Page 21 of Catcher's Lock
Oh shit. I forgot all about picking up Jeremy. No wonder Josha looks so pissed. My current state—soaked to the skin and half drunk on stolen wine, with Cassidy hanging off my arm—probably isn’t helping.
“Fuck. Sorry. Did you call him?”
“I called Hannah. She left choir practice early to go get him.”
“So…you still need a ride?”
“Not from her drunk ass.” He jerks his chin at Cassidy.
“He drank most of the bottle,” she protests, throwing me under the bus. Josha gives her one of his Merlin stares, ancient wizard eyes in a teenage face, until she shrugs and hands him the keys. “Fine. You drive, then, but I’m not standing around in the rain anymore.”
Neither of us bother to remind her that Josha only has a learner’s permit, and she retreats to the dry passenger seat of her parked Camry without waiting for a response.
“What happened to Mal?” Josha asks me, shoving the keys into his jacket pocket.
I totally didnotlose my virginity to Mallory Clark last weekend because I caught her boyfriend kissing Josha behind the library. Josha doesn’t even know I saw them. And he can kiss whoever he wants.
It’s not like I’m threatened or anything.
“She has a boyfriend. And Cassidy has a car.” Instead of heading to said car, I join him under the eaves, leaning against the white Victorian wood siding of the shop. “Sorry I was late.”
“And drunk.”
The rain trickling down the back of my collar is suddenly colder, and I suppress a shiver. “You’re mad at me.” Except it’s not anger as much as it isdisappointment, which is somehow a million times worse. I bite my lip and peek up at him through my lashes, fighting the undertow of guilt and recrimination with my fascinating new weapon.
Only because I can’t bear his disapproval. Not because I’m hunting that shy, hungry look in his eyes. Or to prove anything to Ethan fucking Carmichael, who’s obviously a douchebag and doesn’t deserve MalloryorJosha, andwho isn’t even here.
“Yes, I’m fucking mad.” But he turns his head, and a little shudder runs through him.
Triumph is a sick, guilty flush of adrenaline.
I’m not gay.
IknowI’m not. I’ve literally never looked at another guy and thought, man, I’d like to get all up in that.
But…I sort of like it when Josha looks atmethat way. Which doesn’t make sense at all, since I get plenty of that shit from girls all the fucking time. And obviouslythat’snice, because it makes me feel good and usually means I’m gonna get my dick wet.
But I don’t wantJoshato suck my dick, so it’s totally unfair to want him to be attracted to me.
None of the girls I’ve dated or fucked around with made me want to spend less time with my best friend. There’s no reason to think that him dating someone would be any different because that someone is another guy. And he already adored me before—well, not before he was gay, maybe—but before he came out to me and I started acting all weird and sort offlirtingwith him sometimes. It’s stupid to be scared that the only reason he wants to be my friend is some imaginary crush I’m not in a position to reciprocate.
He wouldn’treplaceme.
Can anyone say mommy issues?
“Still wanna make tuna mac and bingeDaredevil?” I ask, letting my head fall against the building a couple of times to try and knock some sense into it. What I really want is another bottle of wine. Somehow, when I’m drunk or high, my questionable decisions feel like a good time instead of some bizarre insecurity.
“You know you can’t be drunk at my house around Jeremy.”
Right. The unspoken rule of the Garrity household that even Rachael follows. A rule that I’m perfectly aware of but can’t seem to remember when the alcohol isright there, begging to be consumed.
“Raincheck, then?” I ask, leaning up to shake my wethair in his face in the hopes of eliciting a smile. “Sorry I fucked up our night.”
He fishes Cassidy’s keys out of his pocket and flips his cap around to protect his face from the downpour before starting across the street without a backward glance. “I’ll drop you off at the lot on the way.”
He’s not on the bus the next morning, and he doesn’t answer my increasingly wheedling texts until midafternoon. When he finally responds, it’s with a single word: “Sick.”
Now I feel even shittier about making him wait in the rain yesterday. Not that my hangover is helping. I drank another half a bottle last night after I got home, hiding from my dad in the ticket wagon, and I’ve decided red wine isn’t my drink. Maybe I should start sticking to weed like Josha usually does. “California sober,” Rachael called it, teasing him at the Homecoming after-party.
