Chapter 48 Miguel #2
“They’re rubbing off on me,” I say. “Luis would love to know I said that and also be mildly disturbed.”
Caleb’s smile fades around the edges. “What if it’s too much?” he asks quietly. “Being away from routine. From the condo. From… all my little safety props.”
“Then it’s too much,” I say. “And we adjust. We come home early. Or we take more breaks. Or we spend the whole time playing Mario Kart and reading instead of doing whatever Instagram thinks we should be doing in Big Sur. This isn’t a test.”
He chews his lip. “I don’t want it to be… another crisis,” he says. “For you. Or for me.”
“It won’t be,” I say, and then catch myself.
“Okay, I can’t promise that, like I control the universe.
But we’re not going in blind. We’ve got your plan.
We’ve got my plan. We’ve got like five therapists on retainer who know where we’re going.
We have Mom’s tortas. Frankly, I think the tortas alone could ward off an episode. ”
He snorts. “Food as a protective factor.”
“Always,” I say. “Now come here.”
Caleb crawls up onto the bed and sits facing me, cross-legged, hands in his lap. I take a breath.
“Okay,” I say. “Trip expectations. Let’s talk.”
His eyebrows go up. “We’re doing pre-vacation negotiations now?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because I love you, and also because I don’t want either of us having secret Pinterest boards in our brains and then getting resentful when reality doesn’t match.”
He winces. “Ouch… feeling a little called out.”
“First,” I say, ticking it off on my fingers. “This trip is not primarily about sex.”
“Wow, coming in hot,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “We’ve been scaling back,” I remind him.
“On purpose. Less ‘use each other to dissociate,’ more ‘actually notice we have bodies and feelings.’ I want the treehouse to be more about rest and… us. If sex happens, cool. If it doesn’t, also cool.
I am not measuring the success of this trip in orgasms.”
He makes a face but then relaxes. “I hate that that’s… kind of a relief,” he admits.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Me too.”
“Okay,” he says. “What is it about, then?”
“Rest,” I say. “Having fun that’s not trauma-adjacent. Being in nature. Maybe some light revisiting of Halloween, if it feels good. But only if it feels good.”
He nods slowly. “Light revisiting,” he echoes. “Like… fear play, but not as a panic response. More… intentionally spooky.”
I shoot him a look. “You really want to talk kink while your sock drawer is vomiting on the floor?”
“Yes,” he says. “Because it’s going to be in my head either way. I’d rather we’re on the same page before we go up into the branches.”
“Okay,” I say, exhaling. “Then yeah. Tentatively. We can talk about maybe bringing some stuff back in. Rope. Masks. Whatever feels right. But we go in with safety cranked to a hundred.”
His eyes darken at “rope,” but he doesn’t slide into sex brain. Progress.
“Color system?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. “No macho bullshit. If either of us says “yellow,” we slow down. Red, we stop. No questions, no pouting. Even if you think you ‘should be able to handle it,’ we honor what’s actually happening in your body.”
Caleb nods. “Same for you,” he says firmly. “You doing the whole ‘I can take it, I’m the big bad top’ thing and then quietly dissociating is also not on the menu.”
I flinch, because… yeah.
“Partner route,” I say.
“Not the martyr route,” he finishes.
We look at each other for a second, the phrase hanging between us like a banner we actually kind of believe in now.
“And,” he says, clearing his throat, “I’ve been thinking about… maybe… switching it up. Sometimes.”
I cock my head. “Switching what up?”
His ears go pink. “Top and bottom,” he says. “I know we’ve talked about it before. But it always felt like… theory. Now I actually… want to. A little. To… be in charge, I guess. With your consent. Obviously.”
Warmth floods my chest. Not just because, yeah, the idea of him taking the lead does things to me, but because of what it means for him to want control back in his body and his sex life, not just in his trauma narrative.
“I’m down,” I say simply.
He blinks. “That’s it?” he asks. “No teasing? No ‘Caleb, you’re such a horny control freak’?”
“Oh, I’m absolutely thinking that,” I say. “But I’m trying to be a respectful partner right now.”
He huffs. “I appreciate your restraint,” he says dryly.
I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. “We can talk details later,” I say. “What feels good. What doesn’t. Hard nos. Soft maybes. But the headline is: I trust you. If topping me helps you feel powerful, I’m in. As long as we’re both listening to ourselves and each other.”
His eyes go shiny. “You know I’m terrified of hurting you,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “And I also know you already have. And we’re still here. So maybe part of this trip is letting ourselves play in the ‘good hurt’ sandbox again, carefully, without pretending the bad hurt never happened.”
He swallows. “You really did absorb a lot of therapy,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
“Dr. K and Luis are going to start charging me co-pays,” I say. “Anyway. What else do we need for the trip besides emotional contracts and too many hoodies?”
Caleb sniffs, then laughs a little. “Snacks,” he says. “Books. Your Switch. My journal. Maybe… a copy of my safety plan.”
“Already printed,” I say. “Multiples. One for your bag, one for the glove compartment.”
He turns his nose up at me. “You’re such a nerd,” he whispers.
“You love it,” I shoot back.
Squeezing my hand and leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I do,” he says softly. The room goes quiet for a minute. There’s laundry everywhere, and the lamp is doing that flickery thing I still haven’t fixed, but something in my chest feels… settled.
Like we’re loading the car with more than just clothes.
We leave at stupid o’clock when the sky is barely light, that gray-blue that looks like the world hasn’t made up its mind yet. The air smells like fog and wet asphalt.
Caleb yawns as he throws his duffel in the backseat of the truck. He’s in sweats, an old UCSC hoodie, and a beanie, with curls peeking out like he lost a fight with a sheep. He looks… good.
Healthy.
Sleepy.
“Volume?” I ask, closing the tailgate.
He pauses, checking in for real. “Three,” he says. “Nerves are like a five, but not in a ‘jump off something’ way. More in a ‘what if the treehouse has spiders’ way.”
“Valid,” I say. “We can negotiate with spiders. Brains are harder.”
He grins, small. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say.
We climb into the truck and I cue up the playlist—a mix of his stuff and mine. Katatonia, The Weeknd, and some of Mom’s old boleros because I’m sentimental and also because Caleb made a face when I first played them and then quietly added them to his own library.
As we pull out, Caleb leans his head against the window, watching the neighborhood slide by.
“This feels… weird,” he says.
“What kind of weird?” I ask.
“Good weird,” he says after a beat. “Like… we’re stealing something back.”
I let the words sit between us as we merge onto the highway.
South.
By the time we hit Monterey, the sun’s higher and my shoulders have loosened.
Caleb’s been fiddling with the playlist trying to find something that hits the mood, the window, the air vent, his usual road trip fidgeting.
He’s taken three pictures already: one of Mom’s snack box, one of a ridiculous billboard for clam chowder, and one of me, profile shot, hands on the wheel.
“For the scrapbook,” he said when I complained.
Highway One curls ahead like someone dropped a piece of ribbon on the edge of the continent.
Cliffs. Ocean. That particular blue-green that looks fake.
As the road narrows and the drop-offs get real, Caleb’s hand creeps across the center console, searching.
I lace our fingers without taking my eyes off the asphalt.
“How you doing?” I ask quietly.
“Four,” he says. “Brain is whispering, ‘What if you swerve on purpose,’ but it’s more annoying than compelling. I told it to shut up.”
“Proud of you,” I say.
He squeezes. “Partner route,” he murmurs.
“Partner route,” I echo.
When we finally turn off the main road and follow the host’s overly detailed directions—left at the crooked fence, right past the mailbox with the painted chickens, keep going even when you think you’ve gone too far—the trees close in overhead, redwoods swallowing the sky.
Caleb goes quiet, but it’s not the brittle quiet from the bedroom that night. It’s… awe.
When the treehouse comes into view, he actually stops breathing for a second. Wood and glass wrapped around the trunk, a spiral staircase hugging the bark. Rope bridge leading to a little deck with two chairs. Fairy lights strung under the eaves. The ocean is a distant glint through the branches.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
I park and kill the engine. The sudden silence rings in my ears.
Caleb turns to me, eyes huge.
“This is real,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, heart pounding. “We made it.”
His gaze flicks from the treehouse back to me. For a second, I see all of it in his face: the hospital, the beeping monitors, the IOP circle, the raisin, the safety plan on our fridge, and the list with the last line, the trip Miguel kept promising to this ridiculous treehouse.
He swallows hard. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go be alive in a tree.”
I laugh, a little choked, and squeeze his hand once before we climb out of the truck.
The air smells like damp earth and pine needles and salt. My chest expands in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
This isn’t an escape. It’s a choice.
Our choice.
We haul our bags out of the back: the torta Tupperware, his journal, my Switch, and a copy of his safety plan tucked into the front pocket of his backpack. At the base of the spiral stairs, Caleb looks up, then back at me.
“Race you,” he says, eyes bright.
“Loser does dishes,” I shoot back.
He grins.
We climb.