Page 44 of Catcher

“You remember when Dad broke his ankle trying to hang Christmas lights?” Dean suddenly asks.

I bark out a laugh before I can stop it. “He fell off the damn porch rail.”

“Still blamed me for it.”

“You were laughing instead of helping him.”

“Because it was funny.”

“He threatened to whoop your ass with the cast.”

Dean grins. “There’s my brother.”

The words land harder than they should, and I keep strumming.

The night air moves cool across my skin while something ugly and tight inside my chest loosens a fraction. Silence stretches between us except for the guitars.

Then Dean says quietly, “You don’t gotta keep punishing yourself forever, Garrett.”

Nobody calls me that anymore.

Not outside this town.

Not outside the family.

The name settles somewhere deep.

I keep my eyes on the yard because I can’t look at him right now. “I ain’t punishing myself.”

“Bullshit.”

My jaw tightens, but Dean keeps talking anyway. “You think Hannah would’ve wanted this?” he asks. “You wandering around half dead for years?”

Pain crawls sharp beneath my ribs. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“I said… don’t.”

Dean’s strumming slows but doesn’t stop. “You’re alive, man,” he says quietly. “I know some days you probably wish you weren’t, but you are.”

I stop playing. The strings hum once before fading. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Wind moves through the trees. Somewhere down the road, a dog barks. Finally, I look down at the guitar in my hands. My fingers are resting against the strings. It feels like remembering I used to be human before the world hollowed me out.

I lean against the railing, pulling a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it, the familiar burn settling something in me just enough to breathe.

Dean leans beside me, bumping his shoulder into mine. “We good?” he asks, casually.

“Yeah.” I take a drag and exhale slowly.

His brows lift. “You know you can talk to me, right? With words or with that damn guitar. Either way, I’ll listen.”

I stare out over the yard—we used to talk about everything—and let the silence settle between us. It’s heavy, weighed down by the weight of my thoughts because I can’t shake the hold my past has over Ruby or me.

Dean continues to study me for too damn long, as if he’s got me figured out. And I fucking hate that he does. I also don’t like this fucking conversation anymore.

The noise from inside drifts back out onto the porch—laughter, the clink of bottles, someone calling for my mom from the kitchen—and it pulls me back into the moment, back into the reality of where I am and why everyone is gathered.

That is why I’m here.