Page 56 of Catcher's Lock
He’s gonna have guys falling all over him if he ever gets his head out of his ass and—I shut the thought down hard without poking at this new flavor of my old jealousy. Slipping back beneath the water, I slink toward the rock, hugging the river bottom until I burst upward with a splash.
It’s a kid move, something I would have donebeforeat our swimming hole off the Big River haul road. Three years ago, it would have made him laugh, throwing his head back with the vigorous abandon only I was lucky enough to witness.
Now he only scrubs a hand down his face with a sigh.
“I saw you coming,” he says, and I drag my gaze away from the long fingers skating over his Adam’s apple and try not to think about the feel of his pulse under my thumb.
“I think your sister’s a sociopath,” I blurt, and then stifle a wince.Why the fuck did I bring up Rachael?
“What are you doing here, Gem?”
“I’m freezing my ass off in this goddamn snowmelt while you sit up there all cozy in the sunshine.”
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s spring break.”
“So you decided to come home and, what? Not tell anyone except Rachael? Do you even have the same spring break at ENC?”
“Busted.” I try for a grin, shaking my head to spray him withmore cold droplets. He shoves me away with a foot to my hip.
“Knock it off.” The chill coming off him is frostier than the water swirling around my thighs.
“Fine.” I scrub at the goosebumps on my arms. Because of the cold. Nothing to do with the pit gnawing at my stomach. “Maybe I”—missed you—“was homesick.”
He snorts, and yeah, after months of avoiding all contact with anyone from Big Top, I guess that one’s a hard sell.
“Why aren’t you at school, Quill?” The soft, careful way he asks, the hint of impending pity, the nickname—all of it raises my hackles in a burst of fight-or-flight. And I’ve already tried running away.
“I got caught in the aerial gym after hours. With the dean’s daughter.Andan eight-ball of blow.”
He doesn’t even blink, and some small, tragically hopeful part of myself dies defeated.
“You got kicked out.”
“Yeah, well, it was bound to happen eventually. We all know I’m no Echo Wash.” Blame it on Rachael and her annoying stories. Blame it on my own stupid, one-sided rivalry. The name falls out of my mouth, unhinged and unprompted.NowJosha blinks, confusion furrowing his brow.
“What—”
I sink under the water, cutting him off before my flaming face betrays me. I want to explainthatrunaway train of thought about as much as I want to get into the real reason I left ENC.
I’ve met Echo Wash exactly once, but I’m pretty sure he found his way to Mendo specifically to piss me off. First, it was my mom telling me about his miraculous fucking comeback from what could have been a career-ending injury, her voice full of admiration and empathy. The rational part of my mind knows she was remembering her own battle with the pelvicfracture that grounded her for over a year when I was ten, but the larger part of me—the part that can’t forget she left me behind in pursuit of her own happiness—only heard the pride directed at one more person who isn’t me.
So sure, whatever. Another fucking brick on the pile of mommy issues I’m dragging around.
But when I went home for a week last summer, the asshole decided to get all up in my face, flashing his tattoos and his fuckboy smirk and telling me how much Josha likes having “another hot young gay guy” around, like he wasn’t draped all over Byrd while he said it.
And don’t even get me started on the idiotic fucking kiss. I know he did it to get under my skin. That it was only a game, a what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it move, before he sauntered off with hisactualboyfriend. But all I could see was Josha left standing alone, red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. The next thing I knew, I was rolling my ass off in the woods, babbling bullshit about gay chicken and chasing that fucking sound from my dreams.
Until Cheyenne showed up like a bucket of water to the face and sent me scurrying back behind my doubts.
What does it mean to be wide awake?
My limbs are going numb and my lungs are screaming, so I resurface. Josha is still perched on the rock, limned green and gold by dappled sunlight. His hair is starting to curl up at the ends as it dries, a russet halo framing sharp cheekbones dusted with freckles. The musical chatter of the river is loud enough to dampen the clamoring memories—all except the one that’s always there, whispering beneath the surface. The one that no amount of drinking or drugs or desperate hookups can completely quiet. I let myself drift closer to the rock.
“I didn’t sleep withRachael.”
“I don’t care.”
