Chapter 5
Reunion
Gemiah
“You got…big.”
When I left, he was still a boy. Taller than me, sure, because that’s always been true, but leaner. Young. Precious. The ghost I’ve been chasing never had those shoulders or those thick thighs straining in his faded jeans.
The man standing in the doorway of my crappy motel room has biceps underneath the rolled sleeves of his flannel and russet stubble coating his sharp jaw.
Josha Garrity has stopped waiting and grown the fuck up.
And…
He hates me. He doesn’t even flinch at the bruises on my face or the scabbed split in my eyebrow.
“You got tattoos.” His gaze skims dismissively over my ink, brushes the dark shadow of my close-cropped hair, before coming to rest on mine.
I used to think his eyes were like cocoa, comforting and warm.
Or fresh coffee to lift me up when the world was pinning me down.
Now they burn bitter and cold. I shove my hands in my pockets and try for a smile.
“Gotta have ink to survive in prison.”
“I thought Hals bailed you out.” Even his voice is different. Rougher. Scraping at my insides where it used to soothe. Goosebumps erupt on my arms because, apparently, I’m a masochist now.
“The first time.”
“Why’d you call, Farrel?”
Ouch.
Not “Gem.” Not “Quill.” My last name. Like a scolding.
Or a stranger.
But…
He came.
“You came.”
He cuts his eyes to the ceiling and scrubs a hand over his face as if praying for patience. The gesture is so abruptly familiar my lungs ache, and I clutch at the wall to keep from keeling over.
How many times have we danced these steps? I fuck up, and he puts me back together, a million little rescues in bathrooms and back seats, all adding up to something monumental.
Heroic.
Until I scattered the pieces too messily and let the edges grow too sharp for even a hero to pick up.
It’s a fucking miracle he’s here.
Close enough to smell the loamy forest of my childhood under the sweat and coffee of seven hours on the road. Close enough to draw the cords of my wretched longing tight until they snap, sending me falling inevitably, idiotically, through the space between us.
Alarm rings from every line of his body, but I ignore it because he is my haunting, and I am the hungry grave, and—
He belongs—
I belong—
Here.
Here is his pulse under my palm as I wrap my hand around his neck.
Here are his lips parting under mine with a startled rush of breath.
Here is his tongue, his tongue, his tongue, and it is relief and reunion, and I am fucking buried.
It’s hungry and hostile and the hottest, most apocalyptic kiss of my entire life.
Right up until he hauls back and punches me in my delusional mouth.
I stagger back, swiping at the fresh cut with the back of my wrist under the heat of his glare.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I mean…obviously?
I will my trembling to subside, dragging the fractured, pitiful dregs of my armor back into place as I spit my mouthful of blood onto the already dismal carpet.
“Sorry about that, Garrity. Guess it was a slip of the tongue.”
“You’re not funny.” His rage rolls off him like a tangible thing, glass-sharp and wounding. Unblunted by the hurt and shame that coated him last time.
I am not forgiven.
“You know what? Fuck this. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He whirls to the open door, and I take an involuntary step toward him.
“Wait. Shit. I really do need”—you—“your help.”
His head thunks against the frame, shoulders stiff with tension, and the next words are quiet, almost pleading. “Why me?”
And isn’t that the million-dollar question.
Because it’s always been you. Because I wanted to see if you’d come.
But I’m not sure my face can take any more abuse today, so I wisely keep that nugget to myself and offer a gentler truth.
“Who else would I call?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He tears the beanie from his head and scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair, but he also finally kicks the door shut behind him, so I let myself sag onto the unmade bed.
“Hals. Shilo. Cheyenne. Fucking Milla. She can drive now, you know. They all miss you. They all worry, and any one of them would have come in a heartbeat if you’d asked. ”
So did you.
I don’t say it, but it hangs heavy in the air between us.
“You’re the only contact left in my phone,” I admit.
“You blocked your entire family?”
“Not my entire family. I kept you.” My mouth is still bleeding, and I glance around for something clean to deal with the mess.
Unfortunately, even the Kleenex box on the nightstand is empty for reasons I’m not about to share, so I end up swiping my tongue over my lower lip and using the hem of my shirt to wipe my chin.
He goes completely still.
Oh yeah. I guess we didn’t get that far in our aborted kiss. I pop the barbell between my teeth with a grin and watch his pupils dilate.
“When—” He shakes his head, dispelling the moment before I have a chance to sort predator from prey. “Shilo texts you every week. You’re telling me you haven’t just been ignoring her, you never even read them?”
Well, shit. I figured she would have given up on me by now. After all, I gave up on myself a long time ago.
“Are you surprised that I’m a shitty son?”
“Cut the crap. You really don’t know anything about what’s going on with Milla? Or Big Top? That’s not why you called?”
“What’s happening with Milla? Is she okay?” I’m possibly an even shittier brother than I am a son, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love my sister.
“Do you care? Why don’t you call and ask her?” He yanks his phone from his pocket and throws it at me with more force than strictly necessary. I catch it before it makes another dent in my face. Barely.
“Tell me, Josha. Please.”
He paces the shabby room like a caged beast, taking in the stained sheets and the dresser with its mess of baggies and telltale smears of white powder.
My saddlebags are draped over the single chair, my meager clothes sprawled in untidy piles because I wasn’t sure he would actually show up, so I didn’t bother to start packing.
“You’re so fucking selfish,” he groans. When I don’t argue, he tosses my bags to the floor and straddles the chair, studying me with something uncomfortably like pity. “She’s fine. Better than fine. She’s doing her second-round audition at ACCA in Vegas this week.”
“She’s leaving Big Top?” I can’t picture it. Not the golden child. It was a coup when I did it, and I was never petted or praised the way my sister was. I can’t imagine her giving that up. I can’t imagine my mom letting her.
“Why not? You did. Twice.”
She left me first.
Even in my head, it sounds childish.
“And look at me now.” I spread my arms with an ironic twist of my lips. “Crawling home with my tail between my legs.”
“Are you?” His gaze sharpens, infusing the question with reluctant urgency. “Coming home?”
I could tell him my bike is fucked, and I don’t have the money to get it out of impound, let alone pay for the repairs. That I’m tired of running—of living out of crappy motels and crashing on couches and subsisting on toxic substances and cheap diner food.
I could tell him I missed him. That I dream about him every night—the muted Mendo sun throwing copper glints in his hair and his calf bumping mine as we sit on our surfboards, waiting for the next wave, and the vibrant surprise of his uninhibited laughter.
I could tell him I’m sorry, I’m ready, I’m sure, but I’ve burned too many bridges to expect he’ll believe me. The best I can hope for is the meager chance to crawl back into his orbit and enough time to gather the fragile threads of history that bind us and weave them into something new.
“If you’ll have me.”