Page 24 of Catcher

As I walk back to my car, the night air is sticky and humid against my skin, and I feel emotionally drained and a tad queasy. I blame it on the muggy Louisiana heat. On a lighter note, after spending the past couple of hours with my parents, I feel hopeful. Somewhere between pot roast and quiet understanding, my parents reminded me of something important.

I’m not alone, even when I try to be.

7

CATCHER

I’m up before the sun.

Always am.

Sleep never holds me long. When it does, it brings no rest, only just enough quiet to move again.

The apartment is still dark when I step out of the shower, steam clinging to the mirrors and the walls. Water drips from my hair down my back as I drag a towel over my skin, roughly, quickly, and efficiently. No lingering.

I dress in jeans, worn boots, and a black tee, all familiar and comfortable, armor disguised as habit.

The coffee maker hums as I pass through the kitchen. It’s dark, and the bitter aroma steadies something inside me I never question. I pour it black, skip the sugar, grab a cigarette, and step onto the balcony.

The city greets me the same way it always does.

Heavy.

The air is already thick. New Orleans doesn’t wait for the heat, it lives in it. Humidity wraps around me as soon as I step outside. I lean against the railing, coffee in one hand, cigarette between my fingers, and take it all in.

The street below is not silent. A garbage truck rumbles down the block. A car rolls past, its bass low. A dog barks, then quiets.

The river is not far. I can smell it from here—mud, water, something old and steady. Diesel lingers faintly in the air, mixing with early morning heat.

I take a slow drag from the cigarette, let the smoke fill my lungs, then exhale into the thick air. The smoke curls lazily, disappearing into the morning air.

This part of the day, the quiet before the city stirs, belongs to me.

This is mine.

No noise.

No expectations.

No one needing anything from me.

Just a quiet space and enough room to breathe.

I take a sip of coffee, letting the heat settle in my chest, watching the city slowly rouse. Each day, this moment grounds me before everything else begins.

And like clockwork⁠—

She’s there.

Ruby.

It’s been weeks since that morning. Weeks since I said what I said and watched her walk out of my room like I’d broken something she didn’t know how to fix.

And still…

She hasn’t left.

Not my head.