Not on purpose.
Not with anything dramatic.
Just with silence.
If this is where we’re at now—me making fifteen-minute drives because of a dead phone battery—what happens when things really go sideways?
Because they will.
Life isn’t done throwing shit at him.
At us.
My arm tightens around him. I’m not going anywhere but I can feel the weight now.
Mamá’s kitchenalways reminds me of better days, when Caleb and I would come running in from playing outside all day and find comfort in a bowl of arroz con leche or a slice of flan. I decided to stop by on my way back from campus because I need to be around someone who remembers when I was the one falling apart.
She’s at the stove when I walk in the back door, stirring a pot of something red and bubbling. Music plays low from the little speaker on the counter, an old ballad she loves, all aching vocals and slow guitar.
“Mijo,” she says without turning, like she sensed me. “You’re just in time. Taste this.” She lifts a spoon and holds it back toward me without looking.
I grin despite myself, lean in, and blow before slurping. Rich, spicy, perfect. “Needs more salt,” I tease.
“Don’t be stupid,” she says, swatting my arm with the spoon. Then she turns, really seeing me, and her expression shifts. “What’s wrong?”
Of course she sees it.
“It’s nothing,” I start.
She just raises an eyebrow.“No me mientas.”
Feeling deflated, I answer. “Okay, not nothing.”
She gestures to the table. “Sit. Talk. I can stir and listen at the same time, you know.”
I drop into a chair, elbows on my knees, hands hanging uselessly between them. I just listen to the simmer, the scrape ofwood on pot, and the distant TV in the living room, where some telenovela is yelling in the background.
“Caleb was supposed to text me when he got back from Reno,” I say finally. “His phone died. He didn’t. I… drove to campus to check on him.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes sharpening. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” I say quickly. “He came back, crashed under the weighted blanket, and the phone finally turned on and started screaming with notifications.
Her shoulders relax. “Ay, gracias a Dios,” she murmurs. Then, gently, “And you?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Still feeling ridiculous apparently.”
She turns off the burner and comes to sit across from me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Tell me.”
Picking at a crack in the table’s varnish, I sigh. “I went straight to the worst possible scenario. Because I know the kind of shit that crawls around in his brain when he’s quiet too long.”
My jaw tightens. “It felt like if something had happened and I hadn’t gone, I’d never—” I swallow. “I’d never forgive myself.”
“And now?” she asks quietly.
“Now I’m wondering if I’m… too much.” The words taste bitter. “If I’m making him feel like he has to check in or I’ll show up with a search party. If I’m acting like… like I’m the only thing between him and the worst.”
“You’re not the only thing,” she says, eyes steady on mine. “But you are something big for him. You know that.”
