Page 97 of Catcher's Lock

Inside

Josha

Age 24 (Now)

“Mommy and Daddy are home. Quick—act like we’re working.”

Gem stiffens beside me as we enter the tent, then relaxes when he realizes Ellis is referring tous.

“I’m not calling you ‘Mommy,’” he whispers. Then, after a moment’s consideration: “Or ‘Daddy.’”

“Don’t worry, not my kink,” I assure him. “Ellis already tried.”

He scowls adorably, shooting daggers as the other guy approaches. Ellis is cheerfully oblivious, as usual.

“You boys have fun last night?” he asks, and it’s my turn to scowl as my ears flame.

“Boundaries, Ellis,” I warn, knowing it’s pointless. Gem is practically preening, a smug smirk replacing his glare and painting his face devilish. “Show me what’s up with the sound tech.”

Two more performers have arrived since yesterday and join Ellis, Julie, and Oscar in helping with the setup.

To my surprise, and Gem’s immense satisfaction, they’ve done a pretty good job. The mixing board, amplifier, and equalizer are all laid out in the “booth”—which consists of the smaller box truck backed up to an opening in the sidewall across from the stage, with a folding table and two chairs set up on the tailgate. The cables that connect the machines to the mics and onstage speakers are neatly coiled and color coded. The only thing missing is the splitter, which we eventually find tucked in with a stack of spare stage lights.

If I have to, I can wait for Hals to run the checks, so all that’s left to do today is lay the cables down the aisle and under the stage to the various inputs. Usually, this would be a long, messy project, involving a lot of crawling through the dirt with a headlamp, but Gem makes a game of it, getting the new crew to army-crawl race in pairs. Oscar supervises the stage-side hookup, while I sit in the sound booth, trying not to micromanage and watching Gem stomp around the stage in an effort to dislodge spiders and make the competition more interesting.

Cheyenne is madly cleaning the trailer she shares with Milla and Shilo in preparation for their return, so she stays out of our hair. I’m zip-tying cords together for tape-down when she calls me in a panic.

“Babe, grab your tools and get your butt over here. I fucked up the screen door trying to wash it, and now I’m stuck standing on the steps while holding it in place so it doesn’t tear the second hinge out of the wall.”

“Go deal with her,” Gem tells me when I explain. “We got this.”

And since he apparently does, I do.

Shilo and Cheyenne’s “trailer” is actually a forty-foot luxurymotorhome with better amenities than my double-wide. Chey is sitting in the doorway with the screen door propped on an awkwardly bent knee, holding a fly swatter, when I show up with my tool bag. She sags in relief at my approach, causing the door to dip alarmingly, revealing that the top hinge has come loose.

After determining that the screws are stripped but the catch plate is mostly intact, I set to work, while she returns to the sink to finish the dishes.

“How’s he doing?” she asks over her shoulder as I rummage through my tools for an appropriately sized washer.

“He went to a meeting today.” I can’t hide the hint of pride that bleeds into my voice.

“You really think it will be different this time?”

It’s already different.

“I hope so. We’ll never know if we don’t give him a chance.”

Propping a hip on the counter and drying her hands with a dishtowel, she arches a knowing brow. “It’s already like that, huh?”

I hesitate before replying. Gem and I haven’t discussed the issue of coming out to his family since the fight our first day back. But I suck at lying, and Cheyenne is a friend—more of a surrogate big sister after mine moved away—and in a lot of ways, she understands me better than either of them ever did. I don’t want to hide my feelings from her, and she’d never buy my indifference anyway.

And he called himself my boyfriend.

“It’s always been like that,” I admit. “I tried to hate him, and I know you think I’m being stupid, but it’s like he’s a part of me, and I can’t shake him loose. You told me once that I could make being gay look like whatever I wanted—for me, it’s always looked like him.”

“Please at least tell me he knows how lucky he is to have you.”

I think about him standing in the headlights of the old truck on a deserted Sonoma County road as I tighten the second bolt.