Page 60 of Catcher's Lock

Risking a peek, I find him picking at a loose stitch on the steering wheel, and the nervous gesture soothes some of my own agitation.

“Got any brilliant ideas?” I resist the urge to beg.

“Maybe. But don’t get too excited. I have conditions.”

“More rules?” Shifting to face him, I offer a half-hearted smile. Despite his warning, tentative hope flutters in my chest. He ignores the crippled taunt and fixes me with a stern look.

“And you’ll fucking keep them. I’ve already lied to Cheyenne about where I was going this weekend. The last time I lied to Shilo, you left me on the side of the road, and we never saw you again.Ihad to explain that to her.Ihad to live with it. I’m not doing that again.”

I flinch back from the picked-scab pain in his voice, evidence of wounds I carved and abandoned to rot.

I have my own scars from that night.

“I came back.”

“Two years later,” he scoffs. “And technically, you’re not back yet.”

“No. I mean…I came backthen. To look for you.”

You were gone.

He shakes his head, dismissing the wretched past.

“You want to hide out at my place for a few days? Ease back into things at Big Top? Fine. But no more stupid junkie shit. No alcohol. You work on getting your shit together, and you take it seriously. And we call Shilo right now and let her know what’s going on.” With a few swift stabs of his finger, he pulls up his phone app on the console interface.

And there she is, at the top of his favorites. Before Jeremy or his sisters orhis own mom.

My name isn’t even on the list.

But…he’s giving me a chance to change that. For the not-so-small price of facing all the rest. His finger hovers over the call button, and I trace the tension up his corded forearm, over the swell of his bicep and the column of his throat, to his beautiful face and the question in those coffee eyes.

How badly do you want this?

“I stay with you for a few weeks.”Badly. “Days aren’t enough.”Desperately. “Until you head out on tour.”And if you think I’m not tagging along, you’re in for a fucking surprise.

“Fine.” He hits the button.

During the twenty-three days I spent in the Bernalillo County Jail, my days were ruled by the call of the buzzer—doors up, lights out, meals, and yard time, all marked by that lurch in my gut. Anxiety and adrenaline triggered in equal measure by harsh electric bells.

Josha’s phone ringing through the truck speakers sparks the same reaction now.

“Hey, Shilo,” he says when her voice comes on the line. “I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“Gemiah?” No hesitation. Like she already knows and has been waiting for the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

And she bursts into tears.

Luckily, she’s on her way out with Milla for the next round of interviews, so I only have to keep it together for a few minutes. Then she hands me off to my dad, andhestarts crying. By the time I manage to disconnect the call, my stomach churns with a toxic cocktail of resentment and regret, and there’s an ache behind my ribs that no amount of rubbing at my chest can relieve.

They don’t ask me a single question. Not about where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing or why I left. It’s all relief and tearful laughter and fuckinglove, like they’re afraid that if they voice the recriminations simmering right below the surface, I’ll ghost again.

I guess it’s nice to know I’ve lowered their expectations to mere survival.

“Was it as bad as you thought it would be?” Josha asks into the blank space that follows the call.

No.