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.
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.