Page 107 of Catcher's Lock
35
Even
Gemiah
Age 24 (Now)
Tunnel vision.
As a concept, I’m intimately familiar. For years, it’s been a state I associate with self-destruction—the unrelenting drive to find the next fix, the next fight, the next not-Josha to save from the doppelgängers of my worst self. Sometimes, it’s not a metaphor—I’ve spent more nights than I can count staring down the barrel of overdose while the world narrows and blackens at the corners.
Call it focused delusion.
Call it another flavor of denial.
Today, it’s my salvation.
Because the catalyst of so many of my regrets is standing in the kitchen, and all I can see is the man walking toward me.
“What do you need?” he murmurs, bringing his forehead to mine as his hand comes up to anchor me at the back of my neck. “Do you want me to stay?”
Fuckingalways.
The impulse to cling to him, to shield myself with his solid body and steady, selfless heart, thrums in every pore. No part of me wants to tackle this confrontation on my own.
Which is exactly why I need to do just that.
These are childhood fears and unworthy resentments, and it’s time I stopped carrying them around. This is what it takes to be a hero in our story instead of a villain or a victim.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him. “But I wouldn’t turn down a good-luck kiss.”
He doesn’t hesitate, and now the whole world narrows further, until it’s nothing but his warm lips giving comfort to mine.
We’ve shared a myriad of kisses in the last week—from hateful to hungry to heavenly sweet. This one tastes like a promise.
“I’m going to go work on Bonnie,” he says when we pull apart. “I’ll have my phone if you need me.” His hand coasts over my head in a lingering caress, and then he heads into the bedroom to finish dressing, while I square my shoulders and make my way to the kitchen.
My mom is pacing the short distance between the small table and the door, mouth moving in silent conversation, but she stops short at my entrance. Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she drinks me in, and my own prickle in response.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, baby.”
The endearment is unexpected and hits hard, conjuring a flood of complicated emotions that strip my lingering defenses and leave me blinking back boyhood tears.
“Can I hug you?”
I nod, and she wraps her arms around me. After a second, mine come up to return the embrace, and I bury my nose in her hair. How can she feel so small and so strong at the same time? Her homespun scents assault me—sawdust and lavender soapand something subtle that reminds me of fireflies and stories on the porch swing at the Italian farmhouse.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but I’m not thinking of the last few years. I’m remembering the day she moved back to Big Top, Milla and Cheyenne in tow, and how in my teenage hurt and anger, I hid from her at Josha’s for almost a week.
Are we even now?
Does forgiveness always wait on the other side of shame? Or am I just a lucky asshole?
She lets me go in stages—running her hands over my shorn hair, turning my wrists to examine the apologies woven through the aquatic murals on my arms, squeezing my hands as she drags me to sit beside her at the table in the flimsy thrift-store chairs. I manage not to flinch when I lower myself onto the hard seat, but I make a mental note to get Josha to buy some cushions if he’s going to keep rocking me to sleep with his cock in my ass. He’ll thank me when it’s his turn to take mine.
The man in question enters while we’re still searching for words, his eyes assessing, and a tiny smile tilts his lips at the sight of our clasped hands. After snagging a maté from the fridge, he heads out into the yard, teasing his fingers over the back of my neck in another one of those featherlight caresses as he passes.
