Tied

“I wasn’t fishing,” she protests, a pout gracing her face like a child.

She was definitely fishing, but I don’t mind giving her some reassurance when she needs it. Grinning, I hand her the cup of tea and sit on the couch across the tiny room. Boomer is asleep in his favorite spot, crammed under the small stairway that leads to the loft, which is good because when he’s awake he likes to tear around the house and knock things over. He also likes to pull socks and shoes off people and run and hide with them.

Holly gazes around the inside of my small house with genuine interest, studying the nature photographs on my walls—which I took myself—the miniature inset lights in various places, the incense holders on the mantle, my bookshelf filled with my collection of books by Stephen King, Madeleine L’Engle, Anne Rice, and Marquis de Sade, and the statues of foxes, wolves, angels and grim reapers that Tor’s friend-turned-girlfriend leaves for me by the dog feeding stations and traps that they set up in the woods when we think there’s a lost dog in this area. I check the stations at night and early morning, and I’m hoping maybe someday Holly will go with me like Kenzi does with Tor.

Holly’s eyes rove over the full-size fireplace, which is the focal point of the house, with its gray stone chimney reaching all the way up to the second-floor loft, and thick stone mantle.

“You built all this?” she asks.

“Me and my brother Tanner. There was a house here before, but we knocked it down. The garage was here, but I just fixed that up.”

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Thanks. Tiny houses are kind of a fad, but that’s not why I live in one. I only wanted what I needed.” I take a sip of my tea. She’s the only woman who’s ever been in here, other than my mother and my sister, and that was a long time ago, before I told them I never wanted them to come back. I couldn’t stand seeing the sadness in their eyes or the way my mother constantly touched her wedding band, rubbing her finger over the white gold like it was a genie’s lamp, missing my father with every breath she took. I couldn’t take seeing the damage I’d caused the people I loved.

Holly’s sweet voice floats across the room, sucking me back from the edge. “It’s so cozy and warm. I thought I would be scared, or feel cramped, but I’m not. I feel like I’d never want to leave.”

Then don’t. “Isn’t that what a home should be? A place you’d never want to leave?”

“I hope so,” she agrees. “I don’t feel like that at my apartment, though. Or at my parents’.”

“Because home is more than a bunch of walls and floors.”

With a faraway look, she nods and wraps her hands around her mug. I wonder if anyone ever hugs her, or if she has to constantly comfort herself. I want to pull her into my arms, show her what it’s like to let someone else make her feel better and not hurt her. “That’s true, Tyler,” she says softly.

“Someday, you’ll have your home. A real home.”

She smiles weakly. “I’m hoping when I move to New York I’ll feel that way, with Zac and Anna.”

I clear my throat, not trusting my voice to reply to that. I’m going to need a better truck if I plan on road-tripping out to New York to visit her. My old rustbucket truck isn’t gonna make it there in one piece.

“My parents gave my old room to my little sister. She was born after I was taken.” She stares into her tea. She hasn’t talked about her family much, and I haven’t pried, so I’m surprised she’s bringing them up.

“How does that make you feel?”

“Replaced.” My heart wrenches for her. “And jealous.”

“Totally understandable feelings.” Sometimes I’m her friend. At other times I’m her therapist. She takes on those same roles with me.

I want more than that with her, though. I want to taste her lips, stare into her eyes, wrap my hands around her tiny waist…

“They told my little sister I was dead,” she continues. “And now that I’m not dead, they’re all awkward when I visit. It’s like they don’t want me there. I can feel it. I make them uncomfortable. I think they think I’m dirty. They barely even talk to me or look at me.”

“People can be assholes when they have no idea how to deal with their feelings. It’s not you. It’s them.” Yes, listen to the poster child of how not to deal with your fucked-up feelings.

She grips her mug tighter and gazes out the window. “You’re the only one that seems to understand. My doctor listens…but she’s paid to. And Feather—she understands, but her situation is different. Nobody really knows what happened to her. It wasn’t made public like what happened to me. Her outsides are normal. She’s beautiful. People only know what happened to her if she tells them.” She licks her lips nervously. “I kinda envy that about her.”

“You’re beautiful on the outside and the inside, Holly.” Honestly, she’s not just beautiful—she’s fucking breathtaking and sexy. If we weren’t two majorly fucked-up people, full of scars and rampant dysfunction, I’d be going out of my mind hitting on her.

Her cheeks flush at my compliment, and her eyes shift back down to her teacup. “I feel like I’m made out of glass and everyone can see…everything. Like I’m a big gaping window. They know…what that man did to me. I want to just forget it. But it’s hard when people look at me a certain way and then bring it all up, like they have the right to ask me questions.”

“Just remember you didn’t do those things. Those things were done to you.”

“I know, but…”

“I know it’s hard. People can fucking suck. They do it to me, too. They think my scars will jump onto their own skin and make them ugly. They cringe when they hear me talk. They call me a murderer, a monster, a freak.”

Her eyes squint closed as if each word I say hurts her. “Oh my God. You’re not any of those things! How do you deal with that?” Her voice is strained with compassion.

“I fuckin’ don’t anymore. Everything I need is right here. Everyone can fuck off.”

“But…what if you want to go out…like shopping, or to dinner?”

“I’m a vegetarian. I don’t go out to eat. I make my own food.”

“So you really don’t go out at all?” she asks, her mystical eyes widening.

“Nope.” I shrug. “Unless it’s dark out and I don’t have to interact with judgmental douchebags. I’m over it. Most things I need I can have delivered or one of my brothers will bring it to me. I ride my bike at night, that’s my escape outta here if I feel stir crazy. But I like it here in my little fucking bubble.”

She nods in slow agreement. “I’ve never told anyone this,” she whispers. “But sometimes…I feel like being locked away was easier. I didn’t have to make decisions or try to fit in. I knew what I was dealing with, if that makes sense?”

I nod and take another sip of my tea.

“Out here, I have no idea what people want, how they’re going to act, what they want from me. Being free is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

I clear my throat. “I get what you’re saying, sugar. You just have to find your groove.”

“What about you? Is this your groove, or are you still trying to find yours, too?”

I love how she’s not afraid to ask me questions. And I love how she listens to me so intently, like a sponge. That actually makes me want to open up to her more.

I let out a sigh, lean back in the couch, and put my foot up on my coffee table. “I think this is mostly my groove. Most days, I’m content. I can live with the choices I’ve made. That’s what I need the most—peace of mind.”

“But are you happy? Because you don’t seem very happy to me.”

Me? Happy? “I kinda forgot about being happy and just wanted to find peace. But I’m happy when you’re here with me. You wanted to make me smile, and you do. That’s not an easy feat.” I wink at her from behind my cup, because I like the way it makes her eyes twinkle. She’s a hard one to read—sometimes she trembles and her eyes go dark with terror if I stand too close or touch her in a casual way, and other times she looks at me like she’s totally ga-ga over me. Without knowing it, she twists me all up, oblivious to the way her fear knocks on the door of my hidden desires and her sweetness melts the ice around my heart and lulls the voices in my head.

Not for the first time, I wonder if I do the same for her.

“I like when you smile,” she says softly.

Today, she’s ga-ga.

“Where’s your television?” she suddenly asks, looking around the room.

“Don’t have one.”

This fascinates her; her eyes are big like an owl’s as she stares at me. “Really? You don’t?”

“I’d rather read or go for a walk.”

“I had a TV…” She shifts in the chair nervously. “Back then. I watched it almost nonstop. It got to the point where I almost thought those people in the TV were my family. I didn’t have a calendar, or a clock, or a window to see if it was day or night, so it was hard for me to figure out when my favorite shows were going to be on, so I would just sit and watch and wait.”