Page 109 of Disarm
“Okay,” he says simply. “We’ll circle back to that. Get in.”
I slide into the passenger seat. The cab smells like cedar. His cologne. He starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. We don’t head toward the condo, no, we head toward the cliffs.
My stomach tightens.
Of course.
If we’re having a “talk,” he’s going to take me to the place he always drags me when my brain is on fire. Where the ocean is big enough to make everything else feel smaller. I stare out the window as campus falls away, replaced by houses, then trees, then the winding road I know by feel.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a minute.
“So are you,” I counter.
He huffs a tiny laugh. “Touché.”
The truck climbs the last hill. He parks in the little dirt turnout overlooking the ocean. The horizon is a smear of pink and gold fading into blue. Waves slam themselves against the rocks below like they’re trying to claw their way up.
He kills the engine but leaves the windows cracked so we can hear the water.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then Miguel exhales, long and slow.
“Okay,” he says. “Before your brain runs twelve marathons around what I texted you this morning, can I just say the thing?”
Oh, we are way past that. My fingers twist in the hem of the hoodie. “Depends on what the thing is.”
He side-eyes me. “You know what the thing is.”
I stare at my knees. “Say it anyway.”
“All right.” He shifts in his seat so he’s half-turned toward me, one arm draped over the backrest. “I called the counseling center.”
My chest stutters.
“For me,” he adds. “Not to go digging into your shit. I told them I’m your partner and I want to support you without…wrecking myself in the process. Asked what that would even look like. They said I can have my own sessions. Maybe talk with Dr. Kaur at some point if you’re okay with it, but mostly… just someone for me.”
“Sorry,” I blurt. “I’m so fucking sorry, I?—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle but sharp. “No. We’re not doing that.”
I swallow hard. “If you need therapy because of me?—”
“It’s not because of you,” he says. “It’s because I love you. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him, breathing shallow. He keeps going, eyes on the windshield, like he’s afraid if he looks at me, I’ll bolt.
“I realized something yesterday,” he says, eyes shifting to the ocean before us. “When your phone died, I drove to campus like my hair was on fire. When I stood in that doorway and saw you drooling on my hoodie under that weighted blanket, I almost cried from relief.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “I’m living at DEFCON 1 all the time with you. Every silence is a threat. Every missed text is a national emergency. That’s… not sustainable, baby. For either of us.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I know you didn’t.” He finally looks at me, eyes soft but steady. “You’re not doing anything wrong. Your brain is your brain. You’ve been through shit I can’t even fully wrap my head around. You using me as support is not wrong. I want that. I want to be the first person you text when it’s bad.”
He takes a breath.
“I just need to stop acting like I’m the only thing standing between you and the darkness, because that’s not true. You have your therapist. You have Mom. Maybe Dad… but the jury’s still out on him. You have your own strength. I keep forgetting that and putting the whole world on my own shoulders, and then I get mad at gravity.”
A tiny, unwilling laugh escapes me.
