Page 30 of Total Shutdown

Whatever she thought back then, clearly, nothing has changed since she walked out of my place at the ass crack of dawn. If anything, her determination to keep me at arm’s length has only gotten stronger.

Conversely, I feel like I’m moving in the opposite direction. Talk of her moving out of town, maybe to a different state, pulls at me in ways I shouldn’t let it.

This girl is a free bird, a whirlwind, a fucking tornado—knocking people off their feet as she passes through for a brief time—and her effect is so damn difficult to forget long after she’s gone.

Joanne, my housekeeper, has washed my sheets every week since Collins slept in my bed, but somehow, I can still smell her on my pillows—a rich amber scent that drives me to the point of insanity.

Collins thinks I ignored her existence when the press asked me about her, and that pissed her off. The fact is, her response satisfied me in some way; it encouraged me to think she was bothered about us on some kind of level.

But the thing is, I think if she knew the real truth about how I feel, she’d be way more pissed, maybe even freaked out.

I’m growing obsessed with her. She’s given me nothing to go on, only tiny crumbs, partial smiles, fleeting looks. And despite my best efforts to keep a lid on my feelings, I’m failing.

And now, as I watch the way she lights up my boy, there’s a real part of me that worries if she does leave—unlike a tornado, where you can rebuild and recover from its destruction—moving on from her impact might not be as easy, and perhaps not just for me, but for Ezra too.

* * *

“Okay,we shouldn’t be more than five minutes,” Collins says, finding a spare helmet and trying it on Ezra for size. She watches me closely as she secures the strap under his chin. “This was one I had a few years back; it’s older, but still good.”

Collins looks at Ezra, who climbs on the back, following instructions as she talks him through how to sit correctly on a bike. Dressed in full black leathers that unsurprisingly fit my son since he’s around the same height as her, he listens intently.

Finishing up, she knocks his helmet with a glove-covered fist. “I was worried we might have to go a size down with this but you have a big head, so it fits perfectly.”

His shoulders drop in jest. “Ha-ha, hilarious.”

Pulling on her helmet, she checks Ezra’s all good and cranks the engine, filling the garage with a roar and pulling a shriek of delight from him.

Thump, thump goes my heart.

When she shifts into gear and flicks back the kickstand, her usual defensive gaze mellows a fraction, letting me know she’ll take good care of him.

I nod once as she carefully pulls out onto the street and increases speed slowly. Ezra’s elated screams are unmistakable and fade the farther away they get.

It’s just me and the garage for the next few minutes, and I find myself heading toward the row of drawers set across the back wall.

I always considered myself a closed book, especially after Sophie died. Getting close to people was a surefire way to get hurt, purely because their fate—and my own—was uncontrollable. If someone had told me how our marriage was going to end and how soon, I wouldn’t have believed them. The Sawyer from years ago had faith in fate, faith that really bad things didn’t happen to good people.

The Sawyer back then was fucking naive.

Pulling open the top drawer in the red metal cabinet, I’m not shocked to discover tools, but I am surprised by how neatly ordered they are. Each having their own place and sectioned out. Perhaps it’s the way Collins lives her life—by the seat of her pants—that made me assume her workstation would be similar. Yet it’s the total opposite.

The second drawer is the same, but this time, screws and bolts are categorized by size and dimension, labeled carefully and organized into containers.

Next to the industrial-style metal cabinet sits a mahogany French dresser—the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a country kitchen and not a garage like this.

My interest piqued, I pull the first drawer open and immediately pause when I see a black photo album sitting at the top.

This feels like an invasion of privacy, but equally, I know the chances of Collins ever telling me more about her life is slim to fucking zero.

I know because, in many ways, we’re the same.

And I want to know more about her, even if they’re just pictures of the family dog. Every part of her fascinates me, to the point where I’m picking up the album and closing the drawer with my hip.

Though this is no family album, no images of dogs or Collins as a baby.

These are all from motocross competitions—and top-level ones at that. I know fuck all about the sport, but I’d recognize the SuperMotocross logo anywhere.

“Jesus,” I say out loud, turning to the next page.

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