Page 81 of Catcher

I lean forward, elbows resting carefully on the edge of the bed, head bowed over our joined hands. “I don’t know how to fix all the wrongs,” I say. “But I’ll make them right somehow.” I lift my head enough to look at her face, bruises and all, and keep talking because she deserves the whole truth, even if she sleeps through it. “I’m done actin’ like wantin’ somethin’ means I get to punish it for scarin’ me. I’m done pretendin’. Pushin’ you away was protection when really it was fear with my fists around its throat. That ends here.” I don’t know if that sounds like a promise or a prayer. Maybe right now they’re the same damn thing.

The monitor keeps beeping.

Ruby keeps breathing.

Outside the room, the world keeps moving.

But here, for the first time in a long damn time, I stop fighting the truth. I’m not dead. I’m not done. And the life I thought was over might be right in front of me—bruised, breathing, carrying my child, waiting to see if I’m man enough to stop running from it.

If I am finally strong enough to stay, to be more than the wreckage I came from.

20

RUBY

It’s the pain that wakes me up with an ache deep at the base of my skull.

For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what day it is, or why my tongue feels too big for my mouth. I try to swallow and wince when the motion sends a sharp throb behind my eyes. My eyelids feel heavy, and when I force them open, I’m greeted by a harsh white light. I blink again, slower, letting the world come into focus piece by piece—white walls, a pale blue and green striped curtain, half drawn along a ceiling track. There’s a monitor to my left with a steady beep, and a narrow window with the blinds pulled back letting sunlight filter in. The air smells like antiseptic.

I try to shift my body, but the movement pulls at something in my arm. I look down, and my stomach dips. A clear tube disappears into the crook of my elbow under a square of tape, the IV line looping up to a bag hanging from a pole. The tape is tight, the skin beneath is slightly irritated, and when I try to flex my fingers, my whole forearm feels bruised from the inside out.

I stare at the IV in confusion, then the hospital bed and white sheets tucked too tightly around my legs, the blanket thin and scratchy. There’s a call button clipped to the bed rail near my hip and a television remote with worn icons. The low hush of voices talking draws my attention to the television, where the local news is playing.

I go to move again, but my ribs complain, and my right hip screams in pain. My throat is raw and scratchy. My scalp hurts when I touch it, and when my fingertips graze the back of my head, I feel the tenderness of a knot under my hair. I turn my head to the right, and the room starts to spin, forcing my eyes to close. I steady myself with slow, even breaths.

Once I get the dizziness under control, I slowly open my eyes once again. That’s when I see him. Catcher. He sits slumped but somehow still takes up too much space in the hospital chair, legs stretched out in front of him, and boots planted wide. His arms are crossed over his chest, forearms roped with muscle and inked with tattoos that disappear under the short sleeves of his shirt. Even asleep, he looks built for impact, broad shoulders filling the back of the chair, and his jaw set in stone. His eyes are closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, and for a moment, I forget the ache in my head. Looking at him does something stupid to my heart. The man is gorgeous even when he sleeps.

The hospital room is quiet enough that I can hear my own pulse in my ears, and I hate how relieved I feel seeing him here with me. Then my focus sharpens when I notice something is off. The bruising along his cheekbone is already deepening into a violent purple, swelling pushing one eye a little smaller than the other. There’s a split at the corner of his mouth and several scratches across his left cheek. And just like that, my memory comes flooding back—the parking lot, the unease I felt walking out of the school, Catcher nowhere in sight. How I ignored my intuition and didn’t turn back, and how I was tackled to the ground.

I remember the roughness of fabric, the stink of sweat and cigarettes, the weight of someone on my back just before they slammed my head against the asphalt. I remember how I tried to cry out for help just before my world turned black.

The memory hits so hard my stomach rolls. My fingers tighten on the sheet until my knuckles ache, and a sound slips out of me—half gasp, half whimper—before I can swallow it back. The monitor to my left quickens its restless numbers, as if it’s tattling.

Catcher stirs at the noise. His head tips forward a fraction, then lifts. The chair creaks when he uncrosses his arms, and for a second, he looks disoriented, caught between sleep and whatever nightmare he’s been sitting with. He scrubs a hand over his face and winces, the bruised cheek tugging tight under his palm.

Our eyes meet, his gaze holding me hostage, yet somehow grounding me. I try to speak, but my throat feels like sandpaper. All I manage is a broken little inhale. His eyes stay locked on mine, and the air in the room feels thick, like something invisible shifts and settles between us. I can’t explain it, not with my head pounding and my tongue too thick, but I feel it anyway. Whatever we were before this moment, whatever lines we pretended existed, they don’t sit in the same place anymore.

After what feels like forever, Catcher opens his mouth and says one word, “Ruby.”

My breath catches in my throat. I’ve never heard him speak so tenderly. His dark eyes hold mine, and for a split second, I wonder if our baby will have his eyes. Then it hits me. My baby! On instinct, my hand goes to my stomach, and a terror as I have never felt before washes over me.

The legs of the chair scrape across the floor, and a beat later, Catcher is at my bedside. His callused palm cups my cheek. His touch instantly calms me. “The baby is okay,” he says.

I close my eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Thank God. Everything is fine. My baby is fine. On that thought, my body relaxes against the bed, but it doesn’t take long for it to hit me. He said, ‘The baby is okay.’

My head snaps back toward Catcher, whose hand is still touching my face. “W-what did you say?” For a second, I’m convinced I heard him wrong. My brain is having trouble computing a rational thought, and my memories, so maybe my ears are doing the same thing. Maybe he said something else, something that only sounded like baby through the ringing in my head. Because Catcher can’t know, he can’t. I have kept this secret locked away. I’ve only told the girls, and there is no way they would betray my trust. Not ever.

My pulse starts to hammer, not just in my chest but in the spot behind my eyes that already hurts. I swallow against the lump in my throat and force the words out anyway.

Catcher’s hand doesn’t leave my cheek. His thumb shifts once, so gently I can’t help but lean into it. His gaze flicks down to my mouth, my chin, the IV line, and then back to my eyes, steady as an anchor. “I know you’re pregnant,” he says quietly.

The room seems to spin again, but this time it isn’t. But the floor is dropping out from under me. Heat rushes to my face, then drains away so fast I feel cold all the way down to my bones. My hand stays pressed to my stomach attempting to shield the truth with my palm. “I… we… you… you don’t. I didn’t…” I stop fighting for the words. “I meant to tell you.”

“You didn’t,” Catcher agrees. There’s no accusation in it. Just a fact. “And I understand why.”

“Then how?” I ask.

“The doctor did.”