This rideshare smells overwhelmingly like pine, from the tree-shaped scented air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. I watch Baltimore pass by through the window, brick row-houses, narrow streets, bare winter trees reaching up like bony fingers. It feels strange to be here again, like stepping into a photograph of another life.
Six months is too long.
Jagger’s thigh is pressed against mine in the back seat; this little hatchback is not built to contain him. His hand rests on my knee, thumb rubbing small circles like he always does when he’s thinking absentmindedly.
I wrap my hand over his, and when I lace our fingers together, I realize that his palm is warm and clammy. Turning my head, I find his gaze fixed to the phone mounted on the dash, the GPS counting down the streets. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and his jaw grows tighter with each passing mile.
I blink at him, completely surprised.
“Are you actually nervous?” I ask, my voice more judgmental than I intend.
He exhales through his nose and leans his head back against the seat. “A little.”
I turn fully toward him now, tucking one leg under myself. “You?” I ask, incredulously. “With your job?”
“I get paid to shoot people for a living,” he huffs. “I don’t usually have to talk to them and make them like me.”
The driver’s reaction is immediate. His shoulders stiffen, and his eyes go wide in the rearview mirror, flicking from Jagger to me like he’s suddenly realized he picked up a pair of unhinged criminals instead of a couple. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath. I lean forward slightly, offering the driver what I hope is a reassuring smile. “He’s kidding,” I say quickly. “He’sabsolutelykidding.”
Jagger, the traitor he is, locks eyes with the driver in the mirror, then he mouths, very clearly:Not kidding.
“Jagger!” I hiss, shoving his shoulder with both hands.
He breaks, laughter rumbling out of his chest as he looks away, the tension easing from his posture a bit. The driver swallows hard and nods, like he’s decided not to ask any follow-up questions for his own safety.
I shake my head, fighting a smile, and lace my fingers through Jagger’s again. His palm is still clammy, but he squeezes my hand as the GPS announces our arrival far too cheerfully.
The car pulls up to the curb in front of my dad’s townhome, a neat little brick place with white trim and a narrow porch. It looks exactly the same as it always has. Same potted plants by the steps. The same slightly crooked welcome mat that saysHART HOMEin faded letters.
The driver hops out faster than necessary, popping the trunk with jerky motions. Jagger steps onto the sidewalk, towering over the car as he grabs our suitcase in one hand like it weighs nothing. The driver barely waits for the trunk to close before he’s back in the car, peeling away from the curb like he’s fleeing a crime scene.
When the taillights disappear, I sigh. “You better give that poor man five stars. You absolutely terrified him.”
Jagger smirks, setting the suitcase down beside him. “Please. For the rest of his life, he’ll be talking about the one time he picked up a hired killer and his gorgeous girlfriend from the airport at parties.”
I chuckle as he reaches for my hand, and we turn toward the house.
The front door opens before we even make it up the steps. “Blake!”
My dad’s voice billows through the air, and suddenly I’m eight years old again, running up the driveway with scraped knees and a science fair ribbon in my hand. He steps onto the porch, arms already open, his face breaking into a grin that deepens the lines around his eyes.
I drop Jagger’s hand and rush forward, my bag slipping off my shoulder as I throw my arms around him. “Hey, Dad,” I say, my voice muffled against his shoulder.
Hehugs me tight, lifting me off the ground the way he used to when I was younger. “God, look at you,” he says, pulling back to look at my face, his hands firm on my shoulders. “You look… good. Happy.”
“I am,” I exhale softly. “I missed you.”
He swallows hard, finally turning his attention to the giant presence waiting politely at the bottom of the steps. Jagger straightens—making him appear even taller—setting the suitcase upright and squaring his shoulders like he’s reporting for duty.
“Mr. Hart,” Jagger says, nodding. “You don’t have to hug me.”
“You can call him Frank,” I correct quickly, glancing between them.
My dad’s mouth twitches. “Mr. Hart is fine,” he says dryly. “And I wasn’t planning to.”
“Dad!” I scold, heat creeping up my neck.
