Chapter 7
CATCHER
I’m up before the sun.
Always am.
Sleep never holds me long. When it does, it brings no rest, only just enough quiet to move again.
The apartment is still dark when I step out of the shower, steam clinging to the mirrors and the walls. Water drips from my hair down my back as I drag a towel over my skin, roughly, quickly, and efficiently. No lingering.
I dress in jeans, worn boots, and a black tee, all familiar and comfortable, armor disguised as habit.
The coffee maker hums as I pass through the kitchen. It’s dark, and the bitter aroma steadies something inside me I never question. I pour it black, skip the sugar, grab a cigarette, and step onto the balcony.
The city greets me the same way it always does.
Heavy.
The air is already thick. New Orleans doesn’t wait for the heat, it lives in it. Humidity wraps around me as soon as I step outside. I lean against the railing, coffee in one hand, cigarette between my fingers, and take it all in.
The street below is not silent. A garbage truck rumbles down the block. A car rolls past, its bass low. A dog barks, then quiets.
The river is not far. I can smell it from here—mud, water, something old and steady. Diesel lingers faintly in the air, mixing with early morning heat.
I take a slow drag from the cigarette, let the smoke fill my lungs, then exhale into the thick air. The smoke curls lazily, disappearing into the morning air.
This part of the day, the quiet before the city stirs, belongs to me.
This is mine.
No noise.
No expectations.
No one needing anything from me.
Just a quiet space and enough room to breathe.
I take a sip of coffee, letting the heat settle in my chest, watching the city slowly rouse. Each day, this moment grounds me before everything else begins.
And like clockwork—
She’s there.
Ruby.
It’s been weeks since that morning. Weeks since I said what I said and watched her walk out of my room like I’d broken something she didn’t know how to fix.
And still…
She hasn’t left.
Not my head.
Not my skin.
Not the space somewhere deep in my chest, but I don’t let myself look at it too closely.
I don’t think about her all the time.
I’m not that far gone.
But in the quiet moments, she’s there. Slipping in without permission.
I take another drag, my jaw tight. What I feel isn’t real, but she lingers, unfinished and unnamed.
My phone buzzes in my hand before the thought can go any further. I glance down, and something in my chest shifts. “Ma.” The word leaves me under my breath before I even hit accept.
FaceTime.
Of course it is.
I swipe and lift the phone, and her face fills the screen. And just like that, everything else fades.
She’s sitting on the porch swing, as she always does in the morning. Small frame, wrapped in one of Dad’s old flannels, long gray hair pulled loose over one shoulder. The early light catches it, softening the silver into something warm.
Her eyes—those same blue eyes I’ve had my whole life—crinkle at the corners when she smiles. Soft lines, soft everything, but strong. “Morning, sweetheart.” Her voice hits me the same way it always does. Grounding.
I lean back against the railing, cigarette between my fingers, coffee in the other hand, and let myself breathe a little easier. “Morning, Ma.”
“You’re up early,” she says, though we both know I always am.
“So are you.”
She smiles like that’s obvious. “Best part of the day.”
I glance past her through the screen, catching a glimpse of the yard. The porch I grew up on. The same swing she’s sat on every morning for years.
“How you doin’?” I ask.
“I’m well,” she says, and I believe her.
A loud clang echoes somewhere behind her, followed by…
“Goddammit!”
Mom turns her head slightly, eyes lighting with something amused. “Your father is fixing the hinge on the screen door.”
Another loud bang is followed by more cussing.
Mom presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, but it slips out anyway, soft, warm, and familiar. “Want me to help you?” she calls over her shoulder.
“I don’t need help!” he grumbles back, followed by, “Where’s the other damn screw?”
A second later, he steps into view behind her, holding a screwdriver and leaning in close to Mom. “You just sittin’ there lookin’ pretty is distractin’ me,” he mutters.
I snort quietly, watching as he presses a kiss to her temple.
Something in my chest flips, quick and unexpected, a pang sharp enough to cut. I don’t know what to do with it, so I let it settle, quiet but persistent.
It’s sharp.
Unwelcome.
Ruby flashes through my head before I can stop it.
“You all right, baby?” Mom pulls me back.
I blink, focusing on her again. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m good, Ma.”
It’s a lie.
She knows it.
I know she knows it.
But she doesn’t push.
She never does.
Silence settles between us, not uncomfortable. Just… there. Then she tilts her head slightly. “You gonna come home soon?” she asks gently. “It’d be good to see you.”
I huff quietly, glancing over Bourbon Street. “You’re seein’ me now.”
Mom smiles, but there’s something softer behind it. “I can’t hug you over the phone.”
The words land harder than I expect, the ache settling heavy. I swallow it down, unsure whether it’s guilt, longing, or something else I can’t name.
I run my thumb over my mug, staring at nothing. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Not a yes.
Not a no.
Her smile brightens just a little. “That would be nice.”
I sigh. “Gotta run, Ma,” I say after a beat. “Got work today.”
She nods, already understanding. “Your father and I love you, sweetheart.”
I swallow once. “Love you too.”
“Take care of yourself.” She smiles again, but her eyes look worried now, the warmth in her tone shadowed by concern she’s trying to hide.
“I will.”
The call ends, and the screen goes dark.
I stand there for a second longer, staring at my reflection in the black screen, then glance back out over the city.
Home. Sometimes I miss it—not the place, but the feeling. Even so, New Orleans is where I need to be.
I finish the cigarette, stub it out against the railing, and take the last sip of coffee before pushing off.
Inside, I rinse the mug, set it in the sink, then grab my cut and keys. The apartment door locks behind me with a solid click.
Downstairs, the street is waking up a little more. I swing onto my bike, fire her up, and head out.
The ride to the clubhouse is quick and quiet. No one is there when I pull in. No bikes or noise, just empty space and the lingering scent of leather, whiskey, and smoke.
Out of habit, I quickly check doors and windows and walk the perimeter of the property.
Everything is solid.
I swap the bike for my truck and climb in. The drive across the river takes a little longer because of traffic, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to settle into the day.
By the time I pull up to the site, it’s already alive.
Hammers.
Saws.
Voices calling out measurements.
The house is nearly finished—two bedrooms, a front porch, and a small backyard. Nothing fancy, just solid with good bones.
I grab my tool belt and strap it on just as Everest pulls up in the van and climbs out. “Mornin’,” he calls.
“Mornin’,” I answer, stepping forward.
Four boys pile out, stretching and cracking jokes, half awake, trying to look alert.
He glances at the house, then back at me. “Lookin’ good.”
“Yeah,” I say, following his gaze. “Comin’ together.”
He nods once, then jerks his chin toward the kids. “They’re ready.”
I look them over, shake each hand, and make them meet my eyes. “Ready to work?” I ask, my voice just loud enough to grab their attention.
They exchange looks.
“Today you’re gofers. That means whatever the crew needs… tools, lumber, water, cleanup, you get it done. No slacking, no whining, no standing around.”
One of them nods quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Everest crosses his arms. “You stay busy, you learn somethin’. You stand around, I’ll find somethin’ harder for you to do. Got it?”
That gets a couple of nervous grins.
“Get with Darren over there by the white truck,” I add, jerking my chin toward Darren’s direction. “He’s the one you listen to today.”
The kids nod, more focused now, and head to Darren.
He sees me, assigns them work, then walks over, wiping his hands on a rag.
Darren’s built homes longer than most stick to anything.
Mid-sixties, solid, weathered face, he’s seen what matters.
He built this whole company from nothing.
The organization started in the back of his pickup truck, with a handful of volunteers.
Now it’s a full crew, steady builds, donations, and partnerships.
His business, Landry Construction, builds homes for people who don’t get anything handed to them—just a shot, a hand up, not a handout. His motto is, “We build more than homes. We build second chances.”
“We got the roof left,” he says, nodding at the structure. “Trusses are set. Want to help finish it out?”
“You got it.”
Two years back, the club met Darren at a fundraiser for one of the community food banks.
He was looking for a few more volunteers.
Wasn’t much said, just that I knew my way around a construction site and was good at following orders.
He gave me an address, and the following weekend, I showed up with my own tools and got to work.
Didn’t stop showing up after that.
Darren didn’t ask questions. He saw my skills and gradually gave me more responsibility. Volunteering kept my hands occupied and my mind busy.
By the time the sun starts to dip, we’re wrapping up. Tools get set down, voices go quiet, and for today, work is done.
I climb down from the roof, rolling my shoulders as I take off my gloves while Darren approaches with someone beside him.
“Catcher, this is Marcus,” he says. The man steps forward, appearing to be in his mid-thirties.
He reaches out, and we shake hands. His hands are rough, work hands.
“This home is for Marcus and his girls,” Darren adds.
Marcus looks at the house as though he’s not sure it’s real. “Been watchin’ y’all build it,” he says, voice low, rough, but grateful.