Page 20 of Striker’s Rebel

Somewhere along the drive, his presence stops irritating me.

The headlight becomes reassuring.

If somebody follows me, Striker will see them. If my Corolla finally decides to die, I won’t be stranded alone on the side of the road.

Depending on someone feels dangerous.

Wanting to depend on them feels worse.

Ruth’s house sits near the end of a quiet street, white siding, pale blue shutters, and a wide porch crowded with flowerpots she fusses over like children.

The porch light is on, as always.

Ruth once told me nobody should come home to a dark house if she could help it.

I nearly cried the first time I saw that light waiting for me.

Her house never feels temporary. It smells like cinnamon, old books, and whatever she cooked last. Family photographs cover the hallway, quilts hang over chairs, and the ceramic bowl beside the front door has held the same jumble of keys, peppermints, and loose change since I arrived.

I rent the upstairs room at the back, along with its small private bathroom. My window looks toward the mountains, and the floor creaks near the closet.

Two years ago, I carried my boxes upstairs and unpacked every one before I went to bed.

I had never done that before.

I pull into the driveway.

Striker rolls in behind me.

My eyes go immediately to the dark windows.

Please be asleep.

Ruth can usually sleep through nearly anything.

A light appears behind the downstairs curtains.

“Oh, shit.”

The front door opens, and Ruth steps onto the porch in a floral robe and slippers, a pink sleep mask sitting crooked across her forehead.

I rest my head against the steering wheel.

For one second, I consider reversing out of the driveway.

Instead, I get out.

Ruth looks at me.

Then Striker.

Then me again.

Her eyebrows climb.

“Don’t.”

“June Gill, I haven’t said a word.”