Page 179 of Disarm
My pulse stutters.
“And that future is…?” Mom prompts, gentle but nosy in that mom way.
He exhales. I hear it and feel it in my ribs.“Casarme con él,”he says simply.“Ése es mi final del juego, Mamá. Casarme con Caleb. Tener una vida normal con él. Lo más normal posible para nosotros.”
I put a hand on the wall.
Marry him.
But hearing him say it? Out loud? In that steady, matter-of-fact tone?
Something in my chest goes soft and feral at the same time.
Mom hums, this fond, devastating little sound.“Eso no me sorprende para nada,”she says.“Siempre supe que lo amabas así. Desde que tenían… qué, quince y diecisiete.”
I press my lips together hard.
She’s always known.
“¿Y él?”she asks.“¿Crees que algún día va a querer eso también?”
My heart is beating so hard it’s ridiculous. Miguel goes quiet. Long enough that my nerves start buzzing loud in my ears.
“No sé,”he admits, and it’s like a knife and a kiss all at once.“Quiero creer que sí. Pero él… ha pasado por tanto. Le cuesta pensar más allá de la próxima práctica, el próximo examen. No le voy a meter presión.”
My eyes burn, he has to know that I love him just as much as he loves me. As hard as it is to envision being married, he is the only person I’ve ever seen myself with.
“I just… hope,” he adds softly.“Que algún día se sienta tan seguro, tan… vivo conmigo, que pueda imaginar eso sin miedo.Y si no—”He shrugs, I hear it in his voice.“Igual me voy a quedar. No estoy con él solo si hay anillo.”
Head, meet wall.
I lean there, hoodie sleeve against the cool plaster, and let the image slip in. Just for a second.
Not a big church wedding—that’s never really been my style, and Dad might combust if we tried—but something small. Maybe a courthouse with Mom crying through the whole thing. Or something on the beach with Miguel in a suit that fits too well, tie loose by the end of the night because I can’t keep my hands to myself.
Rings that flash when we both reach for the same pan in our ridiculous little kitchen.
A kid, maybe. Dark curls, big eyes, running down the Boardwalk with a ridiculous prize stuffed animal under one arm, screaming for us to “watch this!” before almost face-planting in the sand. Miguel would roll his eyes and then sprint after them anyway. Me yelling, “Be careful!” from under an umbrella like my father.
But for three heartbeats, it feels… possible.
My chest feels too small for my lungs. I scrub my palms over my face and step back a few feet before I walk in like a creep who just eavesdropped on his own hypothetical wedding.
Noise. Make noise.
I yawn loudly and drag my feet the last few steps, then round the corner into the kitchen, blinking like I just woke up.
“Morning,” I mumble. “Smells good.”
Miguel’s head snaps toward me, eyes a little wide, then softens instantly. He’s in a faded T-shirt and sweats, hair sticking up, hands braced on the counter. Mom is at the stove. There’s a plate of eggs and tortillas already waiting at my usual spot.
“Buenos días, mijo,”she says, smiling. “Siéntate.You want coffee?”
“Always,” I say, dropping into the chair. My heart is still racing, but I tuck it behind a familiar grin. “Black for my soul, sugar for my trauma.”
Miguel snorts, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You get one brown sugar latte,” he says, grabbing the mug he clearly already made. “Drink it and then you’re switching to water or your heart’s gonna tap out.”
He sets the mug in front of me and leans down to kiss the top of my head without thinking. Mom watches, fond and unsurprised.
