Two and a Half Years After
MIGUEL
Idon’t know if it’s just me, but the treehouse looks smaller this time. Or maybe I’m just less likely to pass out on the rope bridge.
Hard to say.
“It smells the same,” Caleb says softly beside me, hand tight in mine as we stand at the base of the spiral stairs. “Pine. Ocean. California tourism brochure.”
“You love California tourism,” I remind him, bumping his shoulder. “How else are we gonna keep getting overpriced treehouses?”
He snorts, but his eyes are bright. Calm bright, not brittle.
We climb.
Every step is déjà vu. The curve of the stairs, the way the branches close in, the way the world drops away when you come out at the top and see that little glass door and the sliver of ocean beyond.
Except this time, there’s no safety plan tucked in my pocket like a bomb manual.
No newly healed cuts. No hospital band fresh off his wrist.
Just us.
And a ring box in my backpack that’s making me nauseous.
“Volume?” he asks me, turning at the top of the stairs like he owns the place.
“Four,” I say honestly. “No raccoon panic yet.”
Caleb grins. “Three,” he says. “Mild fear of spiders. Moderate excitement. High curiosity about what you’re hiding.”
“Rude accusation,” I say. “I’m hiding nothing. I am a man of transparency.”
He arches a brow. “You lied to your mom about how much this place cost.”
“That was for her blood pressure,” I protest. “Totally different.”
Inside, the treehouse is exactly the same. Same tiny kitchen. Same couch. Same loft, bed dressed in crisp white. There’s even a new framed photo on the wall—a generic couple on the deck at sunset, clearly provided by the host.
I imagine replacing it with us. Just for a second.
We unpack and fall into the same routine as before, stock the fridge, and argue about where to put the coffee. Dance badly in the tiny kitchen to a playlist that’s somehow half Sleep Token and half Fuerza Regida because we are so predictable it’s sad… really.
And all the while, the box sits in the bottom of my bag. A tiny, heavy thing.
Sunset turns the whole treehouse gold and we sit on the deck, wrapped in a blanket, his legs over mine, my chin on his shoulder. The ocean is a moving strip of metal in the distance.
He’s relaxed in a way I never saw before the attempt. Even on good days back then, there was always this tightness in him, like he was waiting for someone to call foul.
Now, when he laughs, his whole body laughs.
“You okay?” he asks, fingers threading through mine. “Your heart’s doing a drum solo.”
“Yeah,” I lie. Then add, because I’ve learned a little, “Half anxiety, half… plotting.”
Caleb tilts his head to look at me, eyes narrowing. “Plotting,” he repeats. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” I say, kissing his nose. “But in a sexy way.”
He snorts and turns back toward the view.
Eventually, he gets cold and goes inside to dig out another hoodie and dessert. I stay on the deck, fingers worrying at the edge of the ring box in my pocket.
I think about the hospital again. The bandage on his wrist. The sound my own voice made when the doctor said, “We got to him in time.”
I think about the way he clung to me in the IOP parking lot, the safety plan taped to our fridge, and the nights I lay awake listening to make sure he was still breathing.
I think about now.
About how he texts me before he hits eight. How he calls Dr. K when the volume starts creeping instead of after it explodes. How he stands in our kitchen and says things like, “I’m having a five-kind-of-day; can you sit with me while I make dinner?”
He’s still scared sometimes.
So am I.
But we’re scared together. And that has to count for something.
The sliding door opens. Caleb steps back out, two bowls of ice cream in his hands, curls caught orange by the last light. He’s in one of my old T-shirts and sweatpants, socked feet quiet on the deck. There’s a faint tan line on his wrist from where his watch normally sits.
“Okay, I made a big boy decision,” he announces, handing me a bowl. “We’re starting with dessert instead of dinner because we’re on vacation and I’m an adult.”
“Bold,” I say. “Brave. Revolutionary.”
He flops down next to me, steals my spoon, and takes the first bite.
“Wow,” I say. “Theft. In front of God and the ocean.”
“The ocean and God saw way worse the first time we were here,” he points out, waggling his eyebrows.
My heart tries to climb into my throat.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Touché.”
Caleb takes a second to study my face, the expression sobering. “Hey,” he says quietly. “If coming back here is too much—”
“It’s not,” I cut in. “It’s… right.”
He nods slowly, accepting that. “Good,” he says. “Me too.”
The man goes back to devouring his ice cream while I go back to trying not to pass out.
Now or never, Veracruz.
My hand shakes as I set my bowl down on the little deck table. I wipe my palm on my jeans, then fish the box out of my pocket before I can chicken out.
“Caleb,” I say.
Looking over, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”
Every speech I practiced evaporates.
What comes out is just… us.
“When this place first almost became your… epilogue,” I say, and he flinches, but he doesn’t look away. “I thought all I wanted was for you to stay alive.”
His throat works.
“I did,” I go on. “Want that. Desperately. But somewhere between the hospital and the treehouse and a thousand kitchen dances, I figured out it wasn’t just that. I didn’t just want to save your life.”
I open the box. The ring inside is simple. Silver band, a thin etched line like a wave around the center. Nothing fancy.
“What I actually wanted,” I say, voice shaking, “was to live it with you.”
His eyes go huge.
“All of it,” I say. “The treehouses and the boardwalk and the nights your brain is an asshole and the mornings you wake up at volume two and dance to terrible pop music while making coffee. The panic attacks, the therapy homework, the ‘hey, I’m at a seven’ texts. All of it. I want it in writing.”
A wet laugh breaks out of him, half sob, half giggle.
“Caleb Burton,” I say, my stomach doing cartwheels, “will you marry me? Not because it fixes anything. Not because I expect you to be magically fine. Just because you’re my person, and I want your name on every stupid form they’ll let me put it on.”
He stares.
“Are you sure? With… all of this?”
Tapping his temple, hair falling into his face.
I reach out and catch his hand, bringing his fingers to my mouth. I kiss his knuckles, one by one.
“That,” I say, “is exactly what I’m sure about.”
His eyes fill with tears, laughing, a wet, disbelieving sound, and nodding, fast and frantic. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes. Yes, holy shit, yes.”
By the time the third “yes” hits, we’re both crying. I fumble the ring onto his finger, hands shaking so hard I almost drop it between the deck boards.
“Don’t you dare lose my commitment in the redwoods,” he hiccups.
“I’ve been committed to you since you were sixteen and glared at me for eating the last taquito,” I say. “The ring is just paperwork.”
Caleb launches himself into my lap, nearly knocking the ice cream over. We kiss and it’s messy and salty and full of laughter, his new ring cold against my neck where he cups my face.
Once we can breathe again, we call Mom.
She sobs so hard I have to put her on speaker so Caleb can hear the stream of Spanglish blessings. By the time she’s done swearing, she’s going to make the entire wedding menu herself. I’m ninety percent sure she’s already started a Pinterest board.
Dad’s quieter.
He clears his throat three times before he manages, “Congratulations, you two. I… am very happy for you.”
Which, in Ashton Burton language, is basically a full-body hug and a fireworks display.
Caleb ends the call, looks at me, and says, dazed and grinning, “We’re really doing this.”
“Yeah,” I say, forehead pressed to his. “We are.”
The treehouse creaks around us and his ring catches the last sliver of sunlight and throws it back in my face.
Best jump scare of my life.