Page 18 of Catcher

I don’t say anything.

Don’t trust myself to.

The words sit heavy between us, pressing against everything I’m trying to keep buried.

Riggs shifts slightly in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he looks out over the river. “I ain’t gonna pretend I know your demons,” he continues, his tone steady but not soft. “Or the weight you carry. Loss like that… it don’t leave a man the same.”

My grip tightens around the cigarette.

He takes another drag on his, then adds, “But I do know this. The love of a good woman, the right woman… it can pull a man back from some dark places. Give him somethin’ to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s gone.”

“That woman’s dead,” I cut in, my voice cold and detached, sharp enough to slice through anything else he might have wanted to say. The words land hard and final.

The air between us stills for a second, the weight of what I said heavy and unmovable.

Riggs turns his head slightly, studying me for a long moment. He’s not pushing back or backing off either.

Then he takes one last drag of his cigarette and crushes it into an old beer bottle sitting beside his chair, the faint hiss of it dying out loud in the quiet. “Stop tryin’ to bury yourself with her,” he says, his voice rough and real, carrying that no-bullshit edge only he can get away with. “ ’Cause all you’re doin’ is rottin’ when you’re still breathin’. And that ain’t livin’, brother, that’s just waitin’ to die.”

That hits harder than anything else he’s said.

Right where it counts.

But I don’t react.

Don’t move.

Don’t give him anything.

Because if I do, even a little, I’m not sure I’ll be able to lock it back down.

He stands after a beat, clapping a hand on my shoulder. It’s firm, grounding, a silent reminder that he’s there whether I want him to be or not. “We’re rolling out in an hour.”

Then he’s gone.

Leaving me alone.

Again.

I stare out at the river, at the tugboat still pushing forward, dragging its weight without slowing, without stopping.

And I sit there, the cigarette burning down between my fingers, the city breathing around me, the weight in my chest settling back into something familiar.

Something empty.

I sit there, feeling everything and absolutely nothing at all.

I stay up there longer than I should, long after Riggs disappears down the ladder, and my cigarette burns down to the filter between my fingers. The river keeps moving like it doesn’t give a damn about anything weighing me down. Tugboats keep pushing, water keeps churning, and the world keeps turning.

And I sit there, locked in place, letting it all press in until it dulls into something manageable.

Something quiet that I can shove back where it belongs.

Eventually, I crush out the cigarette and push to my feet. My joints feel tight, my shoulders heavier than they should be, but I ignore them.

Climbing down the ladder is automatic, boots hitting each rung with practiced ease. By the time I hit the ground, everything inside me is locked down tight again, controlled, buried deep enough that nothing shows on the surface.

Just the way I prefer it.