Page 171 of Disarm
He studies my face for a long, careful moment.
“No,” he says simply. “I’ll regret the shit out of life if I let your dad’s discomfort decide who I get to love. I’m in this because of you. Not because of him. You’re my choice and I’ll choose you no matter what stands in the way.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
His forehead presses against mine. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s make that fake stir-fry I pretended I know how to cook, and then you can explain the difference between ANOVA and regression to me like I’m five.”
“I don’t even understand the difference,” I protest.
“Perfect,” he says. “We’ll be confused together.”
After dinnerand a half-hearted study session where Miguel mostly just quizzed me on vocab and complimented my brain, we curled up in bed. I lie half on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the solid weight of his arm around me.
“Scared?” he asks quietly into the dark.
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But less hopeless-scared. More… like first-day-of-school scared.”
I huff a laugh. “Do we get new backpacks?”
“We get new coping skills,” he says. “That’s better.”
I don’t totally agree, but the idea makes me smile.
“Hey, baby?” He murmurs.
“Mm?”
“If, at any point, you want to change the plan,” he says, “we can. You’re not locked in. You’re not obligated to keep putting yourself through something that hurts just because you told him you’d come.”
I nod against his chest. “Same goes for you. If being there with my dad gets too weird, you’re allowed to tap out too. I don’t want you martyring yourself for me.”
He huffs. “No martyrdom,” he says. “Harness only.”
“Harness only,” I echo, smiling into his shirt.
We lie there in the quiet for a while, the kind that feels earned instead of empty.
My brain is still scared.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
THIRTY-TWO
MIGUEL
It’s only a twenty-minute drive across town to our parents’ place, but Caleb’s acting like we’re crossing state lines. He’s in the passenger seat with his feet on the dash, hoodie strings between his teeth, absolutely annihilating the chorus of some pop-punk song he insisted on adding to my playlist.
“That’s not the line,” I say, laughing as he screams it anyway.
“This is the remix,” he fires back, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “You’re welcome.”
I love seeing him this happy and carefree.
I’m praying his father doesn’t ruin it during the break.
I’d really hate to have to sit in jail.
