Chapter 35 Caleb #2
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Yeah. We can… do that.”
We spend the next chunk of the session going through it.
Signs I’m slipping: not eating, not sleeping, pulling away from Miguel and teammates, and intrusive thoughts getting louder.
Things that help are texting one of them with a code word, going to the gym with someone instead of alone, and scheduling an extra session with her instead of pretending I’m fine.
We write it down. Literally. She hands me a printed worksheet and a pen, and we fill it in together. It feels juvenile and terrifying and weirdly relieving.
“You’re not jinxing anything by planning for hard days,” she says, like she can see the thought on my face. “You’re just acknowledging that your brain has patterns. Preparing for them is a kindness to yourself, not a prediction of doom.”
“Okay,” I say again, my voice a little wobbly.
By the end of the session, my shoulders feel lighter and heavier at the same time. I tuck the safety plan into my notebook like a secret map.
“What’s one thing you’re looking forward to this week?” She asks right as I’m standing up.
It takes me half a second to answer. “Miguel’s off early tomorrow,” I say. “He promised to make dinner for both of us.”
She smiles. “Sounds like progress on multiple fronts.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling back. “Yeah, it does.”
When I get back to the condo, the sky’s that soft blue-gold that makes everything look like a postcard.
Miguel’s truck is already in his spot and I notice that he’s pulled his motorcycle out of his small garage.
Spring means it’s not too cold for him to start riding for fun again.
There’s music drifting through the door when I unlock it, something low and guitar-heavy coming from his little Bluetooth speaker on the counter.
The whole place smells like garlic and tomatoes. I step inside and lock the door behind me. “Honey, I’m home,” I call, dropping my backpack by the couch.
Miguel pops his head out from the kitchen, curls a little frizzy from steam, apron on over his T-shirt like a domestic god. “You are just in time to witness my culinary genius,” he says. “Behold…chicken that is not dry and onions that are only slightly charred. For my version of burrito bowls.”
I grin. “Growth.”
“Don’t jinx it,” he warns, then leans over to kiss me. It’s soft and warm and tastes like basil. My brain, exhausted and humming, quiets down another notch.
I look over his shoulder at the stove. There’s a big pan of something that looks suspiciously like actual food. On the counter are all the add-ins for the bowls. Lettuce, two different salsas, crema and queso fresco.
“You cooked all this?” I ask, impressed and a little suspicious.
He lifts his chin, smug. “With minimal supervision from YouTube for the chicken recipe…”
“Wow,” I say. “The internet can be used for good.”
Miguel flicks a bit of water at me. “Go wash your hands. Then you can prep cheese and tell me about therapy.”
“Wow, putting me to work when it’s supposed to be you cooking,” I mutter, but I do as I’m told.
Dinner is… good. Like, not just “no one died,” but actually good. We eat at the tiny table like real adults, my notebook with the safety plan tucked safely in my backpack by the couch.
Miguel asks, “How’d it go with Dr. K?” and I tell him. Not every detail, but enough. The part about being proud, I left the dinner and the undertow metaphor. The safety plan.
“She wants me to tell you there’s a version of that plan that includes you,” I say, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork. “Like… if I get into the danger zone, one of the steps is ‘tell Miguel the truth instead of lying and saying you’re fine.’”
He nods, taking that in seriously. “Okay,” he says. “What does ‘danger zone’ look like, so I know what I’m watching for?”
I tell him. The signs we wrote down. The ones he’s already seen in different combinations. The skipping meals and the not getting out of bed and the way my jokes get meaner about myself, like I’m trying to preemptively agree with the worst thing anyone could say about me.
His jaw clenches a little, but he just says, “Got it,” and reaches across the table to squeeze my wrist.
“This isn’t just your job,” I say quickly. “She was very clear about that. You’re not my full-time crisis manager.”
“I know,” he says. “But I do want to be on the team. Not just watching from the stands.”
My throat gets tight. “Okay,” I whisper.
After dinner, Miguel insists on doing the dishes. I lean against the counter, watching him, music still playing low in the background. Some slow, swaying song now, all warm vocals and lazy drums.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, and the grin that’s spreading across my face isn’t about to help what I’m about to say. “You’re just… hot and competent. It’s unsettling.”
He snorts. “I’ll add that to my resume.”
Miguel rinses the last plate, sets it in the rack, and turns to me, drying his hands on the dish towel. For a second, he just… looks at me. Like he’s taking inventory. Counting bones.
“You okay?” he asks, softer than before.
I shrug, stepping closer until my chest brushes his. “Tired,” I say. “But… yeah. Okay.”
His hands find my hips and drag me closer to him. “Dance with me.”
I blink. “There’s no one else here.”
“Exactly,” he says. “We can be disgustingly cute without witnesses.”
Rolling my eyes, my heart does that weird, fluttery thing behind my ribs and I give in. “I don’t really… dance-dance.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just do what you do on the court, but to the left and slower.”
“That’s not how basketball works,” I protest, already letting him pull me in.
He slides one hand around my waist, the other catching my hand, and starts to sway us, small and gentle, right there in the narrow space between the counter and the table.
The music wraps around us like a blanket, the kitchen light is too bright, the sink is full of drying dishes, and there’s a grocery list half-written on the whiteboard by the fridge.
I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in laundry detergent and the faint hint of whatever strain of weed he’s currently been enjoying when I’m not around. His heartbeat thumps steadily against my chest.
“This is embarrassing,” mumbling into his shirt.
“No,” he says. “This is healing. Shut up and sway.”
I snort, but I do it. One-two, one-two, weight shifting from foot to foot. His fingers trace little circles at the small of my back, not asking for anything, just… there.
My brain, which has been running simulations all day, finally… stops. Not permanently. Not magically. But long enough that all I can think about is the warmth of his hands, the way his cheek feels against my hair, and the faint vibration of his chest when he hums along to the song.
“I talked to Dr. Kaur about the future,” I say quietly, surprising myself. “About how it feels like… dangerous territory. To want things.”
He hums, encouraging.
“I told her about the scout,” I add. “About how part of me wants to be excited and another part is like, ‘Nope, too risky. You’re not allowed to be happy about anything, remember?’”
His hand tightens, just a little. “What did she say?”
“That I don’t have to make any big decisions right now,” I say. “That I’m allowed to let it be a good thing without turning it into a referendum on my worth.”
“Smart woman,” he murmurs.
“I also…” My voice gets smaller. “I kind of told her about… our safety plan. The one with you in it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes warm. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “She seemed… glad. That I’m not trying to white-knuckle everything alone.”
“You’re not,” he says, simple as oxygen. “Not anymore.”
We stand there for another song or two and time stretches weird in the kitchen. It feels like being suspended in amber. Eventually, my feet start to ache and my brain remembers I’m allegedly still a student.
“I should… at least pretend to do homework,” I mumble, reluctantly stepping back.
Smirking, then pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You did therapy and boundaries and emotional labor today,” he says. “You’re allowed to half-ass some psych reading.”
“Wow, look at you advocating for my work-life balance,” I say.
“Your boyfriend is a saint,” he says. “Spread the word.”
I kiss him once more, quick and soft, then grab my backpack off the couch.
Later, when I’m curled up in bed with my laptop open and exactly zero words being written, Miguel comes in, phone in hand.
“Dad texted me,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
My stomach does an instinctive drop. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He hands me his phone.
Dad
Miguel, I’ve been thinking about how things went at the dinner.
I’m sorry for how I handled it. I put my discomfort ahead of Caleb’s feelings.
That wasn’t fair. I’m still struggling, but I don’t want to make either of you feel like you have to disappear when I’m in the room.
I’m trying to do better. Thank you for calling me out, even if I didn’t like hearing it.
I read it twice.
“What do you think?” Miguel asks.
“I think…” I exhale. “That it doesn’t undo what happened or the way he made me feel. But it’s… something. It’s him moving his feet instead of staying planted.”
Miguel nods. “Do you want me to respond?”
I think about it. About my safety plan. About not setting myself on fire to keep someone else warm.
“Maybe… tomorrow,” I shrug. “Only if you want to.”
“Okay,” he says, taking his phone back. “We don’t owe him a response. You know that, right?”
I nod, sinking back into the pillows.
“Alright,” he grabs my laptop, closes it and sets it on the desk.
“That’s enough for tonight. I can practically smell your hair burning from thinking so hard.
” He flicks off the light and slides into bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me in until my back is snug against his chest.
“Rude.” I chuckle, snuggling into him. “But also… facts.”
“Good day,” he murmurs into my hair. “Hard. But good.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Soft landing.”
“Soft landing,” he echoes.
My brain is still scared and still humming with what-ifs and future storms. But there’s a safety plan in my notebook, a coach who believes in me, a dad trying to move his feet, and a man holding me whose heartbeat I could find in a blackout.
And me.
Still here. Still trying.