Chapter 36 Miguel
THIRTY-SIX
MIGUEL
The first thing I notice is that the coffee disappears faster. Not that Caleb is drinking more of it, exactly. It’s the way he drains the travel mug before we even hit the main road, then stares at the empty lid like it betrayed him.
“Brain fuel,” he mutters, fidgeting with the stainless-steel rim. “Midterms are done, but apparently professors decided ‘post-midterm period’ is Latin for ‘assign every project ever.’”
“That’s not what Latin is for,” I say, easing the truck into traffic. “Latin is for tattoos people regret and priests yelling at you.”
He snorts, but his knee is bouncing so fast the keychain on his backpack rattles. “Wait, don’t you have some tattoos that are in Latin?”
“Exactly.” I smirk. “Regret and religious trauma. I got the two-for-one special.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I just need to power through the next few weeks. Then summer. Then… death.”
“Wow,” I say. “Love the incremental goals, baby.”
Caleb flashes me a quick grin, and it almost reaches his eyes. “You love my brain,” he says. “Don’t lie.”
“I love your brain more when it’s sleeping occasionally,” I say, turning onto the hill toward campus. “What time did you actually fall asleep last night?”
He looks out the window like the answer might be written on the eucalyptus trees. “Uh… two-ish?”
“Caleb.” I groan. “You got in bed with your laptop at eleven.”
“Yeah, but then I remembered I hadn’t responded to the discussion post for psych, and then I fell down a research rabbit hole and then—”
“And then your frontal cortex committed a crime,” I finish. “Did the safety plan mention ‘no laptop in bed unless porn or cartoons,’ or was that just my copy?”
He smirks. “Pretty sure that was an addendum you snuck in.”
“Damn,” I say. “Dr. K will never know how much I do for science.”
The cab fills with his laughter, and for a second, the bounce in his leg slows.
We pull up to the drop-off loop. Students are streaming toward buildings with backpacks and iced coffees, the whole campus buzzing with that late-semester mix of hope and dread.
Caleb unclicks his seatbelt but doesn’t move right away. His fingers tap out a rhythm against his knee.
“How loud is it?” I ask quietly.
We stole the metaphor straight out of his therapy session: the radio in his head, the one that plays “you don’t deserve this” on repeat.
He squints at the steering wheel, considering. “Like a… six?” he says finally. “Not full-on screamo, but not background elevator music either.”
“Okay,” I say. “Anything on the safety plan we can front-load before it cranks up?”
Huffing. “Look at you, Mr. Psychoeducation.”
“Answer the question, smartass.”
“I promised I’d eat real food before two,” he says, chewing on his lip. “Not just coffee and vibes. And… I told Dr. K I’d text you or Martin if I start getting that… ‘I should just disappear so I stop being a burden,’ feeling.”
My jaw tics, but I keep my tone even. “Cool,” I say. “I can work with that. What’s the food situation between now and your lab?”
He sighs. “I’ve got a protein bar and a banana,” he says. “And the dining hall if I’m not drowning.”
I narrow my eyes. “We both know ‘not drowning’ means ‘you already forgot to eat.’”
“Wow,” he mutters. “Stop reading me like a meter.”
“That’s literally my job,” I say. “Well, a job. The other one pays less.”
Smiling, all quick and crooked. “I’ll try,” he says. “With the food. I promise. I don’t want you—and Dr. K—to team up and bully me.”
“We bully you because we love you,” I say. “And because low blood sugar makes you feral.”
Caleb leans over the console for a kiss. It’s quick and soft, but he holds onto my jacket for half a second longer than usual.
“Love you,” he says quietly.
“Love you more,” I reply automatically. “Text me at lunch, yeah? Just like… a ‘brain volume check’ or whatever.”
That earns me a roll of his eyes like I’ve suggested a sticker chart. “Yes, Daddy.”
I swat at his ass as he climbs out, and he yelps, laughing. “Keep calling me Daddy and I’ll show you what a daddy does to a sassy little brat.”
Slamming the door shut and then flipping me off, I watch him jog up the path, backpack bouncing, his hair wild in the morning light.
Six, he said.
Not great.
Not catastrophic.
But the undertow is still there. I put the truck into gear and head for my first job of the day.
Work is busy, which is usually good for me.
Busy means less time to sit in my own head replaying everything I’ve ever done wrong.
Busy means outlets to fix, panels to rewire, and homeowners to reassure that no, ma’am, your house is not about to spontaneously combust; it’s just an overloaded circuit.
Today’s first call is a small café downtown that “keeps losing power on half the lights.”
Translation: someone tried to DIY a renovation with a YouTube video and a dream.
The owner is a woman in her fifties with purple streaks in her hair and stress lines around her eyes. “Thank you for coming,” she says, wringing her hands. “Every time it happens, I lose customers. And my espresso machine. And then I lose my will to live.”
“I’m highly motivated to protect espresso,” I tell her. “Show me the patient.”
I get to work. Panel, junction boxes, tracing circuits. The rhythm is familiar and grounding. Black, white, ground. Load, line. Test, tighten, repeat.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For half a second, my stomach drops. I still expect every vibration to be the worst possible thing.
I wipe my hands and check.
Caleb: Made it through stats without crying in the bathroom. Grabbed an actual sandwich. Brain volume: 5.5/10.
I exhale. Thank fuck.
Miguel: Look at you feeding yourself like a person. Proud of you.
Caleb: Trying to impress this hot electrician I know.
Miguel: Tell him he has terrible taste, but I approve.
I pocket my phone and go back to the panel, the numbers on my multimeter suddenly less blurry.
“Everything okay?” the café owner asks from behind me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just my boyfriend checking in.”
She smiles, something soft and knowing. “Is he the reason you’re humming to yourself while you work?”
I blink, realizing I am, in fact, humming along to whatever indie playlist she’s got on the speakers.
“Guilty,” I admit.
“Hold onto that,” she says. “Good love makes everything else easier to live with.”
I think about Caleb’s safety plan folded in his notebook. About his dad’s text last night. About the way he looked in the truck this morning, tired but still cracking jokes.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s the plan.”
When I clock out for the day, my shoulders ache and my hands smell like copper and dust. I swing by our parents’ house on the way home because Mom texted me a picture of a bubbling pot with the caption ‘Too much pozole. Come steal some or I’ll be offended.’
Lord knows I can’t do that.
Stepping into the kitchen always hits me in the chest. The smell, the warmth, the way she fusses over me like I’m still a lanky teenager instead of a grown man who pays taxes.
“?Mijo!” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel and coming in for a hug. “Mira nada más, you look tired. Are they working you like a burro?”
“Hi, Ma,” I say into her shoulder. “Love you too.”
She pulls back to squint at my face, like she can read my blood pressure in my eyeballs. “How is he?” she asks immediately.
I shrug, heading for the pot on the stove. “Hanging in there,” I say. “Midterms fried him. Spring break was… a lot. But he’s doing the work. Therapy, us finding a rhythm, the whole thing.”
Humming, she ladled pozole into a big container for me. “And you?” she asks. “Are you doing your work? Or are you only watching him like a hawk and forgetting you also have a brain?”
“I am capable of both,” I protest, leaning against the counter.
She gives me the look, the one that says, “Don’t play with me, I changed your diapers.”
“I’m seeing Dr. Ortega next week,” I say, hands up in surrender. “I booked the appointment. I promise.”
Her face softens. “Bien,” she says. “You boys are doing something very hard and very beautiful. It’s not just him who needs support.”
I nod, throat tight. “He told Dr. K he’s… thinking about moving in full-time,” I admit. “Not just three nights a week. We’re not rushing it, but… it’s on the table.”
There’s a shine to her eyes, and that makes my heart melt. “Ay,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest. “I knew he’d get there. Little by little.”
“It’s still a lot,” I say. “For him. For us. For…” I shrug. “Everything.”
“Yes,” she says. “But he’s not the same boy who came into this house shaking like a leaf and pretending he was fine.” She taps my forehead gently. “Neither are you.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re very smug when you’re right, you know that?”
“I am always right,” she says. “Now take this pozole before I keep talking about your feelings.”
Planting a kiss on her cheek, I grab the container and head back to the truck, feeling… steadier.
I can’t stop the ocean from being the ocean. But I can put more life jackets in the boat.
When I get home, Caleb’s shoes are already by the door, one lying on its side like he kicked it off mid-stride. His backpack is dumped next to the couch, half-open, papers spilling out. The TV is on mute, paused on some random baseball game. The coffee table is covered in notebooks and his laptop.
He’s nowhere in sight.
My nervous system spikes—images of him curled on the bathroom floor, not breathing on the bed—and I take a slow breath, reminding myself about my own safety plan.
“Caleb?” I call out, setting the pozole on the counter.
“In here,” he yells from the bedroom.
I follow the sound and find him sprawled face-down across the bed, one arm hanging off the side, hoodie bunched around his shoulders. His hair is a mess, flattened against the pillow.
He turns his head when he hears me, half his face squished. “I am one with the mattress,” he mumbles. “Do not disturb the mattress.”