Page 96 of Catcher's Lock
The primary comfort seems drawn from the ritual of the readings and the simple sharing of space. After a while, I stop worrying about how Gem’s faring down the hall in AA and start to see the appeal of companionship without the potential for conflict. Despite, or maybe because of, our common ground, no one has a stake in anyone else’s drama, and the result is weirdly like a group therapy session without the therapist.
As a first-timer, I’m not expected to participate in the formal sharing part of the meeting, but right before the end, I’m invited to talk about why I’m here. Although posed without judgment, the question looms enormous with their eyes on me, taking up all the space in my lungs. Lulled by the casual intimacy of the setting, I’d forgotten they were strangers. Now put on the spot, I’m abruptly reminded.
I feel like an asshole, struggling for an honesty that won’t break me. Can I tell these people what I haven’t even told my family? That the thing I’ve wanted since the day I realized who I am is finally within my grasp? How do I explain that I’d do anything to stop it from melting between my fingers like it has so many times before?
“Why” strips me naked, when I’m already flayed too close to the bone by the events of the last week.
The real question, though—the more manageable one—is “Whoare you here for?” After almost an hour of listening to their stories, I know the correct answer, so I scavenge the truest version I can:
“Someday, I hope I’ll be able to say I’m here for myself. But today, all I’m trying to do is support my, um”—everything—“boyfriend?” My cheeks flame as I stumble over the word, crumpling the phone list in front of me with a nervous twitch of my hands. “He’s trying to get sober.”Why did I call him myboyfriend?He’s been my best friend for half my life—how hard would it have been to stick with that?
No one comments on my uncertainty, but my stomach continues to tumble through the chorus of “Thank you, Joshas” and the closing announcements, and I can’t escape the room fast enough after making my clumsy goodbyes.
It’s not a big deal. There’s no reason to be freaking out. Blame it on the sixteen-year-old girl with her sad eyes and the boy the same age who used to whisper“Gemiah Farrel is my boyfriend”into his pillow and feel his whole body flush at the pretend words.
The fact that I spend another fifteen minutes perched on a playground picnic table waiting for Gem to emerge from his own meeting doesn’t exactly calm my agitated state. I’m thumbing through the tracking app on my phone, half convinced he snuck out after we split up in the hallway, when a pair of jean-clad legs appears between my knees.
“Hey,” I say, searching his face for any signs of distress and finding only beauty. Tension eases from my shoulders even as my blood quickens in my veins.
“Hey.”
“How was it?” Maybe I’m not supposed to ask. What’s the etiquette for something that’s whole point is anonymity? And is he going to feel pressured to invent some life-changingrevelation? Did hehavea life-changing revelation, or was his experience as baffling as mine?
“Fine.” Sidling closer, he tips his head in a half shrug. “Good, I guess. Scary. Humbling.” He fiddles with a small token before placing it on my thigh like a gift. “They gave me a twenty-four-hour chip.”
I pick it up and turn it over in my fingers, then offer it back. “That’s good, right?”
Pocketing the metal disk, he gives another shrug, this time with a rueful quirk of his lips. “It kinda feels like a participation trophy.”
“You were hoping for MVP?” I smile to soften the sting. “I don’t think they give those to rookies.”
“I guess not.” He leans in, bracing his forearms on my knees. “How was yours?”
He smells like cedar and sunshine, and his proximity makes me as dizzy as ever.
“I called you my boyfriend. I mean, not youby name,” I hasten to explain. “I was supposed to say why I was there, and I panicked. I’m sorry. I know we haven’t discussed labels or—”
“Rocket.” He stops my rambling by placing his hand over my mouth, then trailing it down my throat along my rapid pulse. “You can call me whatever you want.”
“You’re not mad?”
He laughs, startling and genuine.
“I likeboyfriend,” he says. “It sounds real. Like you’re serious about me.”
My doomed heart lurches in my chest.
“Did you think I wasn’t?”
“Maybe you’re using me for sex?” His tone is teasing, but his eyes dart to mine and then away, betraying him. I make a small, disbelieving sound in my throat.
“Because I’m such a notorious fuckboy?” Curling my fingers through his belt loops, I tug him close enough to nuzzle into his neck. “Thank you.”
His attempted scoff becomes a groan when I kiss the pulse point below his ear, and when I whisper “I’m proud of you,” his breath catches and his hands tighten briefly on my hips.
“Then I think you should reward yourboyfriendwith a grilled chicken swiss,” he says, trying vainly to hide his pleased grin, “before you make him take you back to work.”
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