Page 262 of Disarm
Guilt surges. “I hurt him,” I say. “Again. I turned him into a siren, a crisis line?—”
“You turned him into someone who loves you and responded when you were in danger,” she corrects. “It’s his choice to be in that role. It’s mine to be in mine. It’s your parents’. None of us are here under duress. We’re scared. We’re tired. But we’re choosing to be scared and tired with you, rather than… without you.”
I stare at the blanket over my lap. My fingers pick at a loose thread until it snaps.
“So you’re… on board with this plan?” I ask. “Psych unit. IOP. All of it.”
“I am,” she says. “With the caveat that we keep checking in and adjusting. If something isn’t working, we change it. This is not about locking you up and throwing away the key. It’s about building a bigger net.”
I think of Miguel in Luis’s office, talking about nets and lines. About how much he wants to stop being the only barrier between me and the edge.
“Okay,” I say finally. The word feels like a rock in my mouth. Heavy. Solid. “Okay. I’ll… do it. Whatever they say. I’ll… show up.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” she says. “Show up. Tell the truth about your volume. Let the net catch you. We’ll worry about the long-term details later.”
Nodding, exhausted, down to my marrow.
She squeezes my shoulder and stands. “I’m going to go talk with Miguel and your parents,” she says. “They need their own version of this conversation. Rest.”
When she leaves, the room feels bigger again. The beeping seems louder, but my eyelids are so heavy.
Miguel slips back in like he never left. “Hey,” he says softly, perching on the edge of the chair again. “How’s the brain?”
“Like someone ran it through a blender and then tried to pour it back in crooked,” I mumble.
He huffs. “So… normal,” he says, and the joke lands better this time.
I swallow. “I… agreed,” I say. “To… more. Inpatient. IOP. All the acronyms.”
His shoulders sag with what looks like relief and fear tangled together. “Good,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”
I flinch. “Proud?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You scared the shit out of me, and I am still proud. Those can coexist. You could’ve lied. You could’ve dug in. You didn’t.”
“I thought about it,” I admit. “I’m… really good at lying to myself.”
He nods. “Same,” he says. “We’ll work on that. Together. In therapy. With an entire army of licensed professionals.”
I look at him.
“Are you…” The words stick. I force them out. “Are you… sure? You still… want this? Me? Like this?”
His eyes widen like I’ve slapped him.
“Caleb,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t sign up for the ‘healthy brain, zero trauma’ package. That’s not a thing. I signed up for you. All of you. The laughing in the kitchen, horny gremlin, who is an anxious overachiever, and the four-year-old who didn’t get fed enough and still somehow figured out how to love people. This”—he gestures vaguely at the room, the IV, the gauze—“is part of the deal. It sucks. I hate it. But leaving you is not on the table.”
I bite my lip hard enough to sting. “You’re going to get tired,” I whisper.
“I get tired all the time,” he says. “Sometimes from work. Sometimes from your bullshit. Sometimes from my own. When I get tired, I will say, ‘I’m tired.’ And then… we’ll fucking take a nap or some shit. Together. That’s what this is supposed to be.”
Tears spill over before I can stop them.
“Okay,” I say, voice rough. “Okay.”
He leans in and rests his forehead against mine again. Our noses bump. His hand is warm around mine, thumb rubbing slow circles over my knuckles.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “In for four. Hold. Out for six. Annoy Dr. K by using her own shit on her.”
