Two days after Christmas, my family has gone back to their normal busy routine, my mother has dodged any further in-depth conversation, and I’ve been driven back to Merryfield. I decide the best thing for me to do is to put my Make Tyler Smile plan into action. I need something to feel good about.

On the way out of town, I ask my usual taxi driver to stop at the ice cream shop. My worries about going in there again after I was let go were for nothing because, when I place my order, the new girl working there doesn’t know I’m the Girl In the Hole Who Passed Out In the Soft Serve.

The driver laughs at me when I get back into her car carrying two large purple drinks with fluorescent green straws. Before I’d gone in, I’d offered to get her something, and even offered to pay for it, but she declined.

“I’m not drinking them both,” I inform her. “One is for my friend.”

“Hey, I don’t judge. People bring all sorts of weird things into the car.”

My stomach twists into knots as we get closer to the edge of the woods leading to Tyler’s house. What if he doesn’t want to see me again or refuses to talk? Obviously, he can talk but chooses not to. His voice is hoarse and different but, to my ears, it doesn’t sound so bad that he should be ashamed or afraid to speak. I actually like the way it sounds and the way it makes my insides flitter around like I swallowed a butterfly. Unless, perhaps, it causes him physical pain to talk. Or emotional pain which, in some ways, can be worse.

The driver has brought some paperbacks with her and agrees to wait for me once again. She doesn’t seem to mind waiting as long as she’s getting paid, and sitting here reading is probably better than driving random strangers around all day. I really need to talk to my parents about getting my driver’s license and a car, because this is becoming expensive. I feel that I’m more than ready and able to drive a car.

Carrying the two teas, with my backpack over my shoulder, I make my way down the path. It has a light dusting of snow over it, and I’m curious whether anyone else lives out here or if his house is the only one. He certainly has gone out of his way to put himself as far away from other people as possible, and I can’t help but wonder why. Whatever that reason may be, it led him to saving my life that day.

As soon as I enter his yard, via a short dirt road that’s overrun with weeds, Poppy comes running to me from out of nowhere, with another dog chasing after him.

“Hi, Poppy!” I say, not able to pet him with my hands full of drinks. “You have a friend.”

The small reddish-brown dog starts to run circles around my feet, round and round and round, making a strange squealing noise, while Poppy stands to the side and watches, with his tail wagging, looking very amused.

“Wow, you’re very excited,” I say to the red dog, who has turned and is now running counterclockwise around my ankles, in a blur, preventing me from walking. I have never seen such an odd dog, and he’s making me very dizzy.

A whistle suddenly pierces the air, and the dog stops cycloning around me and runs to the source of the whistle: Tyler.

He’s standing at the open door to his garage, with dark sunglasses hiding those beautiful eyes and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He must not feel the cold since he never wears a jacket—just jeans, boots, and a thick flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up. The dog bolts to him, its massive tail flying behind him like a fluffy flag, and that’s when I realize it’s not a dog at all—it’s the red fox that’s in the Christmas tree photographs I bought. Poppy and I approach Tyler and his fox together, and an odd sensation of comfort encompasses me, like the four of us are old friends or family.

Dare I say, a feeling of belonging?

“You have a fox,” I say, watching the animal play with Poppy. He’s beautiful —hyper and goofy —unlike Poppy, who’s much calmer. They seem like best friends as they frolic around the yard, and it warms my heart to see Poppy in what looks like a very happy home. Tyler nods and snuffs out his cigarette then throws it in a small garbage can next to the door he’s leaning against.

“Is he a pet?” I ask. I’ve never heard of anyone having a fox for a pet, but my life knowledge is still pretty limited.

He nods again while taking the sunglasses off and placing them on top of his head. His eyes settle on me, slowly looking me up and down, but not in a creepy way. More like he’s just…taking me in. Getting used to me being in front of him.

I hold one of the drinks out to him and smile. “I bought you a bubble tea. This one has the bubbles that pop. They’re not the squishy tapioca ones. It’s my favorite.”

He takes the drink from me and examines the clear plastic cup, watching the bubbles swirl around. “It’s purple,” he states, and that dry, hoarse voice of his shoots through me like a laser, bringing a mix of guilt, unease, and excitement. I never knew little things about a person could make my body feel such boggling sensations. His eyes, his voice, the width of his arms—even his handwriting has a baffling effect on me. These feelings are totally alien to me, and experiencing them with a man brings on small waves of uncertainty. Are these feelings normal? Are they safe?

The words of Dr. Reynolds echo through my memory. Not all men are bad. Be cautious, but also be open to enjoying what a healthy relationship can feel like, physically and mentally.

I exhale the breath I was holding while my mind and body struggled. “It’s called taro,” I finally say, enjoying his skeptical face as he inspects the straw.

“Bubbles are fucked up enough, but purple too?” He shakes his head and holds the drink up again.

“Try it.” I take a sip of mine, my eyes still peeking up at him. “It’s good. Trust me.”

A small, crooked grin touches his lips, making him look like a little boy who’s up to no good. It’s not a smile, though, so it doesn’t count toward my goal.

“You sure this is safe?” he asks.

“I promise.”

I watch him take a sip and suck one of the bubbles up through the wide straw. Out here, in the daylight, I can see the jagged, leathery scars that run along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his hair, and a scar in the shape of a jagged X at his throat. Something happened to him. Something bad. More scars are visible on the back of his hand and his fingers, wrapped around the plastic cup, the skin rippled and rough-looking. A gust of wind blows his hair away from his face, and he quickly looks down and to the side so his hair falls back over his scars. Then slowly, he raises his head back into the wind, letting his curtain of hair fan away from his scarred forehead, cheeks, and neck. His eyes meet mine as he sucks the tea up the straw, waiting for my reaction. He’s letting me see him. I breathe slowly, watching him, seeing him clearly for the first time. He’s more beautiful than I originally thought, and it makes my heart actually swell and ache.

“Well?” I ask when he pulls the straw from his lips, a quarter of the drink gone.

“It’s a good weird.” He mimics my words, winks at me, and pops one of the bubbles in his mouth.

A big smile curves my lips. “I’m glad you like it. I don’t work there any more.” He raises a questioning eyebrow at me, and I continue. “I had an…episode and they let me go.”

“Episode?”

Sighing, I watch a small windmill at the edge of his yard spin in the wind. “It’s stupid, really. I was working alone, and a bunch of people came in all at once. I got stressed, knocked some dishes over, had an anxiety attack, and passed out. They called an ambulance.”

“That happen often?”

If I tell him the truth, will he think badly of me? Will he think I’m a mess?

“I guess I feel overwhelmed sometimes. I’m not used to…people. Or doing things. Or much of anything, honestly, but I’m trying. I don’t pass out much, though. That was only like the second time in the past year.”

“You shouldn’t be walking around the woods alone. It’s not safe. You do know that, right?”

I think about it, sipping my drink. He’s right, but the difference is that with Tyler here with me, it feels like a different place. To me, these aren’t the same woods that haunt my dreams, where my nightmares, both in reality and in sleep, took place. Here, with Tyler, this is the forest I read about in books and daydreamed about for so long. These trees, this soil, this everything, is part of my happily ever after. I can feel it. I’m not going to tell him that, though.

“No, not really,” I finally say.

He doesn’t blink; his sky-blue eyes never leave me.

“Believe it or not, I’m not scared here, even though I know you found me not far from here, and I was kept in a dirty basement just a few miles from here. Hearing the birds chirping, seeing the clouds through the trees, even the breeze here is…comforting. It almost feels like home. I feel safer here than I do anywhere else.”

Slowly, he nods. “I hear ya.”

He lights up another cigarette, and I have to fight myself to not ask him why he smokes so much and tell him how unhealthy it is. It’s possible he fell asleep while smoking…maybe lit his bed on fire and woke up in a fiery inferno. I shudder.

“Why you keep coming back here?” he suddenly asks, and I get the feeling it’s been on his mind.

Because you’re my prince. You just don’t know it yet.

There’s no annoyance or accusation in his voice, but embarrassment still flushes my cheeks. “I miss Poppy. He was all I had for years. Just me and him.” We both look over at Poppy, lying in the sunlight next to the fox, who’s lying on his back, looking at us upside down.

“I really don’t have anywhere else to go,” I admit. “I don’t have any friends, well, except for my roommate.” I pause under the intensity of his stare. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing, like I missed that part in life where you decide what you’re going to do.” I pull my sweater sleeves farther down over my palms. “I meant what I said, as crazy as it might sound. I like it here in the woods. With you. I like hearing you talk. When you do. And I wanted to see if you would smile.”

He exhales and flicks ashes onto the ground. “You always so honest?”

I shrug awkwardly. “Yeah. I try to be.”

“It’s good,” he says, staring at the ground, his voice a bit raspier. “Don’t change it.”

He turns and goes back into his workshop, and I follow hesitantly, not sure if I’ve been dismissed or invited. “Like I said, I’m pretty sure I’m moving to New York with my brother in a few months, and I’d like to take Poppy with me. Until then…I thought maybe I could come here to see him,” I repeat, since I never got an answer the first time I asked. “I won’t get in your way, I promise.”

He places some metal into a vise on his workbench and turns it, not looking at me. I realize I sound desperate, and I hate it. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me.

“I could maybe help you with whatever it is you do?” I offer, trying to sound hopeful.

I notice his lip curve up slightly at that, like it’s an absurd idea that I could help.

“Or maybe we could just be friends?”

He looks up at me, his expression blank. “Friends?” The word comes out a little softer, less hoarse.

I can see him thinking about it and it spurs me on. “Yeah…we can be the kind of friends that don’t have to talk a lot, or even see each other every day, but we always just kinda know we’re not alone.”

He pins me with his bright eyes, then blinks and shakes his head. “We are alone,” he says, hurling his hammer into his toolbox, where it lands with a loud clang of metal.

“But we wouldn’t have to be…” I add, losing some of my earlier bravado, “if we had each other to talk to…”

His hooded eyes close for a moment, and he lets out an irritated huff of breath before he looks at me. “Let me think about it.”

I swallow nervously. “Okay.”

Resuming his stance of ignoring me, he goes back to his work, and since I have no idea if he expects me to leave, I plop my backpack down on the floor and settle next to it. Poppy and the fox immediately come over to me and take turns rolling over for belly rubs and trying to squeeze onto my lap. Tyler seems agitated by my offer of friendship and slips back into mute mode, only nodding or shrugging as I throw occasional questions and commentary at him from my spot on the floor. I try to remain smiling and hopeful but, on the inside, sadness is brewing. Earlier, I thought we were making progress as friends. But now I feel like we’ve taken a big step backward.

The more interaction I have with people, the more confused I get. I wonder if I am just as confusing to others. Perhaps it’s a human epidemic of sorts, to keep us all in a state of what-the-heck-is-going-on-ness.

When I see the sun is fading outside, I stand and announce that I should probably get going.

“Fine,” he replies reluctantly. “Come back tomorrow. I wasn’t ready for friends today.”

My heartbeat speeds up. “Really? I can come back?” I ask excitedly.

“At noon,” he grumbles.

“Okay. Noon is good.” I wait for him to look up from something he’s soldering, but he doesn’t. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Still nothing.

I say my goodbyes to Poppy and the fox, pick up my backpack, and slowly leave, closing the door to the garage behind me so the pets can’t chase after me. As I walk back to the road, I’m so lost in my thoughts about Tyler and his odd mood swings that it takes me a few seconds to process the fact that my driver is gone.

My head snaps to the left, then to the right, my eyes searching the desolate road, hoping the car will appear. The minutes tick by as I stand at the side of the road waiting. The sky grows darker. The air turns colder. The ache in the pit of my stomach deepens. She’s obviously not coming back.

Gripping the strap of my backpack tighter, I come to the conclusion I have two options. I can turn around and go back to Tyler’s house, or I can walk home. Glancing behind me, toward his house, I recall how he didn’t even say goodbye to me. Instead, he seemed relieved I was leaving. If I show up unexpectedly again, he will probably be even more annoyed. The drive here isn’t very long, so walking can’t take too much longer. I’m sure I can make it back to Merryfield before dark.

Pleased with my decision, I begin walking, crossing my arms over my chest against the freezing wind and wishing I had worn a warmer jacket. Not long ago I didn’t have any jacket or sweater to wear, and I shivered almost nonstop all winter long for years. A short walk home in the cold should be easy for me if I refocus my mind like I used to.

As I walk, the sun disappears completely, and the sky becomes darker and darker, and I haven’t even reached the town yet, proving that my ability to judge time and distance are still incredibly skewed. I honestly don’t have a clue how far away I am from Merryfield, or Tyler’s house, or the small town. There are very few streetlights and houses on this road, and they’re quite a distance apart, and that’s not easing my worries. I refocus that fear to anger, which is an easier emotion for me to deal with.

Why couldn’t my parents let me have a cell phone?

Why couldn’t my parents be open to the idea of me driving and having a car?

Instead, I’m now walking around in the dark, with no idea how far away I am from my own apartment, with no way to call for a ride.

I always seem to be finding myself trapped and alone in some way or another, and I can’t help wondering if it’s part of my destiny or some cruel stroke of recurring bad luck that’s going to plague me for my entire life.

The sound of an engine approaching from behind me fills the silence, and headlights illuminate the road. I’m not sure if I should hide in the trees on the side of the road or try to get their attention and ask for a ride. Can I trust a random stranger to drive me home?

No. It could be another bad man.

Tucking my head down, I continue to walk, but as the engine gets closer, I realize it’s a motorcycle and not a car. It passes me with a loud rumble then pulls over to the side of the road a few feet ahead of me. I stop walking when the engine turns off and the red brake light goes with it. The rider kicks the kickstand down and swings his leg over the bike. Even though he’s nothing but a large shadowy figure in the dark, I know it’s Tyler Grace. I can feel his vibe. He walks toward me, the metal buckles on his boots making a faint clink with each step.

“I keep finding women,” he muses, stopping about two feet in front of me, close enough for me to see he’s wearing the half-skull mask that I saw him wearing that day at the traffic light. “What do you think that means?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply, wondering who else he’s found and why he wears the scary masks when he rides.

“Well, at least you didn’t run.”

“Why would I run from you?”

His eyes stay on mine as he pulls the mask off then removes his leather jacket. “You blind? Can’t see my fucked-up face? Or the psycho mask? Take your pick.”

His words both shock and hurt me. Obviously, he’s much bolder with his thoughts in the dark.

“You don’t—”

He thrusts the jacket toward me. “Put this on.”

“Why?”

“’Cuz you’ll freeze your ass off on the bike.”

I squeak at the mere idea of getting on the back of that motorcycle with him, being forced to be so close to him, to have to put my hands on him to keep from falling off. Oh my God. I think I’d rather keep walking.

He steps closer, and I’m still so lost in the anxiety of either getting on the bike with him or walking for who knows how long that I let him take my backpack out of my hand, and I slip my arms through the sleeves of his jacket. It easily fits over my own, the sleeves hanging inches past my fingertips. Warmth, tobacco, and cedar linger in the worn leather, encapsulating me in his raw masculinity as if I’ve stepped inside him. Slowly, he drags the front zipper up, sending comforting warmth through my veins. His fingers shake —maybe from the cold —and linger at the pulse of my throat, at the end of the zipper trail. I feel like a little girl again—safe, protected, taken care of.

Innocent.

“Won’t you be cold now?” I ask, my voice quivering. “Without your jacket?”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

I follow him to his bike, my legs weak and wobbly with growing apprehension. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I haven’t even been on a bicycle since I was a little girl. Even scarier than that is how close I’ll be to him. The seat is small, with no backrest and nothing to hold onto. Except him.

“You gonna pass out?” he asks, eyeing me as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“I might,” I admit.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, then… “But you never know…you might like it fast, too.”

I smile weakly, wondering why my heart has suddenly started to beat faster and my cheeks are flushing with heat even though I’m cold. Something about his voice…his words…

He throws his leg over the bike, settles onto the seat, and kicks the kickstand up in one smooth, natural motion, like the bike is an extension of his body. His head tilts toward me as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it up with the same silver lighter he always seems to have in his pocket. “All aboard, sugar.”

The act of jumping behind him and parting my thighs around the back of his body is making me feel woozy in a strange, electrifying way.

When I tell you to spread, you spread. I’ll break your fucking legs.

I rub the back of my neck nervously.

Get out of my head. Please. You’re dead…

He exhales smoke tendrils from his nostrils like a mystical dragon. “Tell me what you’re scared of.”

Being lost forever.

Never feeling normal.

I stare down at the ground, fighting the fears in my head until he reaches toward me and hooks his pinky finger into mine, tugging gently. “I could walk you home,” he suggests in his soft, scratchy way. Our voices are intimate in the quiet of the chilly night air, like we’re the only two people who exist.

My head snaps up, and tears instantly pool in my eyes when I see the depth of sincerity in his. He’s not kidding. He’ll leave his bike right here on the side of the road and walk me home, in the cold and the dark, just so I won’t be alone.

“No…that would be silly,” I reply.

“Not if it’s what you want.” His finger tightens around mine, connecting us in the tiniest, sweetest way possible, somehow knowing anything more would be too much for me.

“I appreciate that…very much.” Hesitantly, I curl my finger around his, returning the gesture and the silent understanding attached to it.

His fingers press against his lips as he takes a drag from his cigarette. I realize I’m way too captivated with his mannerisms, his habits, his voice… “Focus on where you are.” I’m fascinated with how he talks, with the smoke still in his lungs, making his voice deeper and huskier. “And who you’re with.” Turning his head, he blows three small circles of smoke into the air. “It’s just a ride home.” He turns back to me and gives my finger another reassuring tug, stealing my attention from the floating hoops. “You trust me?”

He saved my life. He killed for me.

He’s holding my pinky finger in his.

I shift my gaze to meet his. “I think you’re the only person I trust.”

Releasing my finger, he cocks his head to the back of the bike, to the tiny square of leather behind him. “Show me.”

I throw my backpack strap over my shoulder. He lifts the mask over his face. Shoving all anxiety aside, I put my hand on his shoulder for balance and climb onto the seat behind him, resting my feet on the bullet-shaped foot pegs. I stiffen when he reaches behind him, grabs my hands in his, and places them on his waist. His palms press against the backs of my hands, holding me until I relax and curl my fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

The feeling of exhilaration and freedom is empowering as we cruise down the dark road, and he was right—I want to go faster, feel freer, let the wind and the road detox me of all the poisons. His hair whips into my face as I lean over his shoulder and breathe one word into his ear: faster. Laughing, he grabs one of my hands, pulls it around his waist, and places it over his belt buckle. Fear flashes through me, but I swallow it, force it away before the voice comes. I will not freak out. I will not pull away. I’m allowed to have a few minutes of fun. I’m allowed to be close to a man.

Clamping my eyes shut, I wrap my other arm around him and hold onto him tight. It doesn’t matter that I’m on the back of a motorcycle with a guy with a scary skull mask over his face. All that matters to me right now is I feel free, safe, and brave.

I’m with my prince.

Sadness washes over me when he pulls the bike into the parking lot of Merryfield. I’m not ready to step back into life yet and would rather stay in the fantasy world the ride on the motorcycle created—even if only for a few more minutes.

Just as I’m about to point out my apartment in the row of buildings, he heads right for it and parks the bike not far away, in a guest parking spot, the one farthest from the light. He knows where I live. He touches my leg lightly as he turns the engine off then lightly taps me, letting me know it’s okay to jump off now.

“I liked that way more than I thought I would.”

He pulls the mask down to reveal a crooked grin as he gets off the bike and stands next to it. “Good to know.”

I’m not sure what to do or say now. Do I just thank him for the ride and go inside? Do I invite him in? Or does that send a bad message? We never talked about this kind of thing in my therapy sessions. I glance up at him, and he’s staring off toward the road, looking just as confused as I feel, which is almost comforting.

“I got your card and the picture. On Christmas Day,” I say finally, smiling shyly. “I loved it. It really made me happy.”

He studies my face, not reacting or responding. I can’t stop staring into his eyes or letting my gaze linger on other parts of his beautiful face, the angle of his jaw, the slight stubble on his cheeks and chin. I think he could have been a model, before what happened. He angles his head down toward me. For a second, I think…oh my…he’s going to kiss me, and my pulse goes into crazy rapid beats, and I pray I don’t faint. But all he does is lift his hand to pull a dead leaf out of my long hair, and I feel a slight tug as he gently pulls out whatever other bits are tangled in the strands. He flicks the pieces away just like he does with his cigarettes. I wonder how long I had a leaf on my head, and how silly I must have looked. Hopefully, it got stuck in there during the bike ride and not earlier. How embarrassing.

He doesn’t move away after he removes the leaf; instead, he stands there smelling of smoke, pine trees, and leather—just like his jacket, which I’m still engulfed in—and the scent transports me back to a year ago when he pulled me out of the hole and I fell against him. He smelled the same then, and it was frightening and inviting at the same time, just like it is now. Standing this close, with barely three inches of space between us, I feel his body heat, and it makes my insides quiver.

I have to force my brain to think, calm down, and not be so obviously affected by him, to not let him invade all of my senses. With the bad man, I had to hide my feelings to avoid a reaction from him. But Dr. Reynolds said I have to learn to let people see my feelings, and I have to let them have their own feelings. She said most people are good and genuine, not menacing or manipulative. Trying to retrain myself to believe that is difficult and confusing. Trusting people is hard.

“So… How did you get up there, onto the second floor of my parent’s house?”

“I’m good at climbing.”

Hmm.

“How did you know I would be there? Or which window was mine?”

His head tilts slightly to the side. “Maybe just a lucky guess?” His voice has a slight teasing tone, but we both know there’s more to it than guessing.

I wait then realize he’s not going to say anything else about the matter. I blink up at him. “Oh. Okay…well, if you do it again…climb up to my windows…be careful.”

His eyes flash with a darker emotional intensity. “Afraid I might fall?” he asks and, again, his words seem like they might be hinting at something else entirely.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Me too.” The rasp is deeper now, raw and scratchier. It reaches my heart and drips down to my thighs. I feel like melted butter. I feel like I’m dreaming.

Are we talking about windows anymore?

I blink at him.

“You got a cell phone?” he asks, his voice still low.

The question throws me. “No. I have no one to call. My parents don’t want me to have things like that.”

He scoffs and leans closer to me again, tilting his head down toward my ear. “Don’t be a prisoner anymore, Holly,” he says softly. His breath makes me shiver, and my hands itch to reach up, to touch his arms or clutch his shirt, but I fist them at my sides, not wanting to do anything to break the spell we seem to be caught under.

“I’m trying,” I whisper back, although I’m not exactly sure what he means.

We pull back at the same time, and our faces are so close I can almost feel his skin graze against mine. I shiver all over again, head to toe, everywhere.

“I think I should go inside.” I unzip his jacket and slowly pull it off. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Tomorrow. Noon.” His eyes lower, his chest rising and falling as he shoves his arms into the leather jacket and lifts his hair out from beneath the collar.

“Okay.” I wonder what happened to my taxi girl and why she left me. Surely she must have had a good reason. I’ll call her in the morning and give her a chance to explain before I find a new driver, which is something I’d rather not have to do.

“Thanks for the good weirdness, Holly.” Straightening, he gives me a smile, which has a glint of wickedness in its curve, and gets back on his bike.

He said my name. And he smiled. At me. I feel the way those girls look, on the TV shows I spent so much time watching, when the guy they like finally pays attention to them. I feel giddy and nauseous, scared and happy and glowy. For the first time ever, I feel like a real girl. Nothing has ever felt better.