Collared(29)

He blasts through a light that’s more red than yellow and pushes the speed when we hit the on-ramp. The truck still rattles like it’s about to fall apart whenever it breaks fifty, but now there’s a whine coming under from the hood. This scrap of familiarity is calming. In a world I don’t seem to belong in anymore, a familiar truck’s engine sputtering and spewing reminds me that there was a time when I belonged.

An emotional tether. Even the way he glances at me from the driver’s seat, like he needs the reassurance that I’m still here, is familiar. He’s the one I’d tie myself to, but I don’t feel like I have anything left to be bound with. How can he tether me when vapor has more substance than I do?

The trip from Seattle to Sammamish isn’t a long one. It feels even shorter now.

He breaks the silence when he flies down the off-ramp for Sammamish. “Ready for this?”

“Yes,” I say because it doesn’t matter if I am or not. Life’s not going to slow down just because I can’t tolerate the pace. “Does your family still live in the same house?”

His head shakes. “No. Mom sold it a few years ago and moved into a little condo. After Rory graduated and she finally kicked Caden out.”

“How are your brothers?”

He turns down a familiar street. The one our high school was on. “Rory’s studying biology at U-Dub, and Caden’s . . . being Caden.”

“So you’re saying not much has changed?”

“Other than me going into the priesthood, not much has.”

“That still doesn’t feel real.” I twist in my seat to look at him.

He drives his truck exactly like he used to—one hand gripping the wheel, the other arm draped over the top of it, his legs spread wide and taking up half of the bench seat. “What doesn’t?”

“You.” I wave at his outfit. “This.”

He glances at his shirt like I just told him he spilled ketchup down the front of it. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of surreal sitting here beside you and talking about my brothers too.”

“Do you keep in touch with any of our old friends?”

He’s just turned onto Hemlock. My hands wring together.

“Not really. I see them around town every once in a while. A few are members of the church, but I think me becoming this . . .” He says it how I did, summing up a handful of words in a single one. “Was a little weird for them. No one wants to have their friend the priest over because they’re worried I’m going to tell on them to Jesus or something.”

The way he says it makes me laugh.

He smiles at me. “What? It’s true. No one wants a priest around when there’s a party, but if someone’s being born or dying, I’m on speed dial.”

I’m still laughing. He’s still smiling. The sun’s shining, and everything is green and lush. It’s the most perfect moment I’ve had in years.

It ends the moment Torrin turns down Madison Boulevard. My parents’ house is a few blocks down, but I can already see it. The street is lined with trucks, and the sidewalks are littered with people. It makes the scene at the hospital seem peaceful and puny.

Torrin curses the same word from the hospital under his breath. “What do you want me to do?”

What I really want is for him to turn around and drive until we’ve hit the coast. I want to rent a little cabin on the beach that I can make a big fire in, and I want to walk up and down the beach until I can’t take another step. I want to walk without a chain dictating how far I can go. I want to walk with him. I want to try to get caught up on the last ten years of his life. I want to laugh again like I just did.

I want to run away.

“I want you to keep going. Pull into the driveway, preferably without running anyone over, and walk me to the front door so I can give you your jacket back.”

The truck slows, but it keeps rolling forward. “You can keep the jacket. It’ll help you weather the storm, remember?”

“Then I’d like you to walk me to the front door as my personal security guard.” My hands are wringing themselves again. God, there are so many of them. It feels like every country in the free world has sent their own crew to my front porch.

“They can’t put one foot on your parents’ property without their permission.”

“And they probably can’t bonk someone on the nose with a giant microphone either, but journalists aren’t exactly well known for their rule abiding.”

When we’re half a block away, a few heads turn our way. They know we’re coming.

“My God, Jade.” Torrin leans over the steering wheel, his eyes wide. “Are you sure about this?”

No. I’m not. “I’m sure.”

He presses down a little more on the gas, and the truck speeds up. He’s as ready to get this over with as I am.

The cameras are already flashing, and I can hear through the windows the roar of the reporters’ shouted questions. I don’t duck down this time, but I keep my face forward, my expression flat. I make sure the hood is still over my head and the zipper still pulled to my chin. When we get to my parents’ house, the driveway is barricaded by reporters waving their microphones and screaming their questions at me through the windshield.

My hands start to shake again.