Page 52 of Catcher's Lock

I know exactly when it happened.

Before, the dam was holding. Maybe it was pieced together with bubble gum and duct tape, maybe it was leaking at the edges, but for the most part, I was keeping the flood at bay.

And then I had to go and jerk off in front of Josha in the San Francisco Airport Radisson like I was some benevolent god blessing a devoted acolyte instead of a manipulative asshole chasing one last thrill.

It wasn’t the way he watched me—coffee eyes glinting gold in the lamplight and hot enough to scald.

It wasn’t the way my blood burned under his attention or the way he held himself so still, fighting his reaction like a hummingbird trapped in my hand, all invisible vibration and racing pulse.

It was the way he curled into the mattress at the end, undone and untouched.

It was the sound he made.

The helpless, shuddering cry he tried to muffle in the sheets. It hit me harder than the lightning-strike orgasm—one of the best I’d ever had, curling my toes and leaving me wrecked and gasping.

That sound settled into the cracks in the dam and fuckingdetonated, loosing the flood.

I’ve been struggling to hold my head above water ever since, and every time I break the surface,that soundis there, driving me back into the rapids.

The first year at ENC wasn’t so bad. New people to charm. New classes to push my body to its limits. New bars and clubs and women to provide restless escape. Best of all, no family to poke holes in my cocky facade with well-meaning concern or pseudo-encouragement. I’d made the right choice, and I told myself I wasn’t lonely.

And then I’d wake up from some half-remembered dream, sweat-tangled and sticky in my narrow dorm bed, with Josha’s strangled cry echoing in my ears.

Okay, maybe I’m not totally straight. Maybe I’m bi—and wouldn’t my mom have a fucking field day with that revelation—but no big deal. Three-quarters of the student body and at least half the staff identified somewhere on the rainbow alphabet. So I let one of the trapeze guys drag me into the back room at a party to see if I could learn to ride the current.

“Do you like it?” he asked me, and “Does this feel good?” But even with his freckles and his corded muscles and his sharp, crooked smile—even though a hand job is a hand job, and his fingers were firm and confident—the answer wasno.He had his other hand working his own erection, and some sick curiositykept me watching until he came—with a basic, unsexy grunt— and then I pushed him off me and did shots in the kitchen until I blacked out.

So. Not bi. Just a narcissist with an unhealthy obsession, determined to alienate my best friend. Better to stay away from him. Maybe it wasn’t too late to learn to swim on my own.

Turns out, I suck at swimming. The last year was nothing but a rush toward oblivion—a bruising tumble to the sea, with another wave waiting to knock me loose every time I tried to get solid ground beneath my feet. Not that I tried very hard.

Everything was exhausting. I’d procrastinate my assignments until the anxiety sent me spiraling into a bottle, and then I’d show up late for classes, unprepared and dragging ass. My coaches were losing patience with me, each fumbled combo or half-assed paper confirming the inevitable realization that I was a waste of resources, a lost cause, a mistake.

I sat in offices and empty classrooms with instructors, counselors, my program director, and they all asked the same questions:

“Are you happy with your training?”

“What are your plans for the future?”

“How can we help you get back on track?”

“What do you want, Gemiah?”

What do I want?

Having absolutely no idea how to answerthatquestion, I eventually wash up here, passed out next to an empty bottle on a frat boy’s couch in San Francisco, with Rachael Garrity’s voice dragging me to the surface.

“How long has he been here?”

“Farrel? We found him sleeping in the Market Street BART station three nights ago. I don’t think he’d been there that long, though—he still had his wallet.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I mumble without opening my eyes.

“Has he been like this the whole time?” Rachael asks. Whatever the fuckthatmeans.

“More or less. You know his folks, right? Do you think we should call them?”

“I can hear you, dickhead.” I swipe a hand at what I think is Rachael’s leg. Unless Geoffrey Callahan has started wearing purple flowered fishnets. “Don’t call my mom.”