Page 239 of Disarm
“You’re both allowed to be fragile,” Dr. Ortega says at one point. “It doesn’t always have to be him on the floor and you above him. Sometimes you both get to lie down.”
I picture that. Both of us on the carpet, staring at the ceiling, not talking, just existing.
It sounds… nice, actually.
At the end, he gives me the look. The one that means he’s about to assign homework.
“Between now and next week,” he says, “I want you to notice when you have the urge to drop everything and rush in. Don’t stop yourself from responding. Just… clock the impulse. Ask yourself: ‘Is this line-thinking or net-thinking?’ And then choose, intentionally, what you do.”
“More feelings journaling,” I say, making a face. “You therapists are all in cahoots.”
“Guilty,” he says. “Text the net if you need to. You’re in it, too, you know.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, but I smile.
He grins back. “Get out of here,” he says. “Go touch some safe wires.”
“Those don’t exist,” I say, standing. “But I’ll do my best.”
While I’m talkingabout nets and wires, Caleb is… somewhere.
He texted once during my morning break, just a picture of a coffee cup and the word “studyinggggg.” No volume rating. No sarcasm sticker. On any other day, I’d call that progress.
Today, I notice the missing number and file it away.
After therapy, I step out into the parking lot. The sun’s high and too bright, making everything look sharper than it feels. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with that little jolt of expectation that’s become part of my autonomic nervous system.
Group chat shenanigans.
Benny sent a photo of a spider he found in a breaker box with the caption “OSHA’s new apprentice.”
No Caleb.
I check our conversation anyway.
Last messages:
Caleb
Day’s been… a lot. I’ll tell you later. Good news, you still get to pick my funeral flowers if stats goes badly.
Miguel
We’re talking later. You’re not getting out of that with flower jokes. Love you.
Caleb
Love you more.
Nothing since.
He said he had a review, then group study and practice and that he’d be home before seven.
Knowing him, he’s probably in the library, hunched over his notes, mainlining coffee and pretending food is optional. He gets phone-tunnel vision when he’s in that mode.
You could text him, the line-voice says. Ask for a volume update. Make sure.
You could also trust that he’ll text if he needs you, the net-voice counters. He promised. You literally spent an hour talking about trusting him.
