Tied

He’s a magnet, I convince myself. That’s why me and the fox keep coming back. It’s not because we’re desperate. It’s something about him.

When we get to his yard, he points to an old wrought-iron bench that appears to be in what will be a flower and rock garden when the winter season has ended, and we sit on it together. Without thinking, I put about two feet of distance between us.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket, pulls out a cell phone, and holds it out to me. “For you,” he says softly.

I stare at it, my brow furrowing, not sure what he means. “I’m sorry?”

“I got it for you.”

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Wow…” I hold the silver phone in my hand, not sure what to do with it or how to even say thank you for such an unexpected gift.

“I had my brother pick it up for me. I don’t do stores.”

“I-I don’t know how to use it,” I stammer. “And I don’t really have any calls to make…”

Ignoring my protests, he reaches over and presses the power button, and when his scarred fingers brush across mine, an electric tingle runs up my arm. I wonder if that feeling will ever stop. If he were to touch me every day, for the rest of my life, would I still feel it? And is it crazy if I want to find out? I don’t believe what Feather said this morning, that everlasting love can’t happen with him. My heart knows better.

“You should have one. For emergencies.”

Statements like that always make me want to burst out into insane hysterics. I had many emergencies over the past ten years that I managed to live through, yet people like Feather freak out if she’s half an hour late to meet Steve, and then she makes ten phone calls to let him know, like some terrible tragedy is happening, when it’s actually just that she can’t find the perfect shirt or can’t find her black eyeliner.

I run my finger along the smooth edge of the rectangular phone. My first cell phone. Does this mean he might call me?

As if reading my mind, he says, “It’s easier to talk. With texts. For me.”

Ohhh. I had forgotten about texting. Like Feather and Steve do all the time, with little smiley faces and three-letter codes that I don’t understand. I’ll have to ask Feather for a cheat sheet.

“If you want to,” he adds quickly. Behind the shaggy hair covering half his face, he slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine, and it feels like a visual caress, the way they change color from turquoise to sapphire and back again like a kaleidoscope. Long ago I learned how to read the eyes of a man, to use them as a meter to gauge mood and intention.

In Tyler’s eyes, I see the man behind the scars and the mask, the man he was before life tore him apart and drove him to hide in the woods. Before some tragedy made him a man who could strangle someone to death. Just like me, there’s a person hiding in there who had their very soul stolen from them, and I see him, trying to let me in.

I see him trying to get out.

“I want to.” My voice shakes, and so does my hand holding the phone. “Very much.”

He spends the next half hour showing me how to use the phone to make calls and how to text back and forth. He adds himself to my contacts and shows me how to use the camera. He takes a photo of Boomer and adds it as the photo for “Tyler” in the contact profile. I want to use a picture of him, but he refuses, agitation instantly evident in his eyes and body language at the mention of capturing him with a photograph. He does, however, take a photo of me holding Poppy and uses that for my profile in his phone.

Slowly, our walls are deteriorating.

“Let me give you some money for the phone,” I say, reaching for my backpack, where my wallet is hidden.

“No.”

“I’m sure it was expensive. I have money my father gives me.”

He grabs my hand, stopping me before I reach my wallet and, for a moment, I freeze as old demons rise to the surface. Sensing my reaction, he immediately lets go.

“Sorry. The phone’s a gift.” He coughs into his hand. “For you.”

I’ve noticed after he talks for a while, his voice becomes wheezy, cracking over certain words and shifting in odd places. Matching his mood and intention to his tone of voice must be difficult, and maybe that’s why he’d rather not talk. Thankfully for me, his eyes are very expressive of his feelings, and I’m sure once I get to know him better, words won’t even be necessary for me to know what he’s thinking.

“Thank you.” I put the phone in my backpack along with my wallet. “Does it hurt?” I ask softly, treading lightly because I know all too well how much a simple question can offend. “When you talk?”

His lip twitches. “Not really. Just dry. Fatigued. It’s fucked up.”

I don’t ask how it happened, and he doesn’t tell me. I hope maybe someday our friendship will be in a place where we can share our pasts, but I have no problem waiting. Time and patience are two things I can offer in abundance.

“Will drinking help?” I ask.

“Quit drinking years ago.”

“Um…I meant water. Or tea.” I bet honey would help soothe his throat, and I make a mental note to read up on that.

He lets out a gruff laugh. “Water helps a little.” He stands up from the bench and tilts his head at me. “Want to do something with me?”

My mind spins with excitement and nervousness. Yes. No. What?

“Sure,” I answer, rising to my feet with him.

I follow him inside the large garage, where he walks to a corner with some workout equipment and weights and returns with a large plastic storage box. Lifting the lid, he reveals what’s inside. Christmas ornaments…garland…and wrapped presents with big bows.

Excitement bubbles up inside me. “We’re going to decorate a tree?” I ask, almost hopping up and down with happiness. His lips turn up into a handsome yet slightly snarky grin. “Yeah. This one is late.” I wonder what that means as he pulls a Santa hat out of the box and puts it on his head. “No laughing,” he warns. “I have to wear it.” I can’t help smiling, but I don’t laugh. There must be a story here, with the trees and the hat, and I’m not about to do anything to make him not want to tell me all about it someday.

Poppy and Boomer accompany us as we walk up into the woods, farther than I’ve walked before.

“You pick,” he says.

I glance up at him. “I get to pick the tree?”

When he nods, I start to scope out all the trees in the area, trying to find the perfect shape and fullness, but it’s an imperfect tree that catches my eye, set apart from the others, almost like it’s the outcast. It’s short, its branches aren’t as full, and it has a few dead spots, but once the decorations are on, it’ll be beautiful.

“This one,” I announce.

Tyler sets the box down on the ground and silently starts to decorate it. I watch him for a few minutes, admiring how meticulous and thoughtful he is about placing the decorations, and then I help him. When the last red globe has been hung, he places six wrapped boxes under the tree, just like in my photographs and the tree I saw in the woods the day I saw him and Poppy.

“This is the last tree,” he says. “Until next year.”

“How many do you decorate?” I ask.

“Six.”

Six. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that there are also six wrapped presents.

“I’d love to hear how you started doing this,” I say. “The girl in the store where I bought the photos said it’s like a legend out here. She said the little kids love to hear about it, and people hunt for the trees.”

He nods, the white pouf on the hat bouncing, the small bell jingling. “My father started it. When I was little, he brought me up here to look for a tree to cut to bring home.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I was like, why can’t we just decorate it here? For the animals? Why cut it and drag it out of its home?” He smiles at the memory, and I smile too, picturing a young Tyler in my mind, same shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. “The next day we came back. We both wore the hats. We sang. We decorated the tree. I was all excited.” He takes a deep breath. “Dad said, ‘We’re going to do this every year and make it our own tradition, just me and you.’ Christmas day was my dad’s birthday. He wanted to do something special with me. I’m one of six kids, and he tried to make each one of us feel special. This was our thing.”

“Ty…you should have told me it was your father’s birthday too,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“We don’t celebrate it anymore. Other than doing this.” He stares off to a faraway place I can’t see, his face shadowed.

“Why six trees?” I ask softly, hoping to bring him back.

He takes out his pack of cigarettes, pulls one out with this mouth, and lights it.

“One for me and one for each of my brothers and sister. It was my idea, when I was little, to decorate one for each of them even though they never actually saw the trees.”

Poppy and Boomer frolic around the tree, the fox especially interested in the present boxes, sniffing them and nudging them with his rust-colored nose.

“It means a lot to me you told me. I’ve been fascinated with the story since I heard about it, and it’s even more special to me now.”