Page 279 of Disarm
He holds it out. “For the trip,” he says.
My stomach drops. Caleb’s brows pinch. “Dad?—”
He lifts a hand. “Before you argue,” he says, “this is not me trying to buy my way out of what happened. I know I can’t. This is me being practical in the ways I know how. I am… better with money than feelings.”
Caleb makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. Ashton goes on, voice roughening.
“You boys have both been working hard,” he says. “Paying bills. Going to therapy. Doing everything asked of you and more. If taking four days in Big Sur helps mark this… chapter”—he swallows around the word—“then I want to help make thatpossible. Consider it… an investment in my son’s continued existence.”
He tries to smile, but it wobbles.
The envelope suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
Caleb stares at it like it’s a live grenade. “Dad, I can’t?—”
“Yes,” Ashton says. “You can. You don’t have to, but you can. It’s not all of it,” he adds to me, glancing over. “I know you already booked it. This is… chipping in. As your father.”
My throat goes tight. “You don’t owe me?—”
“I know I don’t,” he says. “I want to.”
Silence hangs in the air for a second. Caleb looks at me, eyes wide, a question sitting in them.
I exhale slowly. “Thank you,” I say to Ashton. “Really.”
He nods once, like a verdict went his way. “Good,” he says gruffly, placing the envelope on the table, not forcing it into anyone’s hand. “Use it for gas. For food. For whatever. The only condition is that you both come back in one piece.”
“Morbid,” Caleb mutters.
“Accurate,” Ashton counters, so dry it almost makes me laugh.
Caleb’s shoulders slump. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome,” Ashton says, and for once, doesn’t follow it with a caveat. He stands. “I’ll get out of your hair. Let you two pack.”
He squeezes Caleb’s shoulder on the way out. His hand hovers over mine for half a second before he pats my arm, awkward but sincere.
“Text us when you get there,” he says. “And… Miguel?”
“Yeah?”
“Take care of him.” The door clicks shut behind him.
Caleb blows out a breath and flops back against the couch. “Well,” he says. “That was… a thing.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We just got partial treehouse sponsorship from your dad. That’s definitely a thing.”
He side-eyes the envelope. “I hate that I’m relieved,” he says.
I nudge his knee. “Hey,” I say. “We were going either way. But it’s okay to let people who love you pitch in. That’s kind of the theme lately.”
He makes a face like he tasted a bad raisin. “Letting people help is still gross,” he mutters. “I’m working on it.”
“Good,” I say. “You can practice by letting me choose the playlist.”
He groans. “I suddenly regret staying alive.”
I flick his ear. “Not fucking funny.”
