Page 170 of Disarm
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It’s smart. It’s… intentional. It means we’re not just walking in there hoping for the best. We’re giving ourselves an exit.”
I swallow. “You’re really okay staying there? The whole week?”
“Are you?” he counters.
I think about the house. The kitchen where Celeste taught me how to make scrambled eggs properly. The living room couch where I’ve watched hundreds of hours of playback film with Dad. The hallway I stalked down after fights. The bedroom where I had my first real panic attack.
“I’m…” I start, then stop. “I’m scared. But I don’t want to avoid it forever. I don’t want the house to turn into this… haunted place I can never set foot in.”
Miguel nods slowly. “Then we go,” he says. “And if it gets too bad, we cut it short.”
“Can we… actually do that?” I ask. “Just leave?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “If he crosses a line and you’re bleeding out emotionally? Yeah. We can leave. I’ll pack the car myself.”
“You see Luis tomorrow?” I ask.
He nods, folding the paper back up carefully, like it’s something precious. “Yeah. Gonna talk to him about this. About… not treating this like my personal exam.”
“You’re allowed to be worried too, you know,” I say. “This isn’t just my thing.”
“I know,” he says. “I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry my fear on top of yours.”
“That’s what the harness is for,” I say. “Sharing the weight.”
His eyes soften. “Look at you, quoting your therapist.”
“I’m very impressionable,” I say primly.
Miguel laughs and tucks the paper into a drawer by the fridge. “We’ll put it somewhere safe,” he says. “We can look at it before we leave Saturday. Maybe add to it.”
“Maybe a rule about not letting Mom make five thousand tamales,” I say. “She will. She’ll try.”
“Never,” he says. “I support her culinary ambitions.”
He pulls me back in and kisses me, slow and easy.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against my lips. “For going and for planning.” All of this is in between tender kisses that have me on cloud nine. “For not letting your brain talk you out of living your life.”
“You say that a lot,” I whisper.
“I mean it a lot,” he says.
I breathe him in.
Miguel’s hoodie and coffee in the morning.
Lists in drawers.
Therapists who know our names.
Parents who are trying, even if they’re clumsy about it.
“Hey, Miggy?” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“If it goes bad,” I say. “If he… doesn’t come around the way I hope. Are you going to regret… this? Us? Getting in this deep with someone whose dad might never be fully okay with it?”
