– What we see for our future in general terms (not sex details, Ashton, calm down)
I snort despite myself. “He’s gonna hate that parenthetical.”
“Sweet,” Miguel says, lips quirking. “Now, what’s off-limits? Stuff that’s none of his business.”
“Anything to do with specific sexual acts,” I say immediately, face flaming. “He does not get to interrogate what we do in bed. Or on couches. Or…”
“Okay, focus, horny,” Miguel says, thumbs flying.
Off-limits:
– Details about our sex life
– Play-by-play of fights/arguments that aren’t his business
– Therapy session content that belongs only to Caleb & Dr. Kaur
“He doesn’t get to treat you like a witness on the stand,” I add. “No cross-examining you on my diagnoses. He can ask me about my mental health. He does not get to grill you for ‘intel’ like you’re my handler.”
“Love when your metaphors cross genres,” Miguel murmurs, but he types it in.
Off-limits:
– Miguel spilling Caleb’s private mental health details
The more he writes, the more I feel the tight pressure in my chest… shift. Like we’re building a little fence around the parts that scare me most.
“Okay,” Miguel says. “Red-flag phrases. Shit he could say that means we take a time-out.”
I don’t even have to think. “If he calls you a bad influence,” I say. “If he uses words like ‘corrupt’ or ‘perverted.’ If he suggests I’d be fine if you weren’t around.”
Miguel’s jaw clenches. He types:
Red flags = pause or end call:
– “bad influence,” “corrupting,” or “perverted.”
– blames Miguel for Caleb’s trauma or mental health
– talks about Caleb like a problem to solve instead of a person
“And if he starts talking like I ‘owe’ him being straight because he rescued me,” I add, stomach churning. “Like, ‘I did all this for you, the least you could do is give me the life I pictured for you.’”
Miguel’s eyes go dark. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “He tries that we’re done for the night.”
He adds that to the list. I swallow around the rock in my throat. I can see it so clearly—Dad’s face tight, his voice cool, saying something that makes my skin crawl and my brain automatically go, okay, you’re right, I’ll fix it, just don’t leave.
My breathing stutters.
Miguel’s hand squeezes my knee. “You’re doing good,” he says. “You’re allowed to take a break. Want to?”
My first instinct is to say no, to plow forward and get it all out while I have momentum. But my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and my fingers are starting to tingle.
“Maybe… just a second,” I say. “Before the hamsters unionize.”
He chuckles softly. “Okay. Grounding break. Five things you can see, go.”
I roll my eyes, but it works. “Your stupid plant on the windowsill,” I say, eyeing the scraggly green thing clinging to life. “The crack in the ceiling paint. Your ugly coffee mug?—”
