Page 6 of Catcher

I’ve had two long-term boyfriends in my life. The first one, I dated all through college, and then we mutually agreed to end things when he decided to move back to his home state. He was sweet, shy, and gentle. He wasn’t in-your-face handsome, but he was cute.

Then there was Greg. Greg and I dated for about two years. Greg reminded me a lot of Toby, again, not overly handsome but cute. I ended that relationship. It took me months to work up the nerve to do so. I knew Greg was way into me, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. The problem was that there was no sexual chemistry, at least not on my end. Truth be told, the sex was flat-out bad. Not once during the time we were together did Greg give me an orgasm. That relationship ended three years ago.

There hasn’t been anyone since. Not even a hookup. One-night stands are not my style. Call me old-fashioned, but I need to feel a connection with someone to sleep with them. That’s not to say I haven’t dated. There have been plenty of dates. They don’t go anywhere because either there’s no chemistry or the guy ends up breaking things off or ghosting me once they realize I’m not going to give up the goods after only a few dates.

Leaving my pity party behind, I turn on my heel and head to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I grab my premade lunch and pack it into my lunchbox along with a bottle of water. As I’m doing that, I spy the stack of bills on the kitchen island. Sitting on top is an open credit card statement with ‘Past Due’ stamped across the top. That one is just one of four due this month. As I stare at those red letters, all I can think about is how much I hate my brother. I love my big brother, God knows I do, but I hate him. I hate him for what he’s put my family through for years. Let’s just say Robby is a fuckup. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year, not since my parents kicked him out and washed their hands of him for the last time. So, imagine my surprise when, about three months ago, I received a statement in the mail. See, I was confused because I don’t have any credit cards. But apparently, I did, and it was maxed out and past due. Over the course of two weeks, I received three more statements from three other credit card agencies. I knew then it was my brother. I learned just how big a selfish fuckup Robby truly is. Something else I’m learning is that proving credit card fraud is challenging, but I’m not giving up. Needless to say, my credit is in the toilet.

Sighing, I put my brother out of my mind and head out the door. Then, when I climb into my car in the middle of summer, I want to curse him all over again. It’s only six fifteen in the morning, but when you live in New Orleans, you wake up to it being eighty degrees. That eighty feels like ninety when you drive a tin box with no air conditioning. The air conditioning in my car went out last month, and after a shop quoted me nearly two thousand to fix it, I decided my car wasn’t even worth two grand. I have been driving the same car since high school. She’s on her last leg. I was planning to buy myself a brand-new car this month, but since I still haven’t worked out the mess with those credit cards and my credit being shit, getting a new car has been put on the back burner. I have no choice but to endure the summer heat without air conditioning.

I hope my parents don’t find out. Dad would insist I take his car, then he would probably hunt down his son, but I couldn’t do that to them. Robby has put Mom and Dad through so much over the years that I can’t drop this mess on their laps. No, I’m going to figure out how to clean up Robby’s mess myself and give my parents the peace they deserve.

Shaking my troubles away once again, I back out of the driveway and pull away, leaving my house in my rearview mirror. My neighborhood is small. It’s a new development that’s driving up the rent. I started renting my home three years ago. My place is not huge, but it’s enough since it’s just me, with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a smallish kitchen, and an even smaller living room.

What sold me on it was the fantastic, large deck out back. I live on the back side of the neighborhood, located by a large lake, and I sit out there every night, getting lost in the sunset and letting it wash away the stress that burdens me. And in the early mornings, I can sit out there and watch the sunrise bring me the promise of a new day, a reminder that, even though things seem bleak now, I still have a lot to be thankful for. I have loving and adoring parents, great friends, and an amazing job. So, today, I put my brother and his bullshit aside and focus on the good I have in my life.

As I exit my neighborhood and steer my car in the opposite direction from town, I head north. Each morning, I take the same detour to the other side of the large lake. A mile down the road, I spot the overgrown dirt road off to the right and turn. I follow the long, bumpy road until I hit the clearing, and an old two-story Creole cottage-style house comes into view. The same house that can be seen from my back deck during the day has sat vacant for a decade.

Something funny settles in my gut when I still see the ‘For Sale’ sign sitting in the front yard.

The house is longer than it is wide. It’s casual yet elegant with its tall windows and cozy, welcoming vibe. The stone steps leading up to the tall, narrow French doors, which serve as the entrance, are breathtaking. The wraparound porch puts my porch to shame, and the wrought-iron railing gives it a delicate kind of charm. The house is an eyesore, with overgrown weeds, peeling blue paint, broken shutters, and busted-out windows. Still, unlike others, I see endless potential.

A few months ago, I reached out to the realtor and requested to view the place. The woman was shocked and stated that I was the first person to inquire about Bluebird Manor. She was up front about the work that needed to be done, such as an overhaul of the house wiring, a new furnace, and central air.

Then there are the things you could see with the naked eye. The main bedroom and living room need new flooring. The kitchen countertops and appliances require updating, along with a long list of other things. It would be work, but I am up for the job. Bluebird Manor is tugging at me—I want it with everything I am. The house has been on the market for two years. The reason is that many people don’t like the hassle of a fixer-upper or the associated costs. I do, though. I knew the moment I saw the place in person that I wanted it.

I have a vision of a set of gas-burning lanterns flanking the entrance, painted white. As for the house itself, I want to restore the original blue color and turn the front of the house into a courtyard filled with lush hydrangeas, jasmine, crepe myrtles, and whatever else my heart desires. That’s why every day for the past year and a half, I make the detour on my way to work to see if the sign is still up in the yard.

For over a year, I’ve been planning and saving what I can for a down payment, taking on tutoring gigs and teaching summer school. I’m close to my goal, with only two more months of saving, and I’d have what is needed to make an offer.

Then Robby happened.

That excited feeling I had moments ago is washed away by disappointment. There is no way I can afford my dream house with my current financial situation.

Releasing a shaky breath, I let my eyes linger on the old house for a second longer before shifting my car into gear and driving away.

I’m lying in my bed, back to the headboard, with my Kindle resting on my lap, but instead of reading, I’m staring out my bedroom window at nothingness. That’s because while I was sitting at the dining room table having dinner with my parents, I got a text from Promise inviting me to the clubhouse this Friday for a party. I haven’t responded to her text because I’m trying to come up with a good excuse to back out, knowing Catcher will be there.

In the past, I had no qualms about going to the clubhouse, but ever since London learned of the crush I’ve been harboring for Catcher, she’s been teasing and giving me shit. It’s embarrassing, especially since the guy hardly acknowledges my existence. It’s not the girls teasing me that has me wanting to back out, but because I’m likely to make a fool out of myself.

Normal-looking men, I’m cool around. Men like Catcher, I don’t stand a chance. Not only is Catcher the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but he also scares the crap out of me. Not that he’s given me reason to be scared, it feels as if there’s something hidden deep beneath the surface. Something that sends chills down my spine.

Blowing out a breath, I pick up my phone and pull up Promise’s text.

Me: I’ll see you Friday.

Promise responds almost immediately.

Promise: Great! Can’t wait.

I toss my phone on the nightstand and slump down against my pillow.

“Yeah, can’t wait,” I mutter to myself.

3

CATCHER

The clubhouse is coming alive.