Page 17 of Catcher

That pushing Ruby away, cutting her down, and making sure she never looks at me like that again was the right thing.

My hands curl into fists again because I know the truth.

It isn’t about her.

It never is.

It’s about me.

Punishing myself.

I step out, dry off, and pull on my jeans, shirt, and boots like armor, putting layers between me and everything clawing at the surface. When I step out of my room, the clubhouse is already alive. Voices carry from the main room, low laughter mixed with the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation. The rich, bitter aroma of coffee, along with the food being prepared, cuts through the lingering scent of last night’s whiskey.

Everything should feel grounded, but it doesn’t. Instead, it all presses in, too loud, full, and real for where my head is at.

I don’t stop, look, or acknowledge anyone. I move straight through like a ghost, cutting across the room and heading for the door as though something is chasing me.

Maybe it is.

The second I step outside, the air hits me, heavy and thick, wrapping around me with the force of a damp, dead hand. New Orleans’ humidity clings to me instantly, settling into my skin and lungs, making every breath feel heavier than it should. I drag it in anyway, letting it fill my chest. The air carries the scent of the river, brackish and alive, mixed with diesel from passing boats, hot pavement, and something old, worn, seen too much, and keeps going anyway.

Like me.

I move around back without thinking, boots hitting gravel, the familiar path etched into muscle memory. The ladder is there, so I grab it and climb, hands rough against metal, muscles working on instinct as I haul myself up.

Up top, it’s quieter.

Not silent.

It’s never silent in this city, but quieter in a way that lets me breathe a little easier.

The Mississippi stretches out in front of me, wide and restless, its surface churning as it slaps against the bank in uneven rhythms. A tugboat groans somewhere in the distance, dragging a massive barge behind it. The low hum of its engine vibrates through the air, steady and constant, mimicking a heartbeat that doesn’t give a damn about anything else.

I drop into a worn lawn chair, the metal creaking under my weight. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a cigarette and light it, cupping the flame against the breeze before taking a long drag. The smoke hits deep, burning its way down, settling heavy in my lungs before I exhale slowly, watching it curl and twist into the thick air.

For a few minutes, I simply sit there, feeling the heat pressing against my skin, listening to the river moving, relentlessly and unforgiving, and breathing in the mix of water, fuel, and city grit.

I let it ground me.

Or at least try.

Then, I feel a presence, but I don’t turn right away.

I glance over just as Riggs drops into the chair next to mine, lighting his cigarette like he’s got nowhere else to be and all the time in the world.

I take another drag, letting the silence stretch between us.

It lingers long enough to feel intentional before he finally asks, “You good?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, my answer short, simple, loaded.

It’s a lie, and we both know it.

Riggs exhales a slow stream of smoke, tipping his head back slightly as he studies the sky before speaking again, “Ruby seems to have caught your attention.”

My whole body goes rigid at the sound of her name. My jaw tightens, shoulders locking as something sharp and defensive rises fast. “There’s nothin’ there,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I mean them to.

He doesn’t react to the edge in my voice. Just nods once, as though he expected that answer, taking another drag from his cigarette before letting the silence settle again. “Second chances don’t come around often for men like us, brother,” he says after a beat, voice low and even. “Don’t regret lettin’ it slip through your fingers.”