Page 40 of Catcher

“Mom’s gonna be so fuckin’ happy,” he says instead, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

We talk about simple things after that. His job, the shop, people I used to know, who stayed, who left, and who settled into lives that look nothing like mine. He doesn’t bring up the past nor mention anything I don’t want to touch, and I appreciate that more than I can say.

It’s not long before my childhood home comes into view, frozen in time. The home I used to walk out of, thinking I had everything figured out.

My ribs seem to close in around my heart, but I don’t let it show. We pull up, and the engine cuts, letting silence settle heavy in the cab.

“You ready?” Dean asks.

No.

“Yeah.” I follow my brother up the steps and stroll inside the house.

The aroma hits me first. Mom’s cooking—butter, pepper, bacon fat, and something sweet underneath it all that I can’t place until it cracks open my ribs. Home. The radio is playing softly in the kitchen. “Blue Bayou” drifts through the air, slow and warm, wrapping around the room as Mom sings along.

We make our way into the kitchen to find Mom at the counter, her back to us, cutting biscuits and laying them into a buttered cast-iron skillet.

“Hey, Mom.” My voice is rougher than I expected.

Mom stills for a beat, then turns, and her eyes find mine. “Sweetheart…” The word is soft, full of something I don’t deserve because I’ve avoided coming home for so long.

Mom moves fast after that, crossing the kitchen and pulling me into her arms as if she’s afraid I might disappear if she doesn’t hold on tight enough. I wrap my arms around her.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to cup my face, her eyes scanning every inch of me. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.”

She smiles, bright and warm, the kind that used to fix everything when I was a kid.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

She laughs softly. “He’s out in the garage, working on that old truck like always.” She squeezes my arm. “Go on,” she says, still smiling. “Go see him.”

I nod and head through the back door, stepping out into the yard. The garage is open, and I can hear the old man before I see him—tools clinking, metal shifting, the low mutter of a man working through something with his hands. When I step inside, Dad is under the hood, grease on his hands, shoulders hunched.

“Need a hand, old man?” I say.

Dad doesn’t jump at the sound of my voice. He reaches out, palm open. “Hand me that half-inch socket over there.”

I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. Closing the distance, I stride over to his toolbox, grab the socket, and pass it to him. He finally glances up, eyes meeting mine for a second—same eyes as mine, just older, more worn, but steady.

“Good to have you home, son,” he says.

I’m not convinced being home is a good thing yet, so I say nothing. My throat is tight anyway, like the words would come out wrong if I tried.

Dad nods once, because my silence says everything it needs to. And for a few more minutes, that quiet hangs over us while we pass tools and tighten bolts, falling into something familiar without needing to talk about it.

“How’s life?” he eventually asks.

“Good.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it, but he doesn’t call me on it. He studies me for a second longer than necessary. Something in his gaze is sharper than his words. “Mm.” That’s all he says, but it lands. Because he sees it, sees me, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

My brother strolls into the garage and leans against the truck. “Mom says, ‘Wash up. Breakfast is ready.’ ”

My old man grunts, wiping his hands on a rag. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”