Page 207 of Disarm
Is it perfect? No. Is it unconditional love? Also no.
Is it him trying?
Yeah.
Caleb
Thanks for saying that. I’m… still figuring everything out, too. I’m glad we’re both trying.
I stare at the message for a second, then hit send before I can edit it into something that apologizes for my existence.
Three dots flash. Then stop. Then flash again.
Dad
We’ll figure it out. One day at a time.
I huff out something that’s almost a laugh.
Of course, he uses our line. The one Miguel and I say to each other in the dark when we’re both scared.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, my heart doing a complicated little dance that’s not quite joy and not quite pain. Something in between. Something like… grief and hope sharing a room.
Miguel beats me home,and the condo smells like an Italian restaurant exploded inside the kitchen. There’s a pot on the stove, something simmering, and music playing low from his speaker—some mellow rock song about wanting more life than your body can hold.
“Hey, baby,” he calls from the kitchen. “How’d therapy go? Did Dr. K give you more homework?”
I toss my backpack onto the couch, kick off my sneakers, and head over. “She wants me to argue with my brain more,” I say. “So yes. Homework.”
He pops his head around the corner, curls fuzzy, dish towel in hand. “You tell her you argue with me plenty and your brain is gonna have to get in line?” he asks.
“Apparently that doesn’t count,” I say. “Something about ‘internalized narratives’ and ‘challenging cognitive distortions.’”
“Hot,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Come here. I made something different tonight.”
“Is that… pasta?” I ask, peering into the pot.
“Yes,” he says proudly. “Pasta with sausage and vegetables. Look at us, eating things that aren’t chicken and rice like fitness influencers.”
My stomach growls on cue. “My therapist will be thrilled,” I say. “She’s been trying to get me to stop living on coffee and adrenaline.”
He grabs bowls and gestures for me to sit. I do, dropping into the chair like someone cut the strings on my marionette.
Miguel watches me for a second, eyes scanning. “Should I even ask the question?” he asks.
I tilt my hand back and forth. “Six-ish,” I say, knowing exactly what he’s getting at. “Maybe six-point-five. Coach kind of blew my circuits today.”
Miguel’s eyebrows rise as he dishes out pasta. “Yeah?” he asks. “How?”
I tell him about the camp, the scouts, and how there’s more than just the one now. The words “declare for the draft” leaving Coach’s mouth like it’s a real thing and not just a fantasy that lives in the far back of my skull.
Miguel goes very still for a second, then sets the bowl in front of me and rests his hands on the table.
“Baby,” he says, eyes bright and soft at the same time. “That’s huge.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
He huffs out a laugh. “That’s not a problem,” he says. “That’s… big and scary and amazing. You’re allowed to freak out about it and be happy.”
