Page 247 of Disarm
The last thing I feel before everything goes black is the sticky warmth on my wrist and the distant, hollow thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
Then even that goes quiet.
FORTY-FOUR
MIGUEL
By the time I pull into the parking stall, the sky’s doing that bruise-purple thing it gets right before full dark. I’m still humming some stupid song from the radio under my breath, something stupid and poppy, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Therapy always leaves me wrung out and weirdly hopeful, like I just went emotionally to the gym.
Net-thinking, not line-thinking.
That’s the phrase echoing in my head as I kill the engine and grab my stuff.
Caleb didn’t answer my last text—no big deal. Stats review plus exam week plus his brain being a dick equals him probably buried under highlighters somewhere. I picture him in the library, hood up, chewing on his pen, drawing tiny basketballs in the margins of his notes.
It makes me smile as I walk up the pathway to the front door. The hallway that separates our condo from the neighbors smells like curry and cheap weed. Normal. I fish my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door.
“Baby, I’m home!” I call as I step inside because I’m disgusting like that.What can I say? I live for the gross, overly romantic shit.
No answer.
Not weird, necessarily. He could have headphones in. Or be in the shower. Or taking a nap face-down, drooling into the pillow.
I set my tool bag down by the couch. The place is… quiet. No TV noise, no low music. The lights are off except the little one over the stove.
My chest tightens a millimeter.
“Caleb?” I try again, softer.
Still nothing.
I take off my boots, flip on the living room light and find the couch empty. His backpack is by the door, one strap twisted, and the laptop is sitting on the coffee table, closed. There’s a mug with a coffee ring and a plate with one sad, uneaten chip.
On the counter, his phone lies face down next to the stove.
That’s what makes my internal alarm go off. Caleb never leaves his phone. Not like this. Not during exam week when group chats are popping off.
A little cold thread slips down my spine.
“Okay,” I mutter. “He’s probably showering. Or taking a shit. Calm down, Veracruz.”
I don’t hear the shower going.
So I pick up his phone, thumb pressing the button out of habit.
The screen lights up. 6:43 p.m.
No new notifications.
Our thread at the top, my last text sitting there unanswered.
Miguel
Therapy done. Dr. O says I’m not allowed to be God anymore, so you’re officially on your own with stats.
How’s it going?
Sent at 3:27.
