He moves a few ornaments to different branches as I talk, not meeting my eyes.

“Your Dad sounds like a really nice man.”

“Yeah. He was.”

Was. Past tense. Meaning he’s gone. He must be heartbroken missing him, and that must be where his sadness is stemming from.

“Thank you for letting me share this with you,” I say. “I’m not part of any of my family’s traditions. I’m not even sure if they have any or ever did. To be honest, they barely even talk to me. You’re lucky.”

He kneels and puts the lid back on the box. “I was lucky, Holly. Now I’m just a mess.”

He ends the conversation by picking up the box, whistling for the dogs, and walking back in the direction of his house. All I can do is follow him in silence.

I’m not sure how I never noticed it before, but he has an old pickup truck parked on the other side of the garage. It’s tan and rusty with oversized tires, the leather bench seat ripped from age. It suits him perfectly, though. He drives me home in it, and it’s loud and bouncy, the tires rumbling over the road like an animal. Neither the radio nor the heat works, but I’m not bothered by it. I’m on a high from spending half the day with him, Poppy, and Boomer.

When he parks in the small lot in front my apartment unit to let me out, I’m not sure how to say goodbye, and the awkwardness reminds me how socially behind I still am. I put my hand on the door handle, my other hand clutching my backpack, wondering if and when I’ll see him again or if today was just a one-time thing. He doesn’t look at me as I hesitate; he just stares out the windshield, deep in thought once again.

“Thank you again for the phone,” I say. “And for today.” Is it appropriate to thank a guy for sharing part of his life with you? Or am I hammering more nails into my own coffin of social inadequacy?

He nods at me again and I tell myself it’s because he talked a lot today and his voice grew hoarser and hoarser as the day went on, so he’s probably tired. Taking a breath, I try to pull the inside handle of the truck door, but it’s stuck, not budging under my grip.

“I can’t—”

He reaches across the bench seat, his arm stretching across my body, and yanks the door handle. It opens with a loud creak, and I worry it might break right off its hinges. His face is so close to mine his hair brushes across my cheek, soft and wispy like a feather. Leaning back into his space behind the wheel, he takes his sunglasses off the rearview mirror and puts them on, hiding his eyes from me just when I want to see them the most. Does he feel like I do when we’re close to each other? Does he feel that odd shimmy shiver?

“Talk soon,” he says. “Slam the door shut.”

I jump out of the truck and gingerly push the door shut, still nervous it might crumble into a pile of rust, and he immediately drives away. One thing I’ve quickly figured out is Tyler is really bad at hellos and goodbyes. I feel a small amount of consolation that he’s even worse at it than I am, so maybe he doesn’t notice how much I struggle.

Later that night, when I’m lying in bed reading one of the books Zac and Anna gave me for Christmas, I hear a strange noise in my room. Putting the book down on my comforter, I glance around the room in confusion, and I hear it again.

The sound of a tiny bell, coming from my leather trunk.

I crawl out of bed, pull my backpack from the trunk, and fish inside it for the cell phone. It’s screen is lit up, and the text message indicator is on.

My heartbeats speed up to an unnatural and frightening pace. My first text message. Holding the phone close to me, I get back in bed and pull the blanket over myself before sliding my finger across the tiny screen to read the message, which is, of course, from Tyler Grace.

Tyler: :-)

A tiny yellow smiley face.

I type one back, just like he showed me.

Holly: :-)

Tyler: :-)

I frown at the screen. Is this what texting is?

The phone dings again.

Tyler: You asked me two questions today. About my voice and the trees. Now it’s my turn.

Holly: Okay. That’s fair.

Tyler: Tell me about the backpack. You had it that day I found you. You always have it.

He went from smiley faces to something so deeply personal and hard to talk about that I don’t even know how to begin to explain. I suppose I did the same to him, though, asking about his voice and the decorated trees, and he answered me.

Holly: My favorite books are in it. I read them every day when I was little, before I was kidnapped. I had it with me the day he took me. He let me keep it, and I kept reading them every day. I had nothing else. Maybe it’s silly but the books made me feel safe. I made myself believe I was part of the stories.

A few seconds go by, and he replies.

Tyler: That’s not silly. Not at all. We all need something to help us escape

Holly: They still make me feel safe. I feel unsettled without them with me all the time.

I read the text back to myself, and I’m afraid I sound like a weirdo.

Holly: Its hard to explain.

Tyler: You explained it perfectly. Now I understand.

I let out a small breath of relief.

Tyler: I get another question

Holly: Okay.

I brace myself for what could be next. I had no idea texting could be so stressful.

Tyler: Do you want to see Poppy tomorrow?

Smiling, I type back quickly:

Holly: Does Poppy want to see me?

Tyler: You can’t answer a question with a question. It’s in the texting rulebook.

Ah, he has a sense of humor.

Holly: I would like to see Poppy

Tyler: He says to be ready at noon. That a good time?

Holly: Yes

Tyler: We’ll pick you up :-)

Still smiling, I keep my eyes on the screen, waiting to see if he sends something else. How do people end texts? Am I supposed to say goodbye? Send another smiley face? Send a different face? I fall asleep with the phone in my hand and dream of sky-blue eyes.

16

Tyler

This lost girl with the stormy eyes has become my caffeine, my morphine, my new drug of choice. I can no longer get through a day without a shot of her, whether it be seeing her or just a simple text message. And like any addiction, as much as I enjoy it, I know it’s something that I can’t do forever, and I’ll eventually have to quit it and forget it.

For the past month we’ve texted and had random conversations in the garage while I work, and she’s become the closest thing to a real friend I’ve had in a long time. With each day that’s passed, I’ve noticed little changes in her. Her confidence has grown. She smiles and laughs more. She’s developed her own style. She reminds me of how Boomer was when I first found him, so scared and timid at first, afraid of me getting too close to him. Slowly, over time, he learned to trust me and grew attached to me. I realize that was a mistake on my part because it prevented him from going out and living a normal fox life.

I can almost feel the same thing happening with Holly, because as much as I want to see her go off on her own, move to New York, and do amazing things with her life, I’m going to miss the hell out of her.

I’m selfish as fuck. I want to keep her all to myself.

Finders, keepers…

Right now she’s burning the shit out of my clutch and giving me whiplash while I try to teach her how to drive my old pickup, and I can’t even be mad because she looks so cute and serious in the driver’s seat, barely able to reach the pedals or see over the steering wheel.

“Aren’t there easier cars?” she asks as she stalls it again on the dirt road and both our heads slam forward. My inner mechanic groans.

“Yeah, an automatic, but I don’t have one.”

“Maybe having other people drive me around wasn’t so bad after all,” she says, trying to start the truck again.

“You’re doing great.” I try to make my voice sound reassuring. “You’re going to pass that test.”

I hate this shit of her parents not letting her have a car or wanting her to have a cell phone. I can’t wrap my head around what they think they’re accomplishing. Making her walk or take a taxi everywhere is in no way safer than driving, and if they think it is, they’re out of their damn minds. The more she tells me about them, the more I don’t like or understand them. It’s almost like they want her to continue to be secluded.

She doesn’t know it, but I already have a car for her, waiting in the parking lot of my brother’s motorcycle shop. It’s just a little all-wheel-drive SUV with about ninety thousand miles on it, but it’s clean and dent-free, and it runs good. If she’s moving to New York, she won’t need a car anyway, from what I gather, but at least while she’s here, she’ll be able to get around like the adult that she actually is. In the meantime, I don’t want to think about her moving to New York because it makes me feel ragey.

“I think without this clutch thing I might be okay,” she says, almost sideswiping the corner of the garage with the side mirror as she parks. I nod and rub the back of my neck, which is starting to ache from the constant jerking of the truck. Seeing her smile and learn something new makes it worth it, though, and it reminds me of when my father taught me how to drive his old truck. This same truck, actually.

I jump out of the truck and walk around to the driver’s side door, open it, and help her out. She touches my shoulder lightly as she jumps down but quickly pulls it away as soon as she’s on her feet, and that old familiar burn of rejection manifests in my chest.