Collared(30)

Torrin blasts the truck’s horn a few times. When that doesn’t seem to do anything, he thrusts his palm onto it and doesn’t let up. A few of them cover their ears, but no one moves.

I can see my parents’ faces through the living room window.

Pulling off the horn, Torrin revs the engine a couple of times before creeping the truck forward. Finally, reporters move. They file to the sides, banging on Torrin’s and my windows as we pass them. I feel like a disco ball is flashing in my face from all of the photos being taken.

“Where’s the crowd control for Christ’s sake?” I wince when I realize what I’ve just said. “Sorry.”

Torrin blasts his horn again, and once it’s clear, he speeds up to the edge of the driveway. “It’s okay. I won’t tell on you to Jesus or anything.”

I look into my lap to keep my smile hidden. I don’t want to share that with them. Torrin’s right; I don’t want to give them anything I’m not ready to talk about—the reason the man sitting beside me can still make me smile especially.

I can see from the side view mirror that the reporters stay on the edge of the sidewalk, but a few have one foot in the lawn. I just want to throw the door open and run until I’ve locked the front door behind me, but I don’t want them to see that either. I don’t want them to know I’m scared. I don’t want to fulfill the profile that’s already been drawn of me by probably dozens of shrinks giving dozens of interviews. I don’t want to be That Girl whose life was ruined.

I want to be seen as the person who survived.

Though it’s not a story even I’m sure I believe.

“I’ll come around and get you, then we’ll make a run for the front door.” Torrin puts the truck in park and cuts the engine. “I’ll stay on your left side so the only headlines we’ll make tomorrow will be about how the Catholic church should really find a new slacks supplier, because these things”—Torrin pinches the material of his pants—“would even make Jason Momoa’s ass look flat.”

I smile. Again. I don’t know who Jason Momoa is, and I don’t know about those slacks not looking good on Torrin, but I like the way he’s trying to make me comfortable. I like the tone of his voice. I like that I just heard “ass” pass by a priest’s lips.

“Well? What are you waiting for? You and your flat-ass-making slacks’ two seconds of fame are running out.” I curl my fingers around the door handle and wait.

Torrin looks over his shoulder and inhales. Then he shoves open his door and jogs around the front of his truck. I wait until he’s standing outside my door before I open it. When I do, the questions being hollered from the sidewalk hit me, almost leveling me to the ground. There are more video cameras than I can count and just as many regular cameras. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of reporters are staring at me, calling me over, practically begging for my attention.

Is this what my life’s going to be like? Ducking in and out of doors, evading the media at every turn? Is my story ever going to lose the public’s attention? If so, how long until that happens?

I’d been trapped at the house in Bellingham. I’d been trapped in the hospital. I’m still trapped.

The chain might be invisible and a little bit longer, but I’m still bound to it.

Torrin comes around my left side as promised when I crawl out of the truck. His arm tucks around my shoulders as we rush across the lawn. The yard’s different now. My mom’s rose bushes are gone and have been replaced by river rock. The short white fence has been replaced with a taller chain link version.

I try not to look at the walkway when we pass it. I try not to stare at the sidewalk at the end of the walkway, the very spot where I’d fallen off the face of the planet. I can still see his van parked beneath that old maple tree. I can still see the map he drew me in with. I can still smell the inside of the van before I passed out.

My legs give out without any warning. I’m falling, about to crash into the ground, when Torrin catches me.

“I’ve got you,” he says as he pulls me up, more carrying me up the stairs than guiding me.

The front door flies open when we reach the porch. My mom waves us in, but my dad steps in front of her, blocking the doorway. I look at him, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Torrin.

“We’ve got it from here.” Dad reaches for my arm, but I pull it away.

Behind me, the noise level climbs.

Torrin just turns toward me. “If you need anything, give me a call. I tucked my cell number into the pocket of the jacket.” His arm is still wound around me like he’s afraid I’m going to fall again.

“Will you stay?” I ask him.

My dad’s chest puffs out. It’s clear he doesn’t want Torrin to step foot in his house. I can’t imagine this still has to do with the time he found us all hot and heavy up against the hall wall. If it does, Dad has some serious forgiveness issues to work out.

“I want to,” Torrin says, angling me so my back’s to the street. “But I can’t. I’ve already missed two counseling sessions, one breakfast with the church elders, and a hospital visit. If I miss the eleven o’clock baptism, they’re going to go all medieval on me and burn me at the stake or something.”

“You’re a busy guy.”

He nods. “They like to keep us busy for a reason.” When I tip my head, he adds, “So we don’t have time to regret that whole vow of celibacy.” This time, he doesn’t shift. He just smiles and winks.