Page 113 of Disarm
He makes a small sound I can’t quite place. Not a laugh. Not a scoff.
“John said it looked… intimate,” he says finally. “Two young men, dressed nicely, seated very close, sharing food. He assumed I already knew.”
I let out a humorless breath. “Yeah, well. John assumes a lot.”
“Caleb,” Dad says, with warning in his tone.
I flinch. “Sorry.”
Silence stretches.
“I’m trying to understand,” he says at last. “Truly. But I need to know if this is… something transient. A phase. An… experimental attachment, given your history with him. Or if this is something I should prepare myself to factor into your future.”
“Experimental,” I repeat quietly. “Like I’m in a lab.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“Do you hear yourself?” I ask, voice shaking. “Do you realize you’re talking about my feelings like they’re some… bad habit I picked up at college?”
“I am not calling your feelings a bad habit,” he says tightly. “I’m asking if you’ve thought through the implications. You are already under strain. Classes. Athletics. Your mental health. Introducing a romantic entanglement with someone you already rely on so heavily?—”
“He’s not a fucking math variable,” I snap. “He’s Miguel.”
“Exactly,” he says. “He is your stepbrother. The person you run to every time you’re hurting. That level of dependency is concerning enough without adding romance into the equation.”
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to keep my brain from splitting open.
“He’s the reason I’m still here,” I whisper.
Dad goes very quiet.
“What?” he says.
I swallow hard. The words feel too big for my mouth. “He’s… He’s the reason I didn’t…” My voice cracks. “When it got bad before. He’s the reason I called someone instead of… instead of doing something permanent.”
The silence on his end is different now. Heavy.
“I didn’t realize,” he says finally, voice faint. “That it got that bad.”
“Yeah,” I say, “because every time we get near that part, you change the subject to my three-point percentage.”
“That’s not fair,” he snaps, and there’s the lawyer again. “I have done everything I can to help you. I found you. I got you out of that house and made sure that you didn’t go into foster care. I’ve paid for doctors, therapy?—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I know you’ve done so much. I’m grateful. Trust me, I am. But you keep acting like that erased everything that happened before. Like I should be better by now. Like needing people is a moral flaw.”
“I have never said that,” he insists.
“You don’t have to say it,” I whisper. “I feel it every time you call me soft. Or imply Miguel is a distraction. Or act more worried about scouts than whether I ate today.”
He exhales, sharp and pained. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I’m finally saying the quiet part out loud.”
Another long stretch of silence.
When he speaks again, his voice is smaller than I’ve heard it in a long time.
“…Is it serious?” he asks. “With him.”
