She gives me the look, the one that says, “Don’t play with me, I changed your diapers.”
“I’m seeing Dr. Ortega next week,” I say, hands up in surrender. “I booked the appointment. I promise.”
Her face softens. “Bien,” she says. “You boys are doing something very hard and very beautiful. It’s not just him who needs support.”
I nod, throat tight. “He told Dr. K he’s… thinking about moving in full-time,” I admit. “Not just three nights a week. We’re not rushing it, but… it’s on the table.”
There’s a shine to her eyes, and that makes my heart melt. “Ay,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest. “I knew he’d get there. Little by little.”
“It’s still a lot,” I say. “For him. For us. For…” I shrug. “Everything.”
“Yes,” she says. “But he’s not the same boy who came into this house shaking like a leaf and pretending he was fine.” She taps my forehead gently. “Neither are you.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re very smug when you’re right, you know that?”
“I am always right,” she says. “Now take this pozole before I keep talking about your feelings.”
Planting a kiss on her cheek, I grab the container and head back to the truck, feeling… steadier.
I can’t stop the ocean from being the ocean. But I can put more life jackets in the boat.
When I get home,Caleb’s shoes are already by the door, one lying on its side like he kicked it off mid-stride. His backpack is dumped next to the couch, half-open, papers spilling out. The TV is on mute, paused on some random baseball game. The coffee table is covered in notebooks and his laptop.
He’s nowhere in sight.
My nervous system spikes—images of him curled on the bathroom floor, not breathing on the bed—and I take a slow breath, reminding myself about my own safety plan.
“Caleb?” I call out, setting the pozole on the counter.
“In here,” he yells from the bedroom.
I follow the sound and find him sprawled face-down across the bed, one arm hanging off the side, hoodie bunched around his shoulders. His hair is a mess, flattened against the pillow.
He turns his head when he hears me, half his face squished. “I am one with the mattress,” he mumbles. “Do not disturb the mattress.”
“How long have you been communing with the mattress?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing his hair back from his forehead.
Squinting at the clock. “Uh… an hour?”
“What was the plan for this hour?” I ask. “Nap, dissociate, or pretend to study?”
“Yes,” he says.
I chuckle, then really look at him.
The shadows under his eyes are deeper, and his lips are chapped. There’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there last week.
“Brain radio check,” I say quietly. “Volume?”
He groans into the pillow. “Seven,” he mumbles. “Maybe seven-point-five.”
“Did something happen?” I ask. “Or just… accumulation of bullshit?”
Rolling onto his back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling, he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Got an email from the scout again,” he says. “He wants to know if I’d be open to going to some summer camp thing. Exposure, drills, whatever.”
“That’s good,” I say carefully.
“I know,” he says quickly. “It is. It’s just—” He makes a helpless gesture. “It’s like every time a new path opens up, my anxiety goes, ‘ah yes, more square footage to ruin.’”
