Page 172 of Disarm
We hit a red light near downtown and the truck idles. Outside, Santa Cruz does its usual thing: people in wetsuits on bikes, someone with a surfboard on the crosswalk, and a guy arguing with a parking meter. Inside the cab, it’s just us, my too-loud speakers, and Caleb trying to pretend he’s not nervous.
He reaches for the volume and turns it up a notch, too casually. “Okay, but this one… this one is a karaoke classic,” he says, scrolling. “You’re legally required to sing.”
“I don’t karaoke sober,” I say.
“Bold of you to assume that you’re emotionally sober,” he shoots back, then finds the song he wants and hits play.
An old reggaetón track fills the truck. He grins and starts moving his shoulders and rolling his hips in the passenger seat like we’re not three lights away from our parents’ street.
“Stop,” I groan, reaching down to adjust the front of my jeans. “You are not allowed to do that in a residential zone. I’m going to drive up on somebody’s lawn.”
That makes him laugh, head tipping back, and for a second the nerves drop out of his eyes and it’s just him being dorky and alive, windows down, wind in his hair.
My chest aches at how close we came to not having this.
The light flips green and I turn, heading deeper into the neighborhood—bigger trees, older houses, and the ocean just a smell now instead of a view.
Caleb flicks the music lower on his own. The quiet closes in a little. “My stomach’s doing parkour,” he admits, twisting the hem of his hoodie.
“I know,” I say. “Mine too.”
He glances over like he half-expected me to pretend otherwise. “You don’t have to be nervous,” he says. “You’ve lived with them.”
“Mm, I’ve lived with them as your ‘responsible older stepbrother,’” I point out. “Not as the boyfriend who sucks your dick.”
Caleb snorts, but it’s thin. “You’re only two years older. Calm down.”
I reach across the console and squeeze his knee. “Hey. Look at me.”
He does, lashes fluttering.
“We’re just… across town,” I say. “Sleeping in beds we already know, eating food we already love, and dealing with adad we’ve already come out to. This isn’t the final boss. It’s like… a mini-boss. Mid-level. Annoying, but beatable.”
“Your video game metaphors are really something,” he mutters, but his shoulders unkink.
“Also,” I add, “we have the list.” I tap my pocket where my phone is. “Ground rules, red flags, emergency eject button. We’re not walking in naked.”
“Speak for yourself,” he says under his breath.
I choke on a laugh. “Caleb, what the fuck am I gonna do with you?”
I turn onto our parents’street and pull into the same cracked driveway. Same stucco house with the crooked palm in front and the ceramic Virgin Mary statue half-hidden by rosemary bushes. The porch light’s already on.
So thoughtful of them.
“Too late to floor it and pretend we missed the turn?” Caleb sighs.
“Yup,” I say, pulling into the driveway. “Welcome to Spring Break: Awkward Family Edition.”
He laughs, but his fingers are twitching when we climb out. I come around the truck to grab his duffel and he lets me because right now, letting me carry a bag is one less thing his brain has to juggle.
The front door opens before we even hit the porch. Mom appears first, apron still on, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her face lights up like she’s been waiting at the window.
“¡Ay, mis hijos!” she exclaims, hand to her heart.
Caleb barely has time to inhale before she’s got him in a full-body hug. “Mijo,” she says into his shoulder. “Look at you. You’re skinnier. I’m going to feed you until you can’t run anymore.”
He laughs against her. “Hi, Mamá. I can’t overdo it or Coach will get mad and make me run sprints.”
