Page 31 of Catcher

Sharp.

Hot.

Like fire dragging down my throat and settling in my chest.

I cough once.

Pop chuckles. “That’ll wake you up.”

I stare out at the sunset, the sky bleeding into hues of oranges and deep reds. And before I can stop myself, I say, “I feel like I’m betrayin’ her.” The words come out rough and unsteady.

“Guilt ain’t love,” he says after a beat. “And holdin’ onto pain doesn’t honor the dead, son. It only keeps you from livin’.”

That lands deep, taking root, and I take another drink.

The burn doesn’t hit as hard this time.

We sit there in silence as the sun dips lower, fireflies start to flicker at the edges of the yard, and the air cools just enough to breathe easier. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t just think about what I lost. I think about what could be.

It isn’t clear.

But it’s there.

And maybe, just maybe…

That’s enough for now.

8

RUBY

A few weeks have slipped by, and I’m still going through the motions. My mood, once hurt and embarrassed, has shifted to somber. A lingering weight remains in my chest, not worse, just different. Sometimes it feels as if my heart is keeping secrets from me.

It’s Friday night. Normally, I’d be wrapping up my last tutoring session of the week, counting down the minutes until I can peel off my shoes and enjoy the silence of my house. But tonight, I didn’t even make it through the full session. Halfway through our session, a wave of nausea hit me so hard my palms broke out in sweat, and my mouth filled with the metallic tang of bile. My grip on the desk tightened until my knuckles ached.

Maybe it’s just being rundown—too many late nights, too many hours, and not enough real meals. I apologized to the student and promised to make it up to him next week. On the drive home, I left the windows down even though the air was warm. My air conditioner? Still broken. I hoped the fresh breeze would help, but it didn’t.

Now I’m standing in my kitchen. The overhead light glares, and the room spins so badly I’m forced to steady myself with a trembling hand on the counter and close my eyes. A pot of chicken noodle soup simmers on the stove. It’s nothing fancy, but you can never go wrong with chicken noodle. When I was little, my mom used noodle soup as a cure-all.

As I stir the soup, my stomach churns. “You’re fine,” I mutter. “Just tired.” The words barely leave my mouth before my throat tightens. My mouth fills with saliva, a warning of what’s to come when the nausea spikes hard and fast. My body finally decides it’s done pretending. I drop the spoon onto the stove and bolt down the hall, one hand pressed over my mouth. I barely make it to the bathroom before I start to gag. I fall to my knees at the toilet just as my stomach heaves. I retch violently, the sound echoing in the small space. My body convulses as everything I’ve eaten comes back up. I’m left shaking, gasping for breath as tears stream down my face. When the nausea finally subsides, I slump back against the wall, forehead resting on the edge of the tub.

My mouth tastes terrible.

My hands tremble.

“What the hell,” I whisper.

Once I compose myself, I flush and push up on unsteady legs. I catch a glimpse of my pale reflection in the mirror, splash cool water on my face, and rinse my mouth out with mouthwash. Closing my eyes, I press my palm flat against my stomach. Seconds later, I feel another wave of nausea hit.

It fills my chest with unease.

Just a stomach bug, I tell myself. It has to be. Yet, as I switch off the bathroom light and make my way back out to the kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that my body is trying to communicate something I’m not ready to hear. I start pacing back and forth, my bare feet slapping softly on the floor, and my mind races. My breathing turns ragged as if I’m about to hyperventilate.

This isn’t a stomach bug. The thought hits like a freight train—sudden and heavy, stealing my air. I freeze, gripping the counter with one hand, pressing the other to my stomach. I will myself not to panic, but there’s no use. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat.

“No.”

“No, no, no,” I chant over and over. My brain scrambles for logic. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks. Of course, your body’s rebelling. That’s all this is. Except…” I pause mid-rant. I’ve had stomach bugs before, plenty of them. They never come with this cold dread curling in my gut.