Page 41 of Catcher

We head inside, and the second we step through the back door, warmth hits me first. Not the kind that comes from weather, but the kind built into a home after years of meals, arguments, laughter, and people moving through the same rooms until the walls start holding onto all of it.

The kitchen is louder now.

Plates clink. Grease pops in a skillet. The radio’s low voice is still playing somewhere near the windowsill. My mom hums under her breath as she moves between the stove and the counter, like she owns every inch of the room, because she does.

She has biscuits stacked in a towel-lined basket, eggs in a big serving bowl, bacon draining on paper towels, sausage links piled high, and a skillet of gravy sitting on the back burner thick enough to stand a spoon in.

My stomach tightens before it growls. Mom hears it. She turns, one brow lifting, eyes warm and sharp at the same time. “Don’t tell me they don’t feed you in New Orleans.”

My brother snorts as he moves past me to wash his hands at the sink. “Look at him, Ma. He’s built like a damn refrigerator. Somebody’s feeding him.”

I give him a look.

He grins.

Same grin he had when we were kids, and he knew he was about to get away with something.

Mom points a butter knife at both of us. “Language at my table.”

My old man steps in behind me, still wiping grease from under his nails with the rag. “Woman, I’ve heard you cuss at that oven worse than either one of them.”

She doesn’t even glance at him. “That oven earned it.”

Dad’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close enough.

I stand there a second, watching the ease of it, the rhythm, and the way they fit around each other without thinking.

My brother reaches around Mom to grab a biscuit, and she smacks his hand with the towel so fast it cracks through the kitchen. “Sit down like you were raised with manners.”

He jerks his hand back, laughing. “Yes, ma’am.”

Something in my chest loosens. Not relief, nothing that clean, but enough to notice.

Mom’s gaze shifts back to me, softening again, and that damn softness is harder to take than anything else. “Sit, baby.”

I don’t argue, moving to the table, pulling out the same chair I used to sit in when I was younger. The wood creaks under my weight, familiar and strange all at once. My brother drops into the chair across from me. Dad takes the head of the table. Mom brings over the food as if she’s feeding an army instead of four people. Maybe she’s feeding all the years I missed too.

She sets the basket of biscuits in front of me first. “Eat.”

I pick one up and break it open. Steam rolls out, warm and buttery, and for a second, I’m a kid again, sitting here before school, half awake, Dad already smelling of motor oil, Mom rushing around with lesson plans tucked under one arm and coffee in the other.

I smear gravy over the biscuit and take a bite. Damn. I forgot what this tasted like, or maybe I made myself forget. Mom watches me too closely. I chew, swallow, and nod once. “Still good.”

Her smile breaks wide. “That’s all I get?”

I take another bite. “Damn good.”

For a few minutes, we eat. There’s no heavy talk, or ghosts dragged in and set between us.

Mom asks about the bar, and I keep it simple. I tell her it’s busy, the club keeps me working, and that New Orleans doesn’t sleep.

“That place is too wild,” she says, shaking her head as she cuts into her eggs. “I’ve seen videos.”

My brother grins. “You watching Bourbon Street videos, Ma?”

“I know how to use the internet.”

Dad grunts. “Barely.”