Page 25 of Catcher's Lock

“About you? Nothing yet.”

Am I relieved or disappointed?

“I don’t want to get their hopes up,” he continues.

Ah. Crippling shame it is. At least I’m comfortable here. “Still think I’m gonna change my mind?”

“Are you?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”Again.

He laughs, so bitter he could be a stranger. “Right. Why don’t you call them now, then? You can use my phone.”

Of course he has to call my bluff.

Do I want to talk to my parents? Eventually. Am I planning to freak out and run again? Not exactly. But for two years, my insistent idea of “home” has been completely wrapped up inhim. My brain never really ventured past theJoshaof it all.

At least that’s what I tell myself. Nothing to do with unpacking the labyrinthine layers of soft betrayal and unmet expectations that come with my role as Gem the son.

Let’s tackle one level of denial at a time, shall we?

“Honestly?” I confess, “I was kind of hoping I could stay with you for a little while. Maybe take the long way up the coast.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Well, Iwas, but delusion is the kissing cousin of denial, so I think I can be forgiven.

“Got it. No side trips, no sleepovers, and no forgiveness.”

“How about no talking?”

“Can we at least stop for some decent Tic Tacs? You know I can’t stand the spicy ones.”

I’m hoping he’ll remember, that he’ll tease me like he used to—“Mint isn’tspicy, Quill, it’s refreshing. You’re such a wimp.”—but he doesn’t take the bait, and he doesn’t stop for orange Tic Tacs, and I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the drive.

The ride to Diana’s condo takes us out of the suburbs and through the dusty fields of the San Joaquin Valley—forty-five minutes of sandy scrub and oil fields, broken occasionally by the palm tree–lined streets and Spanish tiles of some tiny town. Taft itself has the vaguely bleached-out vibe of a waitress at the end of her shift, weariness peeking through the cracks in the family-friendly facade.

By reflex, I clock the local bar as we pass down the main drag, wondering idly what kind of trouble it offers.

Nope. I’m done with that shit. No chasing demons when I’m finally giving myself the chance to live without them. Assuming I ever convince Josha to get on board.

Besides,tomorrow night will be rough enough without pushing my luck in another fight. At least I was able to score some Vicodin back at the club. The manager took one look at my busted face and my hunched posture and unveiled a veritable pharmacy before signing off on my shift.

Josha’s mom is at work, but he lets us into the ground-floor duplex apartment with a key from under the doormat and gives me a perfunctory tour. It’s a basic two-bedroom with colorlesscarpet and thrift-store furnishings, but it has a stackable washer-dryer unit that has me instantly salivating.

I toss the contents of my bags into the front-loader while Josha pokes around in the fridge.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks, and I pretend not to be checking out his ass.

“I’m easy.”

“Shocker.” He rolls his eyes, turning to face me and spoiling my view.

Although…he’s pretty droolworthy from the front, too, shirt pulled taut across his chest and corded forearms crossed below his rolled-up sleeves. How in the hell did I convince myself I wasn’t obsessed with him all those years? And more importantly, did he have to wait until he despised me to get so fuckingbuilt?

His lips twitch minutely as I clutch at my chest in mock surprise.

“Is that…actual humor I detect, Rocket?”