Page 87 of The Catch

Cat swallowed hard. She had a sense of this by the way he’d shut down in that parking lot, seemingly accepting that their time was over, and there was nothing either of them could do to change it.

“What I’m saying is, Cat, if you really love him, I think it might be good for you to stay. Don’t let him be right this time.”

“He’s not right.”

“Good. His ego doesn’t need it.” He laughed, but it quickly petered out into a sad little shake of his head. “You should hear the way he talks about you. Like you’re this amazing gift someone left on his doorstep. I’ve known him for a long time, and I’ve never seen him like that.”

“He was a few firsts for me too,” Cat choked out. She wasn’t trying to hold it in anymore. Her tears fell freely down her face, and the sight seemed to steal all of the confidence that Dylan usually carried around, leaving him squirming in his chair.

He took a deep breath, letting it out as he leaned over his knees. “You know, we don’t have to go get his car today,” he said with a tone of conspiracy. Cat looked up at him to see a smirk on his lips, his eyes empathetic. “In fact, I just remembered I have a pretty full day.”

Cat opened her mouth to reply, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t let her. She simply blinked away a few more tears, then nodded silently.

Dylan stood. “I should go,” he said, squeezing her shoulder as he passed. “You don’t have to tell him I came by. I’ll catch up with him. And Cat?”

“Yeah?” She turned over her shoulder to watch him from her spot on the couch.

“The other thing about Josh is he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. He might say he doesn’t want to, like going on that trip to the beach. He might even put up a fuss, but if he’s letting you take care of him, it’s because he wants you here.”

She smiled through her tears. That was all she needed to hear.

Thirty-six

Josh couldn’t keep track ofthe hours passing. One minute it was daylight, and the next, he woke up in a pitch-dark room, wondering when he’d fallen asleep again. Cat was beside him last he remembered. She’d come in at some point to hand him some pills and run a cold washcloth over his head. Unless that was some sort of cruel fever hallucination.

No. The cloth was still there on the pillow beside him.

He had a splitting headache, probably from dehydration, he assumed, since his sheets were marked with sweat like a chalk outline at a crime scene. He turned over his shoulder and looked at the clock. Eight p.m. His body was beginning to run on six-hour cycles now, stirring him back to life when it was time for another dose of medicine, and like clockwork, his chest began to ache along with his head.

Also like clockwork, Cat appeared where his door was left ajar, a silhouette against the light of the hallway.

“Are you awake?” she asked, her voice just loud enough to reach him over the silent, dark ocean of space between them.

“Yeah. Come in.”

“I brought your medicine.” She set the pills on his nightstand, along with a glass of water, and began untwisting the sheets from his legs.

“What smells so good?” he asked when he’d dragged himself up to a half-sitting position and reached for the pills. The scent of spices and garlic wafted through his door, and his stomach responded with a painful growl.

“A Mexican soup. It’s for colds and flu, so it should help your chest feel better and give you some energy.”

“Is it going to set my stomach on fire?” he asked, wiping at his damp brow.

“No. It’s very mild.”

She looked up at him once she’d straightened the sheet and tucked it back into the foot of the mattress. God, she was pretty. Even in his t-shirt, two sizes too big for her, her hair wild from air drying. He’d looked at her a thousand times, but her face still set something aflight inside of him. He lassoed it down with a picture of the bartender’s face instead, his lips pressed against her temple. Then her friends’ faces when Dani had spilled her secret, their pitied expressions, though none looked entirely surprised.

Cat picked up the washcloth and brought it into the bathroom, running it under the faucet. When she returned, she folded the cloth and pressed it to his forehead, then the back of his neck. Despite himself, he let her.

“The soup is ready. Do you want me to bring it in here or do you feel like a change of scenery?”

She wasn’t asking anymore, but for the first time since he’d been home, he did actually feel like eating. “I could stretch my legs,” he said, then remembering he’d stripped down to his boxer briefs, he paused. “Just… give me a minute.”

The television was on when he finally emerged from his cave, dressed in sweatpants and a thick henley. “Baby It’s Cold Outside”serenaded him from the screen on his way into the kitchen.

“What are you watching?”

Cat stood at his stove, stirring a large pot, and she answered with a smile that hit him right in the chest. “Elf.”

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