Page 54 of Catcher's Lock

Rocket.

His auburn hair is longer than the last time I saw him, peeking out from beneath a backward ball cap to curl around his ears. He’s wearing a faded cotton button-up, the sleeves rolled above the elbows and open down the front to expose the smooth contours of his chest. A pair of khaki shorts bunch around his thighs and sit low on his hips, exposing a strip of white elastic, andJesus fucking Christ, when have I ever paid this much attention to another guy’s clothes?

His mahogany eyes glow in the lamplight, drinking me in with that familiar thirst, but the still, shuttered set of his jaw and the tense slash of his mouth tell another story. Hannah is hugging me, and her boyfriend is shaking my hand, and Josha hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor.

Please say something.

I know I need tomove, tobeg, maybe tocrawl, but Rachael’s beer is weighing me down, and my head is starting to throb to the dull beat of my impending hangover, and now he’s shuffling the cards and looking away, and all that comes out of his mouth is: “It’s your deal, Hannah,” and I

am

so

—sorry—

defeated.

Rachael rolls her eyes and heads back outside, presumably to bring in her own bags.

“Want me to deal you in?” Hannah asks, throwing me a bone as she moves back to her spot on the couch. The boyfriend looks between me and Josha, a small furrow between his brows.

“I’m…”not staying, I almost say, but where the fuck am I gonna go? “…really tired. Is there a room I can crash in?”

“Sure. Top of the stairs on the right is empty.”

“Thanks.”I’ll do better tomorrow.

Like that ever works.

“Rise and shine, party boy.” Rachael breezes into my room the next morning and sends a stab of pain lancing through my temples.

“Go away,” I mumble, smothering my head with the pillow in case she doesn’t take the fucking hint.

“Nope.” Plopping herself on the bed, she plucks the pillow from my hands and tosses it aside. “We’re hitting the river, and you’re coming with.”

“Fuck off.” I squint a glare at her. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’ve slept enough. It’s boring. Josha is moping all over the place, and Hannah is too wrapped up in the disgusting honeymoon phase to notice. This is my spring break. I’m supposed to be getting laid and having fun, not babysitting. I dragged you up here to entertain him.” She pokes me ungently in the chest. “Well, and because I couldn’t stand to leave you passed out in your own puke. But mostly for my little brother. So get your sorry ass out of bed, turn on the infamous Farrel charm, and come to the damn river.”

I grab the pillow and retreat back behind its squishy shield.

“You’ve got the wrong guy.” Josha and I have barely spoken since last summer when Cheyenne caught us in the woods and stopped whatever might have happened in my molly-induced idiocy. I’ve been avoiding him—partly because of what he might say to me, but mostly because I’m afraid of what will spill out of my mouth if I open the floodgates on the shit show of the last few years.

“You’re theonlyguy,” Rachael retorts. Like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t make it a million times worse.

I know it’s stupid to cling to the illusion. I haven’t been the hero of his fantasies for a long time. What difference does it make if he finally sees who I really am?

His annoying sister slaps something down on my chest before bouncing off the bed. “This will help.”

Reluctantly, I lift the pillow and peer down at what she’s given me. A little bag of white powder glitters in the sun.

“Blow?”

“And it’s the good stuff, so do a couple bumps, and then I want it back.” She heads for the door. Snatching up the baggie, I scramble after her.

“I don’t want it.” The last thing I need is my brain going a mile a minute while I’m trying to shut it the fuck down.

“Of course you do.” Pausing in the doorway, she pushes my outstretched hand back against my chest and then leans in to plant an insolent kiss on my cheek. “Go take a shower. You stink.”