Page 12 of Catcher's Lock

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tears the beanie from his head and scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair, but he also finally kicks the door shut behind him, so I let myself sag onto the unmade bed. “Hals. Shilo. Cheyenne. Fucking Milla. She can drive now, you know. They all miss you. They all worry, and any one of them would have come in a heartbeat if you’d asked.”

So did you.

I don’t say it, but it hangs heavy in the air between us.

“You’re the only contact left in my phone,” I admit.

“You blocked your entire family?”

“Not my entire family. I kept you.” My mouth is still bleeding, and I glance around for something clean to deal with the mess. Unfortunately, even the Kleenex box on the nightstand is empty for reasons I’m not about to share, so I end up swiping my tongue over my lower lip and using the hem of my shirt to wipe my chin.

He goes completely still.

Oh yeah. I guess we didn’t get that far in our aborted kiss. I pop the barbell between my teeth with a grin and watch his pupils dilate.

“When—” He shakes his head, dispelling the moment before I have a chance to sort predator from prey. “Shilo texts you every week. You’re telling me you haven’t just been ignoring her, you never even read them?”

Well, shit. I figured she would have given up on me by now. After all, I gave up on myself a long time ago.

“Are you surprised that I’m a shitty son?”

“Cut the crap. You really don’t know anything about what’s going on with Milla? Or Big Top? That’s not why you called?”

“What’s happening with Milla? Is she okay?” I’m possibly an even shittier brother than I am a son, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love my sister.

“Do you care? Why don’t you call and ask her?” He yanks his phone from his pocket and throws it at me with more force than strictly necessary. I catch it before it makes another dent in my face. Barely.

“Tell me, Josha. Please.”

He paces the shabby room like a caged beast, taking in the stained sheets and the dresser with its mess of baggies and telltale smears of white powder. My saddlebags are draped over the single chair, my meager clothes sprawled in untidy piles because I wasn’t sure he would actually show up, so I didn’t bother to start packing.

“You’re so fucking selfish,” he groans. When I don’t argue, he tosses my bags to the floor and straddles the chair, studying me with something uncomfortably like pity. “She’s fine. Better than fine. She’s doing her second-round audition at ACCA in Vegas this week.”

“She’s leaving Big Top?” I can’t picture it. Not the golden child. It was a coup when I did it, and I was never petted or praised the way my sister was. I can’t imagine her giving that up. I can’t imagine my mom letting her.

“Why not? You did.Twice.”

She left me first.

Even in my head, it sounds childish.

“And look at me now.” I spread my arms with an ironic twist of my lips. “Crawling home with my tail between my legs.”

“Are you?” His gaze sharpens, infusing the question withreluctant urgency. “Coming home?”

I could tell him my bike is fucked, and I don’t have the money to get it out of impound, let alone pay for the repairs. That I’m tired of running—of living out of crappy motels and crashing on couches and subsisting on toxic substances and cheap diner food.

I could tell him I missed him. That I dream about him every night—the muted Mendo sun throwing copper glints in his hair and his calf bumping mine as we sit on our surfboards, waiting for the next wave, and the vibrant surprise of his uninhibited laughter.

I could tell him I’m sorry, I’m ready,I’m sure, but I’ve burned too many bridges to expect he’ll believe me. The best I can hope for is the meager chance to crawl back into his orbit and enough time to gather the fragile threads of history that bind us and weave them into something new.

“If you’ll have me.”

6

Freshmen

Josha