposed to be warm today. Little bit of sun, some ocean air. We can walk the pier, maybe ride un juego or two.”
A day with my family in public used to sound like a trap. Now it just sounds… nice. A little scary. Mostly nice.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I forget how much I missed the Boardwalk until we’re walking up the stairs and the smell hits me.
Ocean salt, fryer oil, cotton candy, sunscreen.
Somewhere, a kid screams over the sound of a roller coaster rattling over tracks.
The sun is doing its best, fighting through high clouds.
It’s not exactly summer, but it’s warm enough that tourists are already stripping down to T-shirts and shorts. Locals, like us, keep their hoodies on.
Mom immediately beelines for the churro stand. “I need fuel if I’m going to survive you three,” she declares, already digging for her wallet.
Miguel mutters, “You hear that? She grouped me with Dad. Disrespectful,” under his breath.
“That’s what you get for marrying into white people,” I whisper back. “One of us, one of us.”
He snorts, shoulders bumping mine.
We walk the planks, Mom between us, Dad trailing half a step back, already assessing everything like a man who understands liability law too well. Caleb, don’t run on the boards. Watch where you’re going. Don’t—
“Dad, I’m twenty-two,” I say when he says, “Don’t get too close to the edge.”
“If I fall, it’ll be because I’m dramatic, not because of the railing.”
He presses his lips together, but the corner twitches. “Noted,” he says.
Miguel runs his fingers lightly against mine as we walk. We don’t hold hands—the crowd is thick, there are kids everywhere, and I know my dad is still calibrating—but the touch is enough. A secret little tether.
We play skee-ball and Miguel absolutely destroys everyone and then pretends he’s modest about it.
“It’s all in the wrist,” he says as I fling a ball wildly into the gutter.
“Your wrists are blessed,” I grumble. “Mine are cursed.”
“Your three-point arc says otherwise.”