Page 18 of Catcher's Lock
He breaks first, popping a few of my wintergreen Tic Tacs in his mouth and making a face before leaning his head against thewindow and turning to face me.
“Tell me about the new show. What did the folks come up with this year?”
At least this wound is fresh, not festering beneath tender scars.
“It’s called ‘Apothecurious.’”
“Like, apothecary?”
“Yeah. Very mad scientist meetsAlice in Wonderland. It’s kind of dark.” I risk a glance his way. “Shilo was in a mood when she came up with it.”
“And let me guess—Milla is the Alice. Some shining star of purity amid the Frankenstein monsters.”
It’s eerie how quickly he grasps the essence of the show, even if his words are laced with bitterness. He’s always been like this—able to tease out the subtle threads of the story behind the magic with lightning acuity. Shilo tried for ages to engage him in the crafting phase, but he remained oblivious to the depths of his own brilliance, instead stubbornly clinging to his self-imposed battles and his jealousy.
It didn’t help that Milla was born to be on stage. Or that her charisma isn’t the type to leave scorched earth and rubble in its wake.
The goddamn impound lot is closed.
I jiggle the handle anyway, then peer through the dark glass door, while Gem scrapes a hand over the stubble on his head and kicks at the decorative shrubbery lining the sidewalk.
“Fuck.”
“You couldn’t check the hours beforewe drove all the way out here?” I grumble. BeforeIdrove all the way out here.
“It’s fucking three thirty in the afternoon. Who the fuck closes this early?”
“Government offices on a Friday.” The sign in the window says we missed them by half an hour. And that they reopen at 9 a.m. Monday. I follow him around the side of the building, where he eyes the chain-link fence like he’s weighing the odds of making it over the top, busted rib and all.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got bolt cutters in that fancy cross-bed toolbox of yours.”
I do, and for a lunatic second, I’m tempted. Solely because it would mean getting the fuck out of here rather than spending the weekend trapped in Bakersfield with him. Definitely not because any part of me has missed the adrenaline of his crazy schemes.
Except there are two cameras watching us, and I’m notthatdesperate to get on the road. “Sorry. You might be perfectly comfortable spending another night in jail, but that’s not what I signed up for.”
“Right.” He leans his forehead against the fence and threads his fingers through the links, curling them until his scabbed knuckles split and bleed. “I guess…I probably deserve to lose her anyway.” He turns his head to give me a wan smile, crooked with defeat.
Shit. I was ready to tell him I was leaving—that he could ditch the bike or stay here and figure it out on his own—but having him look at me like that’s exactly what he’s expecting? Like he’s not worth helping, and he doesn’t even blame me?
Turns out I can’t handle that any better when I hate him than I could when I didn’t.
“Look.” I fish my phone out of my pocket and shoot off a quick text. “You don’t have to abandon your motorcycle. Wecan crash at my mom’s for the weekend and pick it up on the way out of town.”
“Diana? She’s in Bakersfield?”
“A lot can happen in two years, Farrel.”
“Sure, but—”
“But what? You think because I stayed at Big Top, my life is exactly the same?” I whirl away and start back toward the truck. “My dad died. Jeremy got into UC Santa Barbara, and my mom moved down here to be closer to him.”I guess when her last kid was leaving, she finally remembered she was a mom. “She has a duplex in Taft and works in-home hospice. She keeps a room for Jeremy, but he’s hardly ever there.”
“Yourdad died?”
“I already let her know we were coming.” On the second try, the key fob chirps, and I yank open the door.
“Rocket—”
“Stop calling me that.” I glare at him through the cab before climbing behind the wheel with an impatient shake of my head. “Get in the damn truck.”
