Chapter 6 Caleb
"Caleb, you've got five minutes before I unplug that goddamn computer!
" Dad yells from downstairs and I hope the microphone won't pick it up.
My varsity jacket catches my eye from where it's hung since senior year, gathering dust next to rows of gleaming football trophies I can't bring myself to move.
The Panic! At The Disco poster above them is curling at the edges.
It reminds me of all the times I blasted 'I Write Sins Not Tragedies' just to piss Dad off.
The March sunlight stabs through the blinds, creating a glare on the screen that throws off my timing, and my character takes a fire blast straight to the face.
The light catches on my streaming setup—dual monitors for gaming and chat, mic hanging off an arm mount, and a webcam.
Only real investment I've made, unless you count the gaming chair I saved three months of pizza deliveries to buy, and the beat-up Xbox that's seen me through every breakup and bad day since high school.
"Seriously?" I adjust in my chair, squinting past the empty energy drinks cluttering my desk. "That's attempt twenty-eight down. Thanks, sun. Really appreciate the assist."
The chat floods with suggestions while I wait for the respawn.
Level up first.
Get better gear.
Git gud.
My revenge runs against this boss have somehow become the channel's most popular content. Turns out people love watching someone fail spectacularly while making dumb jokes. Who knew?
"Listen, I could go grind for higher stats, sure. Or . . ." I navigate back into the boss arena, ignoring how my latest donation total could actually pay some bills, "we could do this the stupid way. And let's be honest, we all know which option I'm choosing."
A bang from downstairs makes me jump. Dad's special way of morse-coding his disapproval through what sounds like every pot we own. I miss my dodge roll.
"Son of a—" I catch myself, remembering I'm live. "That's twenty-nine. New drinking game idea: take a shot every time I die. Wait, no, don't actually do that. I don't need that kind of liability."
My door flies open as I'm loading back in. Great. Perfect timing.
"It's ten in the morning," Dad grunts, wearing his faded Keystone Construction jacket like a badge of honor. He's supervised the building of half this town with his crews, not that anyone remembers that anymore.
He fills the doorway, his silver hair catching the light and making him appear distinguished in that I could definitely play a stern general in a war movie way.
"Actually . . ." I glance at my second monitor. "It's ten-seventeen. And I'm working."
"Playing games isn't work." He steps into my room, my sacred space, and every bone in my body wants to point out that my last stream actually made decent money. Instead, I focus on dodging fireballs. Left, right, roll—
The power strip clicks. My monitors go dark.
"What the—" I spin in my chair. Dad stands by my desk, hand still on the power switch, looking smug.
"Two hours," he says. "I want the garage cleaned and those dishes done."
"I was in the middle of—"
"A game." He doesn't raise his voice. Somehow that's worse. "Meanwhile, your brother's made senior agent at his firm. But please, enlighten me about your . . ." He waves vaguely at my setup, "work."
"It's called content creation, Dad. But sure, let's celebrate Matt's soul-crushing corporate success.
" I prop my feet on my desk, swallowing down the part of me that actually knows something about marketing analytics from all these streams. "Did he get another fun spreadsheet to fill out? A really exciting quarterly report?"
"This isn't funny, Caleb." Something flickers across Dad's face, and his fingers drum against my desk once, twice, like he's counting to ten in his head.
"You think I was playing around at your age?
I had a pregnant wife and bills to pay. I didn't get to just .
. ." He catches himself, jaw tightening.
"Sorry I'm not living up to the American Dream circa 1985."
"Look, I've spent thirty years watching rich guys in suits profit off my crews' sweat," Dad says, his voice gruff but with something else underneath.
"Wanted my boys to be the ones in the office, not .
. ." He gestures at himself. At the calluses and weathered skin from decades of site work. "But hey, you do what you want."
All I want is one day without someone reminding me I'm wasting my life. One day to just play my game without the weight of everyone's disappointment.
"Two hours." His voice is clipped. "And your mother's worried."
He drags a hand down his face, and for a second, I see how tired he looks. The lines around his eyes run deeper than they did last year, mapping out territories of stress I helped create. It almost makes me feel bad.
"Mom's worried about everything."
"Because her twenty-six-year-old son is still acting like he's got all the time in the world." He pauses, something heavy in his voice. "Trust me, you don't."
"Yeah, well, rent's expensive and the economy's shit." I reach for my power strip. "But please, tell me more about how you bought a house on a single income while dinosaurs roamed the earth."
He doesn't respond. Just gives me a look that says I'm somehow both exactly what he expected, and still somehow a disappointment, before leaving the door open behind him, as if he's daring me to slam it first.
I wait until his footsteps fade before plugging in my computer and the LED lights Dad calls "a waste of electricity" back in. The chat's probably going crazy, but honestly? I'm not in the mood to perform anymore.
"Sorry guys, gonna have to cut this one short." I end the stream without my usual outro. "Family aggro, you know how it is."
Except they don't. Because I don't tell them. Because some things don't need to be content.
I pull up my phone, thumbing through the notifications I've been ignoring.
Three messages from my brother Matt about the wedding. Something about suit fittings and plus-ones, and how Sarah's parents want pictures with the whole Miller clan. Like we're some perfect family straight out of Southern Living magazine.
I click on his contact picture—him in his Boston office, all pressed suit and perfect smile.
Sometimes I barely recognize him as the same guy who cranked pop-punk out of his garage band's blown speakers, or who'd let me hang around even though his friends thought babysitting his kid brother was lame.
The same Matt who caught me smoking behind the gym sophomore year and, instead of telling Dad, just said, "At least do it right," and taught me how to hold the cigarette so I wouldn't look like such a dumbass.
I remember the night he snuck me some weed before that house party junior year.
Daphne accidentally got high, and it was the funniest thing ever.
But that was back when Matt was still Matt.
Still the guy who'd cover for me with Dad, and who convinced me to try out for football because, "You're built like a tank, dumbass. Might as well use it."
Now he is Matthew.
And I'm just . . . here.
When he left for Boston, he promised nothing would change. "Still your asshole big brother," he'd said, punching my arm. He’d promised he wouldn't leave me here. Then he did. And the worst part? I don't think he even remembers saying it.
Now he needs his "partner in crime" for wedding photos. Funny how brotherhood works when you need a matching suit for the album.
I close his messages without responding.
Ever since Matt moved away, Dad's critiques got sharper, more frequent. As if having one success story meant the other son had to make up for lost disappointment. These days, I can't even remember what his approval felt like.
"Honey?" Mom appears in my doorway, wearing her favorite cardigan with bright flowers. There's flour dusted across her cheek, and she's carrying a plate of what can only be her famous peanut butter cookies. The ones that could solve world peace if she ever shared the recipe.
"I thought you might want a snack."
"It's almost lunch."
"Growing boys need to eat." She sets the plate down, already moving around my room with efficiency. Her reading glasses swing from their chain as she scoops up three days' worth of energy drink cans. "Though less caffeine and more vegetables wouldn't hurt."
"I'm not twelve anymore, Mom."
"I know," she sighs. "Your father's just—"
"Being Dad? Yeah, I got that part."
"Being your father," she corrects gently, but there's steel under the softness.
She's always been like that—kind but never weak.
"He loves you, even if he shows it through lectures about responsibility, and fixing that loose cabinet hinge I didn't ask him to fix.
" She picks up a plate I forgot was there, growing its own ecosystem by now.
"Matt called this morning. About the wedding. "
"Yeah, I heard you on the phone with him."
"You know . . ." She pauses her tidying to give me her full attention. "It might be nice if you brought someone."
"To the wedding?"
"A lovely girl who makes you smile." Her eyes catch mine, seeing too much, like they always do. "Someone who makes you want to try."
"Mom."
"I'm not pushing!" She holds up her hands. "But honey, avoiding real connections won't protect you from getting hurt."
"I date," I lie, reaching for a cookie to avoid her piercing look.
"Bringing girls home at two a.m. isn't dating, sweetheart."
She fusses with my hair like she did when I was little. "I only want you to be happy."
"I am happy."
"Are you?"
The question hits harder than Dad's entire lecture. Because Mom asks it with love, not judgment.
"I'm fine," I say, but it sounds weak even to me. Because fine is what you say when you're twenty-six, and your biggest goal for the day is beating this boss before Dad kills the power again.
She studies me for a moment, then nods. Not because she believes me, but because she knows I'm not ready to hear more. She's always been good at that. Knowing when to push and when to wait.
"Well, these cookies won't eat themselves." She straightens one last thing, probably just to drive me crazy. "And Caleb? Love isn't always easy. But that doesn't mean it isn't worth it."
I watch her go, wondering how she does it. How she keeps choosing love every day, even when it's hard. Even when Dad forgets to notice.