Page 35 of Catcher

I stare at the reminder a little too long, thumb hovering like I can press hard enough to make it disappear. The coffee suddenly tastes like ass. My chest goes tight in that familiar way, as if somebody cinched a strap around it and pulled.

I lock the phone and set it back down.

Home. That place. It’s not what it used to be, or maybe it is, and I’m the one who changed too damn much to fit back into it. Either way, going back isn’t simple. Nothing about it is.

My jaw tightens, and I push off the counter, grabbing my keys.

I don’t stand around thinking about shit I can’t change.

I finish the coffee in a few more swallows, rinse the mug, and leave it in the sink.

The apartment is quiet behind me as I head for the door.

I step out into the stairwell, the air cooler here, smelling of old wood, dust, and somebody’s stale cigarette. The building groans when I move, each step creaks under my boots like it’s complaining about carrying me again. The sound echoes in the narrow space, bouncing off painted walls, bringing me back into my body and the now.

By the time I hit the bottom, I’m already shifting gears. Whatever is in my head stays upstairs because down here, I’ve got a job to do.

I unlock the door and push into the bar. Twisted Throttle greets me the way it always does in the morning. It’s empty, still, and carrying the ghost of last night in every inch of it.

The odor hits first—beer soaked into wood and dried into the grain, bleach and lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle, old smoke clinging to curtains and corners where the light doesn’t reach, and whiskey lingers as though it never really left, sweet and sharp, like a memory you can’t scrub out. I pause just inside the door and let it settle around me, remind me who I am down here, then reach over and flip on the lights.

One by one, the place comes alive, and just like that, it’s time to get to work with wipe-downs, stock check, trash lined, and back door secured. The front stays locked until later. It’s muscle memory at this point, my hands handling it while my head stays too damn loud for its own good.

That list Riggs left sits folded in my pocket. I grab my keys from behind the bar and head out the back.

The alley reeks of damp brick and old garbage, last night’s rain already baking off in the heat. Out front, Bourbon Street is picking up with louder voices and music drifting in broken pieces between buildings.

I swing a leg over my bike and settle in, the leather creaking. The grips are cool for half a second before heat crawls into them. When I hit the ignition, the engine answers low and deep, vibration running up my arms, shaking loose some of what’s been trying to climb my throat all morning. A bike doesn’t care what you’re carrying. It just takes it with you.

I pull out into the street, easing into traffic. The morning crowd is a different breed—delivery trucks, early tourists already clutching drinks, locals moving with purpose. It’s less chaos and more momentum.

The quiet in my head doesn’t last. Thoughts crawl back in about going home tomorrow, my parents, the ghosts that sit in the back of your skull and wait for the stillness. My grip tightens on the handlebars until the leather bites.

I haven’t told them if I’m coming.

I haven’t told anyone.

Then there’s Ruby, slipping into my head like she owns the place, and my jaw locks. I twist the throttle harder than necessary and shove it down. I can’t go there.

I pull into the store lot, cut the engine, grab the folded list, and head for the entrance.

Automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss as people come and go, carts rattling, voices overlapping, that low hum of normal life.

I grip the list and run it through my head once. I’m a step from the doorway when someone slams into me hard enough to rattle my insides. Instinct kicks in before thought, my stance widens, boots planting, body bracing like I’ve done it a thousand times in darker places than a grocery store entrance.

She bounces off my chest, breath whooshing. Bags slip and plastic tears with a sharp snap. Something hits the pavement, thuds, then rolls. Her startled sound cuts quick and high.

My hands come up fast, catching her before she goes down, one arm around her waist, the other on her upper arm, and she collides with me again, soft where I’m hard, warm where I’m all edges. Her palms press to my chest as she finds her footing.

And then I look down, and time slows just enough to hit harder.

Ruby.

Her eyes go wide when she looks up at me, surprise still caught in them. It’s those same eyes I’ve been trying not to picture, and I’ve been failing. A strand of hair has come loose and stuck to her cheek in the heat, and my brain snags on it as it matters.

Something clamps down in my chest.

Too fast.