Page 79 of Catcher's Lock

26

Ghosts

Josha

Age 24 (Now)

My dreams are sultry, subaquatic things, all tropical blue and tangled limbs. I twist in slow currents, relearning to breathe beside owls and octopuses. The water only burns on the first inhale, and I’ve forgotten how to fear.

Far above me, pale legs dangle, grown from fiberglass underbellies. They bump and fumble with mesmerizing grace, so sturdily unlike the boneless tentacles around me.

I want to touch them.

My hand reaches, and as it flattens against the pale surface, I marvel at the dark letters wound around my fingers in a language I don’t understand.

Have those always been there? The owl can tell me. But when I turn to call the question, only darkness waits below. Black water is wrong for breathing, so I roll to pitch my face to the sky and find myself alone.

Remember how to be afraid.

The cradle-sea turns arctic, and the aurora paints a neon apology across the sky. I drift, limbs numb and increasingly clumsy, until the saltwater ache in my throat becomes chips of ice, pricking at tender flesh, andI gasp awake.

Zombie is a warm weight on my chest, vibrating with his musical purr and kneading my neck with relentless affection.

“Ouch, you little menace,” I murmur, catching his paws to stop the torture while reality swims slowly to the surface. “Go bother your real dad.” But even as the words leave my mouth, a new chill frosts through me.

Although I can count the number of times we’ve slept in the same bed on my fingers, Gem and I have spent dozens of nights sharing aroom. And not once in seven years, given the option, has our shared-custody cat chosen me as his preferred cuddle partner. Which means…

I turn my head, already knowing what I’ll find.

No Gem. Only rumpled sheets and a cold pillow.

Telling myself not to panic is pointless, but I try anyway, clutching at all the mundane reasons for him to be gone from the bed. As if I don’t know the feel of waking up to this empty trailer.

My heart pounds as I sit up, dislodging Zombie. A few chewed, soggy bits of paper cling to my chest, and I brush them off with a grimace.Lovely. I guess it’s better than the dead mole he left on my pillow last week or the half-eaten chipmunk I found with my bare foot under the covers that one time.

The little beast leaps from the bed with a hiss, affronted by my rejection of both affection and his offering, while I strain my ears for any sign of life—running water in the bathroom, a banging cupboard in the kitchen, the burble of the coffee maker.

The answering silence is horribly eloquent, and I curl around the sudden stab of nausea in my gut.

Don’tfreakoutdon’tfreakoutdon’tfreakout.

A quick scan of the room shows his saddlebags and backpack resting in the corner, and I suck in the first full breath since finding myself alone. His phone is missing from the nightstand, so I check mine for a missed call or text.

Nothing.

It’s only eight o’clock, though, and he’s never been an early riser. Maybe he fell asleep doomscrolling on the couch? Maybe he moved to one of the other beds? I try not to let the latter cut too deep, reminding myself of how he wrapped himself around me last night with his lips pressed to the back of my neck and his fingers carding idly through my hair.

It hadn’t felt like goodbye. And hepromisednot to run again without warning.

Get up andlook. You’re not going to find him by sitting here spiraling.

Ignoring the tremor in my hands, I slip from the bed and pull on a pair of sweatpants from the floor. They’re mine, but they’re the ones he wore yesterday during Cheyenne’s explosive visit, and they smell like him.And sex. Shoving down the images trying to force their way to the surface, I do a quick sweep of the trailer. By the time I confirm he’s nowhere to be found, all I can smell is my own rising panic.

My truck is gone.

His bike is still in my shed.

I don’t know what it means.