Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(77)

By the time we got home, it was too late. The authorities had picked up my father at work, and I didn’t see him for months.

I don’t think I ever really did forget that. Not really, not deep down. All this time, I’ve been telling myself that I have to try harder, that I have to give my parents everything. Every time something has gone wrong, I’ve wondered what I did wrong, how I could have prevented it. I’ve always known that I failed them, and I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. Maybe I’ve hoped that if I do, that one day I’ll make up for ruining everything.

I imagine telling my mother that. She would look at me with one eyebrow raised, shaking her head. And for the first time in my life, I hear the actual words my mother would speak rather than the ones I’ve held onto in my head.

“Don’t be silly,” she would say. “Whoever said you ruined anything? Take the best you can, and don’t look back.”

I can’t stop crying.

It’s too much. I’ve been stupid, so stupid, afraid to embrace the best thing that has happened to me simply because I was afraid I didn’t deserve it, because I was certain it would be yanked away from me.

Maybe I am just setting myself up for heartache—but maybe, just maybe, I deserve to give myself a chance.

I look down at the speedometer. I’m going…a hundred and thirty? Holy f*ck. What am I doing? What was I thinking? I tap the brakes once, and then again, slowing, slowing. The speedometer drifts down. One twenty. One ten.

I hit a hundred, and that’s when I hear it—the slow wail of a siren springing to life behind me. I glance in the rearview mirror. Red flashing lights reflect into my face.

It shouldn’t be funny, but somehow it is. I’m laughing as I hit the brakes, laughing as I slowly maneuver the car to the side of the road.

It just goes to show. All this time, I’ve been holding back, afraid to drive at a reasonable speed, trying so hard to be careful for fear that something would happen. It always does to us mortals, doesn’t it?

I drove fast. And here I am. Something has happened. And somehow, it doesn’t seem that bad.

21.

TINA

The cop took my license ten minutes ago. He hasn’t returned yet. Instead, his car sits behind Blake’s Tesla, red lights strobing across my passenger seat. The sky is still dark; the moon has set, and out here, the stars make a glimmering net overhead.

I wonder what my mom would say if she could see me now. Her advice for dealing with police is…legally sound, perhaps, but not conciliatory. Not ever conciliatory. I’m pretty sure that what I need right now is more than conciliatory. Something closer to abject as hell. I don’t know how fast the officer clocked me, but it was probably over a hundred.

That may well be enough to push me into the “arrest for reckless driving” band, and that is the last thing I need right now.

When he comes up to me, I’m going to apologize.

I plan what I’m going to say. The officer will be back any second now. He’ll give me a whopping fine and a huge lecture. But another minute passes while I hyperventilate, wondering what is going on. Then two. The officer finally gets out of his car again and I breathe a sigh of relief. But he doesn’t come toward me. He faces away from me, looking down the dark road.

A moment later, a second police car pulls up. Shit. I am going to get arrested. I’m wondering if I should call someone. Blake? No, definitely not Blake. He has enough to deal with this morning, and I just left him. His father’s in the hospital. He has a product launch this afternoon. If he’s not seeing to his dad or preparing, he should be sleeping, not sorting out some sordid police matter involving the person who is, at the moment, definitely not his girlfriend.

The longer I sit, the worse I feel about what happened. I wasn’t ready to hear his words. I didn’t let myself believe that we could be anything together. I didn’t know how to look at him and think that he would do anything other than break my heart. So I broke his instead.

I still don’t know how we can be anything. All the old arguments apply.

But one thing has changed: I want to figure it out.

As I’m considering this, the second officer gets out of his car and then opens the back door of his vehicle. How cute. They brought backup for me. I almost feel important.

But the backup that jumps out of the backseat is not an officer—at least not a human one. It’s a dog, an adorable yellow lab with big brown eyes and one ear that flops down. It has a goofy grin and its tongue hangs out. It’s so far removed from the typical authoritarian-looking German Shepherd that the police dog harness looks like a Halloween costume.

Not good, something whispers in the back of my mind. I brush this aside.

The officer guides the dog to the car. They start to walk around and then, right by the side door, the dog sits.

It’s an absurd thing; for a second, I entertain an idle notion that the dog has gone off the clock. Despite my racing pulse, I smile. Maybe cop dogs aren’t as perfectly trained as the TV shows indicate.

But the dog doesn’t do any of the things you’d expect a dog to do when it sits. No scratching, no licking, no curling up in a little ball. It just looks up at the officer holding his leash, its tail waving back and forth. Absurdly, instead of ordering the dog back to work, the officer hands it a treat and scratches its head. It’s cute, but it’s over too soon. The new officer puts the dog back in the car.