Collared(41)

“You know Torrin’s a—”

“A priest?” I interrupt. “Yeah, kind of hard to miss.”

“You might not have missed it, but do you understand what that means?”

Right then, I feel very much like a teenager having an argument with her mom about a boy in the middle of a mall. “That hopefully he likes wearing black? A lot?”

“Jade.” I hear a fragment of the mom I remember. It urges me on.

“Mom, let it go. I know what I’m doing. We’re friends.” I cross my arms like she has. “Even if he wasn’t a priest, it wouldn’t matter because I’m not ready to jump into a relationship with anyone right now. Or ever.”

I look away, but I’m too late. She didn’t miss the look that flashed on my face when I decided to involuntarily gut myself in front of her.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” she says. “You’ve been through enough. Don’t put yourself in a position to open yourself up to more.”

“Torrin would never hurt me.”

“Not intentionally, but him being back, being around so much . . . I wonder if he already has.”

The idea of a cell phone withers. She’s right, of course. I don’t need a cell phone just so he can call me when he wants to. He’s stopped by every day since I got home, and we can say whatever we need to then. I shouldn’t need a private phone so he can reach me any hour of the day . . . or so I can reach him.

We haven’t crossed a line, but I wonder if we’d know if we had.

I end the cell phone argument by continuing past the store. It takes a second for Mom to follow me, but when she comes up beside me, I can tell she’s torn. I know she can see that whatever happy is in my world now is when Torrin’s around. I know she doesn’t miss the way my smiles are less fake when he’s close. How I laugh when he’s near. How the heaviness pressing me down seems to take a break when I’m with him.

She knows.

She also knows the way I used to feel about him. I couldn’t tell my dad, but Mom was easier to talk to. She knows I’m playing with fire by spending so much time with him.

I know I am too.

But maybe I’m too selfish to stop it, or maybe I’m just too f*cked up to know better.

Nordstrom is slammed when we stroll up to the first-floor entrance. A line of customers waiting for their coffees stretches into the hall. Every salesperson in the shoe department is bustling about, tending to a few customers at once. Women are dabbing on samples of lip gloss at the makeup counter, and men are perusing expensive watches behind the glass cases.

It’s too much. Overstimulating sensory overload.

The smells of dozens of different perfumes almost knock me over. The roar of customers shopping isn’t so dull. The overhead lights are more than a little too bright.

I feel like a strobe is flashing in my face; the light is that debilitating. I’ve avoided going out thanks to the news crews still camped out in front of our house. I managed a quick trip to the grocery store with my mom late one night, and I squeezed in a trip to my favorite drive-thru for lunch yesterday. But it’s kind of hard to still love a restaurant known for its hamburgers when I’m done with meat.

“What department should we start in?” Mom moves for the up escalator. “Women’s casual wear?”

I nod and pretend like I know what she’s talking about. Women’s casual wear? Sounds like a disease or something. I used to do most of my shopping at garage sales and concert merch tables.

When we weave through the people and get to the escalator, I balk. Not long enough for Mom to notice, but I do. Ten years. From the way I just had to run through how to step onto an escalator, it might as well have been a century.

When we reach the second floor, Mom gets off. I’m thankful we don’t have to climb on the one stretching to the third floor. She starts for a department with a lot of jeans and cotton shirts—women’s casual wear—when I hear my name shouted from behind.

I flinch, half expecting it to be the swarm of reporters who’ve resorted to shouting my name whenever I drive by. So far I haven’t been stalked out in public, but I know that won’t last. Not with the interview deals I’m getting. Everyone in the world seems to need to know every last ugly detail of my captivity.

“Jade!” the voice calls again.

I turn around slowly to find a couple of girls my age powering my way, balancing on heels so high they might as well be stilts.

“Jade Childs, no frickin’ way.” The brown-haired one nudges the blond one when they stop in front of me.

Mom comes up beside me, but instead of glaring at them with skepticism like I am, she’s smiling politely. “Candace. Morgan. How are you girls?”

Candace. Morgan. The names are familiar. I can’t remember last names, but I remember us being friends. They don’t look like anyone I remember, but a decade’s gone by. I’m probably not recognizable either.

“Taking advantage of the shoe sale, so pretty darn amazing.” Candace, the brown-haired one, holds up a couple of large bags.

Beside her, Morgan does the same.

“But enough about us. How are you?” Candace leans in and rests her hand on my wrist like we’re best friends.

“I’m good.” I slip to the side so her hand drops from my wrist.