Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
HARPER
Caleb doesn’t talk to anybody for days. Just monosyllabic words dragged out with pliers.
I let it go the first night. Give him space. Figure maybe he needs time to fall apart in private, like he probably never lets himself do in front of anyone.
But the next day is the same.
And the day after that.
I even tried his trick of leaving food outside his door. A sandwich. Cookies. Water.
The plates remain untouched.
I check the next morning. The sandwich is exactly where I left it. The cookies haven’t moved. The water bottle is in the same position—I can tell because I left it at a slight angle and it’s still at that exact angle.
He didn’t even touch it to move it.
That’s when I know it’s bad.
Because Caleb always—always—adjusts things. Straightens them. Lines them up properly.
The fact that he left them exactly as they were means he couldn’t even bring himself to care about the placement.
That night, after I hear Helen and Silas go to bed, I grab a bobby pin from my dresser. Z taught me how to pick locks when I was thirteen—said it was a useful skill.
I kneel in front of Caleb’s door and work the pin into the lock, feeling for the tumblers, listening for the clicks. Takes me maybe thirty seconds.
The lock gives with a soft snick.
I push the door open slowly, half expecting him to yell at me to get out.
But the room is silent. Dark.
It’s only 8:30, but all the lights are off.
As soon as I start walking toward the balcony to check if he snuck out, his voice stops me dead.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I turn back around, letting my eyes adjust. He’s in the bed. Just lying there awake in the dark like some kind of vampire.
“Yeah, well.” I head for his bed, my footsteps quiet on the carpet. “I do a lot of shit I shouldn’t do.”
I sit gently on the edge of the mattress, and it dips under my weight.
“Have you been sleeping all day?” I ask quietly.
I want to flip his bedside light on so I can see his face, but there’s something about the dark that feels safer right now. Like maybe here, hidden from the world, he can actually talk to me.
“No,” he says, and his voice sounds rough. Unused. “I tried to work on some stuff. Fucked around with gaming a little. But I couldn’t focus.”
Without thinking about it, my hands find his head—his hair soft under my fingers. I half expect him to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
He leans into it instead, like a dog that’s been starved for affection.
“That’s understandable,” I whisper, my fingers carding through his hair in slow, soothing strokes.
But he’s shaking his head against my hand, the movement sharp. Agitated.
“I should be doing something.” His voice is tight. Strangled. “I should be doing more.”
“There’s nothing you could do, Caleb.”
“I should have noticed.” The words come out fierce, almost angry. “I should have gotten her to the doctor sooner. Should have seen the signs—”
“She has regular scans twice a year,” I interrupt gently, still stroking his hair. “They didn’t see anything at the last scan. Why would you have thought there was anything you could do?”
“Because I should have,” he says, and there’s something almost vicious in his voice now. Self-loathing.
“I used to watch her so carefully. Every movement. Every bite of food. I’d check her pedometer at the end of the day to make sure she was getting enough exercise but not too much. I tracked everything.”
Jesus Christ. Of course he did.
“I’m sure there were signs I missed—”
“You don’t think Helen was checking those things, too?”
But even as I say it, I understand. This is what Caleb does. This is how he loves people.
He counts. He checks. He monitors. He tracks.
It’s not about control. Not really. It’s about caring so much it manifests as numbers and patterns and perfect alignment.
It’s about loving someone so desperately you’ll count every breath if it means keeping them safe.
Still, I have to keep trying, keeping my voice gentle, reasonable.
“She’s a grown woman, Caleb. She knows her body better than you do.
And I overheard her telling Silas she only started feeling weak the last week before the scan was scheduled.
She thought it was just a cold. There’s literally nothing you could have done. ”
“There’s always something I can do.” The words are desperate. Raw.
“Why?” I challenge softly. “Because you think you’re actually Superman? Because you think if you just try hard enough, control enough variables, you can keep bad things from happening?”
“Because she’s my mother!”
The words come out broken.
He takes a breath. I can hear it shudder through him.
“She’s the best person I’ll ever know.” His voice is getting strangled now, thick with tears he’s trying not to shed. “The best person in this whole fucked-up world. And she can’t—”
The words cut off, but then come out agonized.
“She can’t die.”
It’s not a statement. It’s a plea.
And something in my chest just... shatters.
I throw my arms around him and crawl into the bed, pulling him against me. His body is rigid at first, all sharp angles and tension.
“I don’t want to have sex,” he says quickly, defensively.
And even in the middle of this, even with my heart breaking for him, I almost laugh.
“I just want to hold you, you idiot.”
The words come out softer than I mean them to. More tender.
Some of the tension bleeds out of his body. His rigid spine softens. His shoulders drop.
And then a little hiccup shakes through him—once, twice.
And then Caleb Graham—perfect, controlled, not-a-crack-in-the-armor Caleb Graham—finally allows himself to cry.
Big, shuddering, silent sobs that wrack his whole body.
He buries his face in my chest and just... breaks.
And I hold him.
I hold his head against my chest and run my fingers through his hair, whispering nonsense soothing words I don’t even remember later. Words about how it’s okay, how I’ve got him, how he doesn’t have to be strong right now.
His tears soak through my T-shirt. His hands fist in the fabric at my sides, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning.
And maybe I am.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Could be minutes. Could be hours.
But eventually, his breathing evens out. The sobs quiet. His grip on my shirt loosens.
Sox, who’s been sitting at the foot of the bed watching us this whole time, finally moves.
She walks up the bed carefully, picks her way between our tangled bodies, and curls up right where our chests meet. Right over both our hearts.
Her purr is loud in the quiet room.
Caleb’s hand reaches up automatically, fingers stroking her fur.
But his other arm stays wrapped around me.
He falls asleep there, his face still pressed against my chest, his breath warm against my skin.
And I hold him all night.
I don’t sleep much—too aware of him, too worried he’ll wake up and pull away, put those walls back up. But I don’t let go. Don’t move except to adjust my grip on him, to pull the blanket up over both of us when the room gets cold.
For the first time since I moved into this house, I’m not the one being saved.
I’m the one doing the saving. I’m the strong one someone else is leaning on.
And it feels... right.
Maybe this is what love is supposed to be. Not just someone rescuing you from the wreckage of your life.
But taking turns.
Holding each other when the world gets too heavy. Being the strong one when the other person can’t be.
Being there.
Just... being there.
As the room starts to lighten with early morning sun, I press a kiss to the top of Caleb’s head.
He doesn’t wake up.
But he shifts closer, his arm sliding more firmly around my waist, pulling me tighter against him even in sleep.
And I think: I could do this forever.
I could hold this boy forever, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.