Page 57 of Catcher's Lock
And oh, isn’t that a pretty lie?A shiver runs up his golden tan skin, and I think about stepping between his thighs and letting that shiver brush over my ribs.
“Are you gonna come home and tell Shilo and Hals, or are you planning to spend the rest of the year couch surfing?” he asks, breaking the spell.
“Geoff and his roommates do actual surfing too. You should see the layer of sand in the bathtub.”
Josha refuses to be distracted. “Geoff also went to school with us. He has family in Mendo. Even if I keep my mouth shut—which I won’t—word will get out.”
“What makes you think I care?” Which is possibly one of the least-convincing lines to ever come out of my mouth.
“C’mon, Gem. I’m not an idiot. Neither are you, no matter how much you like to fake it.”
“You’re the only one who believes that.”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his head. Sunlight throws copper highlights in the darker hair at his armpit and paints shadows along the contours of his ribs. The river’s current tugs at my calves, rocks shifting sharply under my bare feet.
“Look.” I steady myself with a hand on his knee. “How about we pretend I’m not a total fuckup for the rest of the week? We can drink all of Rachael’s beer and play Hannah’s card games, and you can make obscene amounts of spaghetti and slather me with that blue aloe crap when I get sunburned.”
“Or you could use sunscreen like a normal person, and then I wouldn’t have to listen to you bitch about how much it itches when you peel.” He shifts away from my touch, but a smile dimples the corner of his mouth, and I know he’s relenting.
“I’m pretty sure I saw a rope swing upriver on our hike down from the car. Wanna go see if it’s up to your engineeringstandards? There’ll be knots to check and impact loads to calculate and—”
“You’re an asshole.” He kicks a spray of water toward my chest.
“This is not breaking news.” I catch his foot and tug.
“I’m still gonna rat you out to your parents.” Shoving off the rock, he lands next to me with a splash.
“Now who’s the asshole?”
“But I’ll wait until the end of the week when we’re ready to go home.”
Home. Fuck.
“Fair enough.”
He leans back until the water laps over his torso, heading upstream with his face tipped to the sky. In the sunshine, his eyes are pirate-treasure gold, and diamond droplets cling to the sharp line of his jaw.
Shit, I think, now that it’s too late—now that I’m broken and buried like a shipwreck at the bottom of the flood—he’s fucking beautiful.
“I missed you,” he admits. The words float over the rippled surface and wash against my skin. The current eddies, and for a breathless moment, I can stop fighting, and the ground steadies beneath my feet.
“I guess it’s a good thing I came back, then.”
19
Bargains
Gemiah
Age 24 (Now)
Ican’t sleep.
Partly because I only managed one drink before we left the club, but mainly because the hurricane of hormones has left me ravaged and spiraling, unsure if what happened was a travesty or a triumph.
I can’t sleep, but I must doze off at some point, because the next thing I know, the ash-cold light of a San Francisco morning filters through the vertical blinds, so different from the stark sunlight of the Southwest that I’m momentarily disoriented. I swim free of half-remembered dreams—gel-crusted hair under my palm melting into softer strands, music like the beat of wings on windshields, wet, gasping kisses, and tires wicking along dark roads—to find myself alone in the shabby hotel room.
He left me.
