Page 276 of Disarm
I want to crawl into my hoodie and vanish. “It was either that or ‘be petty and make it to the NBA so I can tell Andersen to kiss my ass on live television,’” I mutter. “But I’m supposed to be making better life choices.”
Miguel looks up at me. His eyes are shining, but he doesn’t cry. “You put this on your list,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly very interested in a crack in the sidewalk. “Don’t make it weird.”
He folds the paper carefully, like it’s made of glass. Hands it back. “You remember that listing?” he asks.
“You showed it to me,” I say. “Then I brought it up again… I think you forget my brain is a hoarder.”
“Big Sur treehouse,” he says, like he’s testing the words. “Half glass, half wood. In the redwoods. Overpriced as hell. No reliable Wi-Fi.”
“You said that was part of the appeal,” I remind him. “’No one can email us trauma homework there.’”
He snorts. “That does sound like me.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Can I… ask you something about it?”
“About Big Sur?” I ask. “I mean, sure. My main thought is ‘highway clifffff.’”
“About why you put it on there,” he says softly.
I breathe out. “Because it’s… something I don’t believe I get,” I say bluntly. “Like, nice vacations are for people who aren’t constantly in crisis. But part of me still… wants it. Wanted it enough that it showed up when I was—” I gesture vaguely. “Doing the worst possible thing.”
His eyes go sharp and tender at the same time. “Then that’s the part we’re feeding,” he says. “The part that wants.”
Snorting. “Dr. K said the same thing. You two share a brain now?”
“Timeshare,” he says. “We get weekends.”
We sit there, the idea of that treehouse hovering between us like a third presence.
“Younger me wanted a treehouse,” I blurt, to my own surprise. “So the Big Sur one appeals for more than the mental escape. It’s like it would ‘heal’ some inner child things.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I start to panic that I’ve said too much, made it too real.
Then he says, “Good.”
“Good?” I echo.
“I still have it saved,” he says. “You know how much joy it gives me to imagine you freaking out over every turn on Highway One on the bike? You just officially gave me permission to make that our thing. Thought you might’ve written it off as one of my ‘someday’ lines when everything went sideways.”
We are so not taking his bike on Highway One.
“Forgotten?” I scoff. “You think my inner child lets go of promises that easily?”
Miguel laughs, bright and a little broken. “Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll make it a thing. Not this month. Not while you’re still on enough meds to tranquilize a bull. Not until the doctors sign off and you’re cleared for road trips without a chaperone. But someday.”
“Maybe we can still plan it for the summer,” I offer.
He nudges his shoulder into mine. “Someday, we’re going to be in that treehouse,” he says. “Halfway up a redwood, you’re complaining about the stairs, and I’m pretending I’m not scared of heights.”
“You’re scared of heights?” I ask, distracted.
“I do not like being up high without a harness,” he says. “Except, apparently, when it’s for you.”
My chest tightens. “Put that on your list,” I say. “Reasons to live: mock me when I freak out at a scenic overlook.”
Miguel bumps my knee again. “Deal.”
We don’t talk about the night in the bedroom. We don’t talk about the blood on his hands, the pill bottle, or the operator on speaker. Not today. Today we talk about raisins and group and a hypothetical vacation we are both too scared and too hopeful to really look at straight on.
