Page 189 of Disarm
I pull my phone out, thumb hovering. “I’ll text Mom. Tell her you’re not feeling well and we’re heading back to the condo. She can run interference.”
He nods, shoulders sagging with relief. “Okay.”
I send the text. Three dots pop up almost immediately.
Mamá
Go. I’ll handle your father. Love you, mijos.
I show Caleb the screen. He smiles, small and wobbly. “She’s the best.”
“Fucking facts.” I smirk.
We straighten ourselves up—clothes, hair, and whatever dignity we can salvage—as we step out into the hallway.
Dad is standing near the entrance to the dining room, talking quietly with one of the associates. When he sees us, he excuses himself and walks over.
His eyes immediately flick over Caleb’s face, searching for damage.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “But it will be. We’re heading out.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Caleb’s not feeling well,” I say. Caleb’s not ready to speak, so I do it for both of us. “Mom’s got your message. We’re going to grab a ride home.”
Dad’s mouth tightens. “We’re in the middle of?—”
“A dinner where we’re expected to act like roommates, so you don’t have to explain us,” I say. “We’re not really up for that tonight.”
His gaze flicks to Caleb, looking for an opening. “Caleb…”
Caleb lifts his chin, and his voice is painfully quiet, but there’s steel in it. “I’m tapped out, Dad,” he says. “I’m not going to apologize for needing to leave.”
Dad flinches. Just once.
The old Caleb would have rushed to cover that, to smooth it over, to fill the silence with excuses. The one in front of me doesn’t. He just waits.
Dad exhales slowly. “All right,” he says finally. It sounds like dragging a boulder uphill. “We’ll… talk later.”
“Not about how we can make you more comfortable,” I say gently but firmly. “About how this felt for us. Or we’re not talking at all.”
His eyes flash, more pain than anger, this time. “Message received,” he says.
I nod. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not a fix. Just a marker. We said the thing out loud. He heard it and now what he does with it is on him.
I rest my hand lightly on Caleb’s back. “Come on, pretty boy,” I murmur. “Let’s get you home.”
The Uber isquiet as we head back to our parents’ house to grab our stuff and the truck. Caleb leans into my side, head on my shoulder, fingers twisted in my button-up. He’s not shaking anymore. Just tired.
“Sorry,” he mutters at one point, voice muffled.
“For what?”
“Derailing everything,” he says. “Making you play emotional bouncer. Again.”
“Hey.” I nudge his knee with mine. “You didn’t derail anything. A conversation went somewhere your nervous system couldn’t follow. You bailed. That’s self-preservation, not sabotage.”
