Page 184 of Disarm
“Mm?”
“If we ever… you know.” My face goes hot. “Got married or whatever. I think I’d want it here. Or… near here. Santa Cruz.”
His breath catches. Just a little.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice soft.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s home.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “We’ll see,” he says quietly. “One day at a time,hermoso.”
One day at a time.
THIRTY-FOUR
MIGUEL
Dad has a “work thing,” which is how I know it’s not really optional.
“It’s just dinner,” he says over coffee, like we didn’t all almost spontaneously combust the last time we sat at a restaurant together. “A few partners and their spouses. Nothing formal.”
Nothing formal, my ass. The place he names is the kind of spot where they don’t list prices and the lighting makes rich people look mysterious.
Mom squeezes my arm. “We’ll go,” she says, like it’s decided. Then, to me and Caleb, “You boys have nice shirts, right? Ones that can be worn to a nice place?”
Caleb snorts into his oatmeal. “Yeah, Ma… It’s kind of required to have nice clothes when you play for a college basketball team.”
The drive over is fine.Better than fine.Caleb commandeers the Bluetooth, putting on his chaotic playlist that veers from Peso Pluma to Sleep Token to some old rock song Ashton secretly likes. By the second chorus, even Dad is mumbling along. Caleb is pressed against my side in the back seat, knee tucked against mine, thigh warm where our jeans touch. At thered light, his hand sneaks over to rest on my thigh, fingers drumming to the beat.
Little stolen touches.
Nothing anyone could yell at us for.
His eyes are bright in the passing streetlights. Spring break: no practices, no alarms. He looks… lighter.
I want to keep it that way.
The restaurant isall low ceilings, dark wood, and white tablecloths. A long table’s been pushed together for the group. Eight, twelve… fourteen people. Partners, associates, and a couple of significant others.
The introductions begin with a blur. “This is my wife, Celeste.”
“And my son, Caleb. You’ve heard me brag about him and his basketball stats.”
“And my stepson, Miguel.”
The word always lands weird, “step.” Like the universe put a little asterisk on my existence. Everyone smiles the way lawyers do in public—measured, calibrated. There are handshakes and shoulder claps. Someone jokes about Caleb’s last game and about the scout, and he ducks his head, grinning, cheeks going pink.
Dad looks proud.
We sit with Mom on Dad’s right. I end up across from the managing partner’s wife. Caleb is next to me, between me andsome junior associate who looks twelve and keeps calling Dad “sir” like we’re in court.
Menus go up and so start the orders of water, wine and other alcohol. Dad gets a nice red and Mom gets a margarita and winks at me over the rim like she’s about to start trouble on purpose.
Under the table, Caleb’s knee hits mine, and he leaves it there. I rest my hand on my thigh, palm up. Not pushing, just a silent invitation.
A second later, his fingers slide into mine, twisting and lacing. It’s nothing from the outside. Two grown “brothers” sitting close at a crowded table. His thumb strokes my knuckle once, twice.I’m here.
Conversation hums all around us about cases, clients, and some judge everyone mutually hates. I can tell Dad is half-performing, half-genuinely engaged. He’s in his element here. Confident. Razor-sharp.
