Page 282 of Disarm
Squeezing my hand and leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I do,” he says softly. The room goes quiet for a minute. There’s laundry everywhere, and the lamp is doing that flickery thing I still haven’t fixed, but something in my chest feels… settled.
Like we’re loading the car with more than just clothes.
We leaveat stupid o’clock when the sky is barely light, that gray-blue that looks like the world hasn’t made up its mind yet. The air smells like fog and wet asphalt.
Caleb yawns as he throws his duffel in the backseat of the truck. He’s in sweats, an old UCSC hoodie, and a beanie, with curls peeking out like he lost a fight with a sheep. He looks… good.
Healthy.
Sleepy.
“Volume?” I ask, closing the tailgate.
He pauses, checking in for real. “Three,” he says. “Nerves are like a five, but not in a ‘jump off something’ way. More in a ‘what if the treehouse has spiders’ way.”
“Valid,” I say. “We can negotiate with spiders. Brains are harder.”
He grins, small. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say.
We climb into the truck and I cue up the playlist—a mix of his stuff and mine. Katatonia, The Weeknd, and some of Mom’s old boleros because I’m sentimental and also because Caleb made a face when I first played them and then quietly added them to his own library.
As we pull out, Caleb leans his head against the window, watching the neighborhood slide by.
“This feels… weird,” he says.
“What kind of weird?” I ask.
“Good weird,” he says after a beat. “Like… we’re stealing something back.”
I let the words sit between us as we merge onto the highway.
South.
By the timewe hit Monterey, the sun’s higher and my shoulders have loosened. Caleb’s been fiddling with the playlist trying to find something that hits the mood, the window, the air vent, his usual road trip fidgeting. He’s taken three pictures already: one of Mom’s snack box, one of a ridiculous billboard for clam chowder, and one of me, profile shot, hands on the wheel.
“For the scrapbook,” he said when I complained.
Highway One curls ahead like someone dropped a piece of ribbon on the edge of the continent. Cliffs. Ocean. That particular blue-green that looks fake. As the road narrows and the drop-offs get real, Caleb’s hand creeps across the centerconsole, searching. I lace our fingers without taking my eyes off the asphalt.
“How you doing?” I ask quietly.
“Four,” he says. “Brain is whispering, ‘What if you swerve on purpose,’ but it’s more annoying than compelling. I told it to shut up.”
“Proud of you,” I say.
He squeezes. “Partner route,” he murmurs.
“Partner route,” I echo.
When we finally turn off the main road and follow the host’s overly detailed directions—left at the crooked fence, right past the mailbox with the painted chickens, keep going even when you think you’ve gone too far—the trees close in overhead, redwoods swallowing the sky.
Caleb goes quiet, but it’s not the brittle quiet from the bedroom that night. It’s… awe.
When the treehouse comes into view, he actually stops breathing for a second. Wood and glass wrapped around the trunk, a spiral staircase hugging the bark. Rope bridge leading to a little deck with two chairs. Fairy lights strung under the eaves. The ocean is a distant glint through the branches.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
