Chapter 3 The Rules
MIA
I write the list on the back of a receipt. I don't trust myself to type it calm.
No touching without warning. No access to my body, my family, my private life. No kissing unless it's actually necessary. No pretending in front of Mom, period.
Four lines. I slide the receipt across the booth like a ransom note.
Caleb reads it once. Doesn't argue a single word.
"Okay," he admits.
"Okay? That's it?"
"Why would I fight you on this?"
"Because you're you." I gesture at all of him. The jacket that costs more than my mom's copay. The jaw that's been on three billboards downtown. "Because Derek probably wants us photographed making out on a bridge for the engagement numbers."
"Derek doesn't run this." His jaw tightens. "I told you that."
"You've told me a lot of things."
"I'm telling you again." He smooths the curling corner of the receipt flat. "Whatever you need to feel safe, you get it. I don't care what Derek wants."
I don't believe him. Not fully. Three years of watching Caleb Kessler get whatever he wants doesn't undo itself over one coffee and a receipt.
But he's not arguing. That's the part I can't make sense of.
"The Mom thing," I cut in. "You understand what I'm asking? Not just no PDA. No lying to her face. She thinks we just started dating. She doesn't know about the money."
"I understand."
"She's sick, Caleb. If she finds out I sold her daughter's love life for chemo money, it breaks something in her the cancer hasn't managed to break yet."
My voice cracks on chemo. I hate that he sees it. Hate that I don't have the energy to hide it from him the way I hide it from everyone else.
He doesn't say sorry. Doesn't reach for my hand. Just nods, slow, like he's actually weighing the size of what I admit.
"Then we never pretend around her," he mutters. "Whatever she sees is real. No performance in that house. Ever."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll find a reason not to that doesn't humiliate either of us." A pause. "I'm good at finding reasons. Ask Derek."
It's almost a joke. I don't laugh. Something in my chest loosens half an inch anyway.
"Fine," I breathe out. "I'll add it to the list."
I write two more lines, cramped in the margin. No PDA for family visits. Renegotiable weekly.
He watches me write instead of checking his phone. Somehow that's the strangest part of the whole morning.
"Can I ask you something," he manages.
"You're going to anyway."
"Why'd you sign it? Before you read past page one. You had it six hours."
I could lie. I've gotten good at lying about money, about hours worked, about how many nights I eat off the dollar menu. Something about our handwriting tangled on the same receipt makes the lie feel pointless.
"Because fifteen thousand was the number the oncologist gave me for the next round," I allow. "And I had four thousand saved. I was going to say yes no matter what the contract said. Saying no was never actually a choice I had."
He goes quiet a long moment.
"I'm sorry," he finally admits. Not smooth. Flat and a little rough, like it costs him something. "That you were ever in that position at all."
"Don't." I fold the receipt small enough to fit in my palm. "I don't need pity. I need you to follow the rules."
"I will."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." He stands, drops cash for coffee neither of us ordered. "That's the part I believe."
Outside, the sky's gone flat gray, the kind that means snow. Caleb walks me to the bus stop without being asked. Stands there shivering in a hoodie, having apparently left his jacket at the rink, and doesn't fill the silence with anything at all.
The bus pulls up. I climb on, find a window seat, watch him get smaller as we pull away.
He doesn't wave. Just watches until the bus turns the corner, hands in his pockets, like he's making sure I get home safe.
I don't know what to do with a version of him that watches.
My phone buzzes before we even reach the next stop.
You get home okay?
Still on the bus, Caleb.
I know. Wanted to ask anyway.
I stare at the message a long moment. Something small and warm unfolds in my chest, unwanted, unfamiliar.
I'm fine, I write back. You should go inside. It's freezing.
Going. Just wanted to know you made it out okay.
I don't answer that one. Don't know how.
The bus stops twice more before mine. I watch the doors open and close, strangers shuffling on and off, and somewhere in the middle of it I text him back after all.
Nobody's checked on me like this in a long time. Just so you know.
Get used to it, he writes back. I plan on making a habit of it.
I put the phone in my pocket and watch the city slide by, streetlights smearing gold across the window, and try not to think about how long it's been since anyone waited to know I made it home safe.
