Page 89 of Catcher's Lock
“It’s possible Shilo had to limit his budget, or we wouldn’t have room on the stage for the slack wire setup.”
“What about the script? Josha said it’s giving mad scientist meetsWonderland? I’m guessing you’re the scientist?”
“That’s the original idea, although we’re struggling with the ending. I think everyone’s feeling the pressure of wrapping upthe last show with a meaningful arc. So far, we have Milla as the elusive unicorn, steeped in innate magic. The other performers are the hunters, desperately trying to claim her for themselves. And I, the Apothecary.” He offers me a theatrical bow. “Purveyor of potions and gadgets that bestow remarkable powers to aid these poor souls in their hunt. Alas, I am not as altruistic as I seem, and while my gifts inspire miraculous feats of wonder, none are enough to lure the perfect creature from her hidden paths.”
“And of course,” I add wryly, my gaze drifting in the direction of the shop. “You can’t catch perfection with borrowed magic. The thing you’re chasing only stops running when you meet it as your true self.”
“Indeed.” He tilts his head, dark eyes thoughtful. “I’m glad you’re back, Gemiah.” With a final pat on my arm, he pushes off the post and goes to leave.
“Oscar,” I call before I can chicken out. “Do you ever go to meetings around here?”
Turning back, he slips his hands in his pockets, the casual gesture letting me know he’s not offended by the question. “Sometimes. When we’re in town and your mom isn’t running me ragged. There’s one at the community center, but I prefer the St. Michael’s group in Fort Bragg. Better coffee.” He shakes his head as if to apologize for the joke. “You doing your ninety in ninety?”
The ninety meetings in ninety days is a big thing for the newly sober. Something about extra support and forming new habits that I admit I never paid much attention to when I was at Harmony Home. Since I couldn’t even last that long in treatment, it seemed impossible I’d ever have that level of discipline on my own. It sounds like a shitload of days, and, as Oscar alluded, sticking to a schedule like that when we’re in a new town everyweek and spending a third of our time on the road would be an extra challenge.
And I definitely plan to weasel my way onto the tour with Josha, no matter what happens with my family. I’ll live in his truck if I have to.
So I shrug. “Thinking I’ll start with one.”
Again, his smile is free of censure.
“That’s where we all start,” he says. “Let me know if you want company. Or someone to listen. Not sure I’m the advice-giving type, but I’m here if you need me.”
“Do you miss it?” I blurt, then shove my hands in my pockets and avert my gaze, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“For a long time, I did,” he says, meeting my discomfort with honesty. “But not anymore.”
“How? I mean…I get that the physical cravings go away eventually, but how did you retrain your brain? The mental part, not the chemistry.”
He doesn’t try to argue that they’re one and the same.
“I realized that I wanted a life that didn’t revolve around chasing the next fix. And then I started chasing that life instead. Eventually, the idea of risking what I’d built for a temporary high lost the last of its appeal. And now? The drugs aren’t part of who I am anymore. My history, yes, and you damn well better believe I respect the damage they can do, but the person I was when I was on them? No, I don’t miss him.”
“Thank you,” I say, real hope kindling for the first time. I already know the life I’m chasing. Now all I need to do is make my leftover parts strong enough to catch it and keep him.
Step one: Go to my first voluntary AA meeting.
Will Josha trust me with his truck again after this morning if it’s for a good cause? Probably. I finger the phone in my pocket, broadcasting my location. A better question is: Do I trust myselfloose in town with a handful of cash?
Probably not.
I could chase Oscar down, see if he was serious about chaperoning, but I’m already a little raw from our conversation, and it feels like a lot to ask when I haven’t seen him in three years—no matter how understanding he was.
Ellis has disappeared, and I idly consider climbing on stage and reacquainting myself with the Chinese pole. My ribs are on the mend—they barely twinged when I was bent over Josha’s porch railing this morning. Although that might have been because my body was distracted by other, more immediate sensations.
New first step: Research how to take a dick up the ass.
Settling onto a bench where I can keep an eye on the exit that faces the shop, I pull out my phone.
I’ve done anal before, albeit on the pitching end, so I’m not expecting the rabbit hole of warnings, advice, and how-tos—including videos—I end up falling down. Fifteen minutes in, I’m confused, mildly apprehensive, and more than a little hard.
“Are you watching porn?”
“Jesus.” I jump, flattening my phone against my chest and swiveling in my seat to find Ellis hovering behind me, a delighted grin on his face. “No.”
“No shame,” he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I can give you some good follow recs, if you want.”
“I bet.” Panic subsides to annoyance when he climbs over the back of the bench and makes himself comfortable beside me. “What are you doing?”
