Chapter 37 Caleb #2
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “That’s a lot,” she says. “How did your body react when he said that?”
“Like he dropped a grenade made of opportunity into my lap,” I say. “My heart started pounding. Part of me was happy. The other part was like… ‘abort mission, shut down, you’re not allowed to be this excited because it’ll just hurt when it gets taken away.’”
She nods slowly. “So there’s the expanding of your life, new possibilities, new paths and then there’s your nervous system, which has learned that ‘more’ often means ‘more ways to be hurt.’”
“Exactly. There’s more space and my brain is like, ‘oh good, more corners to hit my head on.’”
The sides of her eyes crinkle. “That metaphor tracks with what we’ve talked about,” she says.
“Your history taught you that good things are fragile, conditional, and often followed by pain. So when something objectively positive appears, your brain doesn’t just say ‘yay.’ It says, ‘how do we protect ourselves from the inevitable crash?’”
“I hate that it’s right,” I mutter.
“It’s not right,” she corrects gently. “It’s predictable.
It’s trying to keep you safe with outdated information.
The part of you that doesn’t want you to get attached to the idea of the NBA draft?
That’s the same part that got you through being eight and starving and terrified.
It worked then, but it doesn’t have to be that way you see things now, Caleb. ”
I pick at the skin around my thumbnail. “So, what am I supposed to do?” I ask. “Just… act like the NBA is definitely happening so I can free fall harder if it doesn’t?”
“No,” she says. “We’re not swinging to the other extreme. What I’m suggesting is making room for both truths. It’s okay to acknowledge that this is exciting and scary. That’s honest. You can plan for this possibility without making it the only acceptable outcome.”
“So… like…” I squint at the ceiling. “Hope with a backup plan?”
“Something like that,” she says. “When your brain starts telling you, ‘If this doesn’t work out, you’re a failure,’ I want you to notice that story and actively challenge it. We’ve talked about cognitive restructuring. This is an opportunity to practice it in real time.”
I groan. “You’re going to make me do worksheets again, aren’t you?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Maybe,” she says. “Or at least a thought log. When you notice the ‘more space, more ways to fail’ story, write it down. Then write a more balanced alternative.”
“Like… ‘If I don’t get into the NBA, I’m still allowed to exist’?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Exactly.”
I let my head fall back again. “That feels… illegal.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s why it works.”
We talk about logistics: the camp, if I pick up a summer job at the rec center coaching, and possible course loads if I decide to take something in July. She keeps looping back to the same point.
You don’t have to decide everything today.
Near the end of the session, she glances at her notes. “How’s the safety plan feeling now that you’ve lived with it for a bit?” she asks.
I think about the bathroom at the restaurant. The stalls. Miguel’s steady eyes when he asked what I needed. The pozole last night. The way his arms wrapped around me, I could literally feel my brain dialing the noise down a notch.
“It’s… good to have,” I say slowly. “It feels like… proof I’m taking this seriously. Not just white-knuckling it and hoping I don’t crash.”
“Have you used any part of it since we wrote it?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “The grounding before exams, for sure. Letting Miguel know the volume is inside my head when he asks. I… haven’t hit the ‘crisis’ steps yet. But knowing they’re there makes it less… tempting to go nuclear. If that makes sense.”
“It does,” she says. “And how is Miguel doing with it all?”
I smile, small and involuntary. “He’s… annoyingly good with all of it,” I say. “He asks for brain check-ins. He doesn’t push when I say I don’t want to text my dad back yet. He feeds me pozole and tells me we’re not a test.”
Her brows lift. “We’re not a test?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “He said… we’re messy and horny and traumatized and obnoxiously in love, but we’re not an exam I can fail. And that… kind of scrambled my brain in a good way.”
“That sounds like a very reparative message,” she says, smiling. “Especially given how often you describe relationships as things you can ‘fail’ at.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wrote it down, actually. On my phone. So future-me can look at it when my brain starts telling me I’m one argument away from losing everything.”
She nods, clearly pleased. “That’s excellent coping,” she says. “You’re building a toolkit. Between that, your safety plan, your support system, and your own growing skills, you’re much better prepared for stress than you were a year ago.”
“Tell that to my amygdala,” I mumble.
Laughing softly. “We’re working on it,” she says.
By the time I’m walking back across campus, the sky is bruising into evening. Lights flick on in dorm windows. Someone’s blasting music from a second-floor balcony. The air smells like eucalyptus and weed and wet grass and it’s an oddly comforting scent.
My phone buzzes again.
Dad
I know you’re busy, but I wanted to say… I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversations. I’m still… working on things. But I meant what I said about being proud of you. That hasn’t changed.
My feet slow without my permission.
I read it once. Twice.
The noise in my head immediately remixes it. He’s only saying that because he feels guilty. He’s going to take it back. He doesn’t really mean it. It’s a trap.
I breathe. In for four. Hold. Out.
“Data, not prophecy,” I mutter to myself. “We talked about this.”
Is it perfect? No. Is it unconditional love? Also no.
Is it him trying?
Yeah.
Caleb
Thanks for saying that. I’m… still figuring everything out, too. I’m glad we’re both trying.
I stare at the message for a second, then hit send before I can edit it into something that apologizes for my existence.
Three dots flash. Then stop. Then flash again.
Dad
We’ll figure it out. One day at a time.
I huff out something that’s almost a laugh.
Of course, he uses our line. The one Miguel and I say to each other in the dark when we’re both scared.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, my heart doing a complicated little dance that’s not quite joy and not quite pain. Something in between. Something like… grief and hope sharing a room.
Miguel beats me home, and the condo smells like an Italian restaurant exploded inside the kitchen. There’s a pot on the stove, something simmering, and music playing low from his speaker—some mellow rock song about wanting more life than your body can hold.
“Hey, baby,” he calls from the kitchen. “How’d therapy go? Did Dr. K give you more homework?”
I toss my backpack onto the couch, kick off my sneakers, and head over. “She wants me to argue with my brain more,” I say. “So yes. Homework.”
He pops his head around the corner, curls fuzzy, dish towel in hand. “You tell her you argue with me plenty and your brain is gonna have to get in line?” he asks.
“Apparently that doesn’t count,” I say. “Something about ‘internalized narratives’ and ‘challenging cognitive distortions.’”
“Hot,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Come here. I made something different tonight.”
“Is that… pasta?” I ask, peering into the pot.
“Yes,” he says proudly. “Pasta with sausage and vegetables. Look at us, eating things that aren’t chicken and rice like fitness influencers.”
My stomach growls on cue. “My therapist will be thrilled,” I say. “She’s been trying to get me to stop living on coffee and adrenaline.”
He grabs bowls and gestures for me to sit. I do, dropping into the chair like someone cut the strings on my marionette.
Miguel watches me for a second, eyes scanning. “Should I even ask the question?” he asks.
I tilt my hand back and forth. “Six-ish,” I say, knowing exactly what he’s getting at. “Maybe six-point-five. Coach kind of blew my circuits today.”
Miguel’s eyebrows rise as he dishes out pasta. “Yeah?” he asks. “How?”
I tell him about the camp, the scouts, and how there’s more than just the one now. The words “declare for the draft” leaving Coach’s mouth like it’s a real thing and not just a fantasy that lives in the far back of my skull.
Miguel goes very still for a second, then sets the bowl in front of me and rests his hands on the table.
“Baby,” he says, eyes bright and soft at the same time. “That’s huge.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
He huffs out a laugh. “That’s not a problem,” he says. “That’s… big and scary and amazing. You’re allowed to freak out about it and be happy.”
I twirl some pasta around my fork, more to have something to do with my hands than because I’m ready to eat. “Dr. K said basically the same thing,” I admit. “She’s very team ‘feel multiple feelings at once.’”
“She sounds awful,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes.
I snort, then sigh. “It’s just… every time something good happens, my brain immediately goes, ‘Okay, cool, how do we protect ourselves from the inevitable crash?’ And then I can’t even enjoy it because I’m already bracing for impact.”
Miguel nods slowly. “Makes sense,” he says. “Your brain has receipts, unfortunately. It’s seen the crash. But… we’re building something different now.”
He reaches across the table and curls his fingers around my wrist. “If this happens—camp, scouts, maybe the draft someday—I’m going to be obnoxiously loud about how you earned it,” he says.
“If it doesn’t happen, I’m still going to be obnoxiously loud about how much I love you.
None of this is the condition for me staying. ”
My chest does that thing again, where it feels too small for my heart. “Say it again,” I whisper, because apparently I’m greedy.
He squeezes my wrist. “Whether you play pro ball or not has exactly zero impact on whether I stay,” he says, slow and clear. “I’m here for you. Period. Full stop. No small print.”
Tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of my eyes. “Okay,” I say. “Noted.”
He waits.
“And…” I swallow. “My dad texted again.”
Miguel’s jaw tics. “Yeah?” he asks carefully. “Good, bad, or ‘I googled how to sound supportive and copied the first result’?”
Snorting so hard at the last bit that food shoots out of my mouth. “Better,” I say, wiping my chin. “He said he’s still working on things, but he meant it when he said he’s proud of me. That it hasn’t changed.”
Miguel’s face softens, but there’s still wariness there. “How does that land for you?” he asks.
I stare at my fork. “Like… someone opened a window in a house that’s still on fire,” I say. “It’s not enough to fix everything, but it’s… air.”
He nods. “You don’t have to forgive him on the spot,” he says. “You don’t have to trust that completely. You’re allowed to take it in little sips.”
Nodding, my throat tight.
We eat, and the pasta is actually good. Shocking. The noise in my head is still buzzing, but the food helps. So does the stupid way Miguel nudges my knee under the table every time I zone out too long.
After dinner, we migrate to the couch. He puts on some show neither of us is really watching. I lean into him, head on his shoulder, his arm around me.
“What’s the volume now?” he asks at one point, fingers weaving through my hair.
I close my eyes, attempting to listen, but his magic fingers tugging in all the right spots make it extremely difficult. “Five,” I groan. “Maybe four-point-eight.”
“Look at us,” he murmurs. “Practically zen.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I mutter into his shirt. “The universe hears that and starts loading a new boss level.”
He laughs, chest shaking under my cheek. “Okay, okay. No jinxes. Just… right now.”
Right now.
Right now is a couch, warm light, and the feeling of his hands in my hair. My safety plan is tucked in my bag. Coach’s words echoing in my ears. Dr. K’s voice reminding me I’m allowed to have more than one feeling. My dad’s text is sitting on my phone like a fragile truce.
It’s… a lot.
Everything is bigger now: the future, the stakes, the love, and the fear.
I fall asleep tangled up in Miguel, but it takes longer than normal because the ceiling is suddenly more interesting.
My brain runs simulations—me at that camp, me bricking every shot, me nailing a three at the buzzer while some scout scribbles something on a clipboard.
Me shaking Adam Silver’s hand on draft night.
Me not getting the call and instead filling out grad school applications.
Me and Miguel in some tiny apartment in a city we can’t even picture yet.
Miguel cradling a kid on the sidelines of a game… screaming “Go #26.”
The noise tries to start its favorite song.
“None of this is for you, you’re going to lose it all.”
I roll onto my side, press my face into Miguel’s chest, and whisper, “We’re not a test.”
His arm tightens around me in his sleep, like his body heard even if his brain didn’t.
The volume drops a notch.
I’m still overwhelmed.
I’m still scared.
But I’m here.
He’s here.
The doors are opening, even if my hands shake.