Page 63 of Disarm
“Especiallywhen you’re like this.” My thumb rubs over his knuckles. “Anyone can love you on the good days, baby. I’m here for all of it. The panic, the tears—that’s part of the deal.”
A shuddering breath leaves his lips as he forces the next few words out. “You’re gonna burn yourself out on me.”
“Let me worry about that. Right now, we focus on three things: a shower, sleep, and you making it to that appointment in the morning. That’s it. That’s all you have to think about.”
Caleb stares at me for a long moment, and I see it—the tiny flicker of relief, like I’ve taken a few bricks off his shoulders.
“Shower sounds… good,” he admits quietly. “I feel gross.”
“Okay,” I say, standing. “Come on.”
Following me into the small shared bathroom, I make sure the door for the other roommate is locked. Nothing like my condo’s bathroom, but I’m not going to complain right now. Having Caleb home with me is another day’s problem. I turn the water on, adjust the temperature until it’s hot but not scalding, and steam billows out around us.
“You want me in there with you, or do you just want me to sit and talk?” I ask.
Hesitation makes his lip twitch, eyes flicking between me and the shower. “Can you… stay? Not inside, just… here.”
“Of course,” I say.
He undresses slowly, not in a sexual way at all, just a tired man peeling off the armor he uses to mask himself from the world. Bruises bloom faintly on his hips from last night, and I feel a pang of guilt and something darker twist inside me.
I look away. Not now.
We’ll unpack that later.
Caleb steps under the spray, head bowed and I sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, and talk to fill the space.
“Mom called me earlier,” I say. “She made tamales and was sad you weren’t there to ‘taste test.’”
That elicits a small laugh. “She knows I’d have eaten the whole pot if I had been there.”
“I told her that. She said she made extra just for you. Jalapeños and cheese, your favorite.”
He’s quiet for a bit, with the only sound filling the silence being the water hitting tile and his slow breathing.
“Did Dad talk to you?” he asks eventually, voice muffled by the curtain.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Well, kind of. He texted. Asked if you seemed okay. Said he thinks you’re regressing.”
Caleb’s shoulders hunch.
“I told him he doesn’t get to use words he doesn’t understand,” I say. “And that he should be more careful throwing them at his son.”
No response. But I watch as he wipes at his face like he’s not sure if it’s water or tears.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Come here a sec.”
He peeks past the curtain, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes big and tired. I stand, grab the shampoo from the ledge, and step in just enough to reach his head, my clothes getting misted at the edges.
“Turn around,” I murmur.
No fight at all, he does. I work the shampoo into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp, slow and steady. The little exhales he makes and shoulders lowering just a little make my heart feel a little better.
“There you go,” I soothe. “Wash the day off. Let it go down the drain.”
“Wish it were that easy,” he mutters.
“Me too, baby,” I chuckle softly. “But we’ll take what we can get, right?”
