Page 132 of Disarm
Got your texts. Thanks. Miguel and I will talk and let you know when we’re ready. Love you.
The three dots pop up almost immediately.
Dad
Take your time. Love you too.
Both of you.
My chest squeezes. I lock the phone before I can overanalyze the punctuation. Miguel nudges me toward the couch. “Come on,” he says. “You did enough emotional gymnastics for one day. Let’s corrupt your brain with overly masculine sports.”
I let him pull me down beside him and he throws the weighted blanket over both of us and hands me the remote. As the Sharks game flickers to life on the screen, I curl into his side, phone silent on the coffee table, my dad’s messages and Dr. Kaur’s words humming around the edges of my thoughts.
Miguel’s fingers trace absent circles on my knee.
My brain is still terrified. Still waiting for the other shoe, other call, other catastrophe. But there’s something else therenow, too. Maybe we’re not doing this completely blind. Miguel’s getting help. Dr. Kaur’s in our corner. Dad hasn’t slammed the door.
And I’m still here.
TWENTY-SIX
MIGUEL
Ispend the whole morning pretending I’m fine. The trick to pretending you’re fine is to give your hands something to do. Hands can carry the lie your mouth can’t.
So my hands are busy as hell—cutting holes for boxes, stripping insulation, twisting wire nuts, and anchoring staples along joists. It’s a kitchen remodel in Live Oak, in one of those mid-century houses with just enough charm to make up for the rat’s nest of old wiring behind the walls.
“Feed me that twelve-two,” Benny calls from the other side of the stud bay.
“Say please,” I mutter, grabbing the coil and threading it through. My wrists ache from the angle, but it’s a clean run. Thank God for small miracles.
“Please, Your Majesty,” he sing-songs.
“That’s right,” I say. “Show some respect.”
He snorts, tugging the wire through. “Got it. You running out after lunch?”
My stomach clenches like I swallowed a fist. “Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “Got… an appointment.”
“For sure. Just don’t get lost on your way back.”
I don’t specify what kind. I let him decide.
“You good?” he asks, like it’s a casual question. “Peachy,” I say. “Watch that bend. Don’t kink it.”
We trade bullshit like that all morning. Him talking about some girl he met at a party last weekend, me making smart-ass comments, and both of us sweating through our shirts as the heater roasts the already cramped site.
Every time my phone buzzes in my pocket, my shoulders go tight.
The first one is a calendar alert: Therapist—1:30 p.m.
The second is from Caleb.
Caleb
How’s your morning?
I wipe drywall dust off my hands and fish the phone out, leaning against a half-demolished wall so I don’t clock my head on a beam.
