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.
My dad clears his throat. “This probably isn’t the best time to have a conversation on the front stoop.”
“My God, Mike, invite them in.” Mom peeks her head out from behind him and waves us in.
Behind us, the roar grows.
Torrin and my dad have some kind of stare down. I’m not sure who wins, but my dad steps aside to clear the doorway so we can come in. I stay planted on the porch with Torrin.
“I better get going.” Torrin backs down the first step. “I’ll check in with you later.”
I feel a tightness in my chest as he backs away. It’s more of a stab than an ache.
“I’m glad you’re back.” He smiles at me from the bottom step and waits.
He wants me to get inside. He’s not going to leave until I do. I wonder if that has anything to do with the night I was taken.
I turn to face him, and the cameras go off like a swarm of angry fireflies. “Thanks for staying with me last night. Thank you for bringing me home.”
Something meaningful stretches across Torrin’s face. Then he nods. “You’re welcome.” Then he lifts his chin toward my parents. “You better get inside.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to say good-bye, however temporary it is. I know good-byes have no guarantee that you’ll see that person again. I know that good-byes can be permanent even if you don’t mean them that way.
When I step over the threshold and pass my dad, I turn to wave at Torrin. He’s still there, almost like he’s guarding the walkway. He’s watching me like he’s concentrating, but when I wave, he lets himself smile as he waves back.
His smile is what I’m watching when my dad steps in front of me and closes the door, sealing us inside. It’s darker with the door closed. It’s cooler too.
“Oh, Jade, are you okay?” My mom moves in front of me and settles her hands into the bends of my arms. She’s not barreling at me with a storm of tears and suffocating embraces. Someone must have talked with her about it yesterday, post my meltdown from being touched too much too fast.
Dad steps in around us, but he keeps a safe distance. He keeps his hands at his sides.
I don’t answer her because I think the question was a rhetorical one—a question a mother has to ask her child no matter what’s happened, from a sliver in the thumb to a ten-year kidnapping.
I don’t see my brother or sister anywhere. It isn’t until I find myself looking for them that I realize they don’t live here anymore. They’ve moved on. I’m twenty-seven, the oldest child, and still living here. I never really checked out.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.” Mom’s eyes are teary when she smiles at me.
I try to smile back, but it’s impossible. This isn’t home. It doesn’t feel like it anymore. When I think about what does feel like home, my stomach churns. I miss the house. I think I might even miss him.
There really is no hope for me.
NOTHING ABOUT THE house I grew up in has changed. The walls have a fresh coat of paint and my dad’s ratty recliner’s been replaced by a new one, but everything’s exactly how I remember it. All the same.
I should feel right at home, like I’m picking up where I left off, but I don’t. This house feels strange, foreign. I feel like a guest in someone else’s home, afraid to go through the cupboards or kick my feet up on the couch.
This house hasn’t changed, but I have.
It’s not really the house that feels foreign—it’s me being inside it, like I don’t fit. The way my parents have hovered over me all day, it’s like they sense it too and are trying to figure out a way to make me fit. No matter how many times they try though, I’ll never fit. My edges are too jagged.