I tell myself this, over and over again, but it doesn’t chase away the fear. Fear stays fitted around me like a suit of armor, heavy and impenetrable.
I lift the phone and focus on its light. I want to call my parents. I want to beg them to come get me and keep me safe. I want to ask them to lock me in a cell that no one has the key to. I want to ask them to hide me from the world for the rest of my life so I don’t have to feel like this.
Right now, I’d exchange uncertain freedom for a safe cage. I wouldn’t think twice about it.
That’s why I know I can’t call them. I can’t let them know I’m so terrified I just want to crawl into Mom’s lap and let her rock away my fears. I can’t let them know I feel so exposed that I want to slip under their blankets and fall asleep between them.
I can’t let them know I feel the same way they do, because then I’ll never get better. I’ll continue to stagnate on my best days and decay on my worst.
I can’t get better by giving in to my fear—I can only get better by facing it.
When I hit the call button, it isn’t the number to my parents. It’s not even the one to Sam’s cell. It’s the number I still have in the number one spot.
Even though I haven’t called it in two weeks. Even though I should probably delete it. Even though . . . he’s still in the number one spot.
My hands are still shaking as the phone rings, but they’re not quaking as they had been.
The phone rings twice, then three times, and when it hits a fourth, I worry he’s not going to answer. I worry he’s never going to answer again because I’ve done enough damage and he’s had enough.
I’m anticipating his voicemail when he answers. He’s quiet.
“Torrin?” I let out a long breath, trying to exhale the pent-up fear. “Torrin?”
He’s quiet for another minute, then I hear his sigh. “I’m here, Jade. What is it?”
He sounds tired. Since it’s almost eleven, he was probably asleep. It’s not just tired I hear in his voice though; it’s something stronger. Exhaustion? Fatigue? Something not brought on just by lack of or need for sleep.
“I’m sorry to call you so late . . . after not talking to you for a while—”
“You’re sorry for ignoring my calls for the past two weeks? Is that what you’re saying?”
I hear more noises, but these are different than the crashing ones that sent me flying into the closet. These ones sound like they’re right above me, like something’s trying to crawl through the ceiling to get me.
“I’m sorry for that and everything else.” My voice is breaking from the fear.
“What’s the matter?” His voice is a note higher, more urgent sounding now. “Jade, what is it?”
“I just moved into my new place and . . .” I don’t know what to say. I’m scared? I feel alone? I need someone here with me? I don’t know what to say or what I can say. “I know it’s really late . . .”
“Yeah, you mentioned that already. Can we move past that it’s really late to the reason you called me?” Worry is playing with his voice, breaking it over words like my own.
“I just . . . it’s probably nothing . . . but I keep hearing these noises . . .” I feel like a child running into her parents’ bedroom during a thunderstorm. I’m about to ask him if he’ll come over when I hear something in his background. Movement.
“Where are you?” More noise in the background.
“The Bluff Apartments. I’m unit 2B.”
“I’m coming.” I hear what sounds like a door slam shut. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
I try to ignore the noises coming from above me, but I can’t. The more I ignore them, the louder they seem to become. “There’s a gate. The code is . . .”
I scan my memory for it. Four numbers. Dad wrote them down for me and stuck them to my fridge and tucked them in my purse, but I’d have to leave the closet to get to them. I can’t move. I feel as trapped in this closet as I did in the one Earl Rae kept me in.
“The code is . . .”—I try again—“2477 . . . or maybe it’s 2677. One of those. I think.”
I hear what sounds like the door of his old truck whining open. “I’m coming.”
The line goes dead, but I keep the phone propped to my ear and replay his voice in my head. I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming. I repeat it over and over. It isn’t the first time I’ve repeated these words to myself, picturing Torrin’s face as he says it. I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming.
I don’t stop until I hear a pounding on my door followed by the doorbell.
I crawl through the closet, shove the doors open, and run for the front door that’s being pounded on. I run like something’s chasing me and whoever’s on the other side of that door is that only one who can save me.
“Jade?” Torrin hollers, still pounding.
“Coming.” I know he can’t hear me because even I can’t hear me; that’s how small my voice is.