Page 287 of Disarm
I stare at the square of sky and the star has been joined by two more. “I keep thinking about how they’re going to see me,” I admit. “The guy who vanished mid-quarter, who had TheIncident, who had the ambulance whisk him away. The guy who tried to check out early.”
Miguel winces. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s… probably going to be part of how some people see you. For a while. Humans are nosy. And you for sure have some gossipy bitches on the team.”
“I don’t want that to be my whole… thing,” I say. “On the court. In class. Even in my own head. I don’t want ‘attempted suicide’ to be my primary stat.”
That makes him shift closer, finally closing the distance so our shoulders brush. The contact is a quiet anchor. “Then we keep building other stats,” he says. “Good teammate. Solid shooter. Guy who brings snacks. Dude who survived and went to therapy and now knows more about DBT than half the counseling center.”
I huff out a laugh. “We’re circling back to ‘IOP summer school’ again.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You did extra credit in staying alive. That’s not nothing.”
I swallow. “I’m scared of… disappointing everyone,” I say. “You. Mom. Dad. Dr. K. Coach. The team. Like if I don’t go back, I’ve wasted all this talent and money and time. And if I do go back and I’m worse than before, I’ve proved everyone right who thought I was a risk.”
Miguel is quiet for a long moment. I can almost see him running through a Luis-informed script in his head.
“What if we decouple ‘staying alive’ from ‘playing basketball’ for a second?” he says. “Like, survival is the baseline. Non-negotiable. School and sports are… electives.”
“That’s blasphemy,” I mutter, but a tiny part of me is thrilled.
“You can go back part-time,” he says. “You can play in a rec league, not for the school. You can take a medical leave and come back when you’ve had more time to heal. You can decidenot to go back and let me worry about things and still be worth oxygen.”
I blink up at the skylight. “Sounds fake,” I say.
“Pretty real from where I’m lying,” he says. “You’re allowed to figure it out one semester at a time. One season at a time. You don’t have to commit to your entire future while we’re literally in a tree.”
“That’s very wise,” I say. “Therapists really are rubbing off on you.”
Caressing my face, he smirks. “I’m multifaceted,” he says. “Hot, wise, great with wiring.”
“And extremely humble,” I add.
“Obviously,” he says.
We lapse into quiet again. The wind picks up, brushing past the treehouse and making it creak, just enough to remind me we’re not on the ground. My stomach flips once, but it passes.
“Do you… regret it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He turns his head. “Regret what?”
“Us,” I say. “All of this. The stepbrother thing. The Halloween and Christmas vacation thing. The… almost dying thing. Would your life be… better? Easier. Safer. If you had not fallen in love with me when we were teenagers?”
He exhales slowly. “Easier?” he says. “Probably. Safer? Maybe. Better?” He shakes his head. “Not even fucking close.”
The answer lands so hard I feel it in my ribs. “You say that now,” I murmur. “You haven’t seen me try to parallel park on a cliff yet.”
That makes him snort. “I saw you survive your own brain trying to kill you,” he says. “Everything else is a side quest.”
“I’m scared of slipping,” I say, because at this point, we’re just laying out all the cards. “Of going home and slowly letting everything slide. Missing one appointment. Then two. Skippinggroup. Stop journaling. Letting the volume creep up until it’s screaming again and I’m too tired to tell anyone.”
Miguel shifts, nodding. “I’m scared of that too,” he says. “But we have more guardrails now. Not just ‘Miguel freaks out and kicks in a door’ guardrails. Actual… team rails.”
I picture them, one by one. Mom, arms crossed, unapologetic about calling me out. Dad, with his envelope and his “investment in my continued existence.” Dr. K with her annoying worksheets and her gentle, relentless “let’s look at that.” Luis with his legal pad and his “you’re not God, Miguel.” The group circle. The raisin. The safety plan on the fridge. The copy in my bag. The copy in the glove compartment.
“We’re not doing this alone,” I murmur.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Much as my inner martyr would love to take the starring role, we’ve got an ensemble cast.”
I choke out a laugh. “So what, this trip is opening night for a new season?” I ask. “Season Two: Less Dying?”
