“How long have you had him?”

“About four years.”

“Poppy seems to really like him. I’m not sure if Poppy has ever been around another animal, or why he sounds funny. I don’t know where the bad man got him from.”

She always refers to him as “the bad man,” and I wonder if she knows his real name was Donald J. Loughlin and he was a forty-two-year-old middle school teacher, with a wife, two kids, and a beagle, who drove a four-door Toyota. He had no criminal record and no history of drug or alcohol use, but he had quite the hidden collection of porn featuring little girls and anime dolls.

And I know exactly where Poppy came from, thanks to the microchip he has. Ten-year-old Poppy once belonged to a local elderly woman who had him debarked because he barked too much. When she passed away, her daughter brought him to my mother’s animal shelter and, two months later, Donald J. Loughlin, pedophile extraordinaire, came in and adopted him, apparently extremely intrigued by the fact he couldn’t bark. Later we found out he told the volunteer at the shelter who processed the paperwork that he suffered from migraines, so the dog would be perfect. After Holly’s parents basically told me to shove the dog up my ass, I decided to keep him.

I’m not going to tell Holly any of this, though.

“They got along right away,” I assure her. “Boomer didn’t really give him a choice. He decided they were gonna be best buds, and Poppy didn’t really have a say.” I wink at her, and she squeezes my hand tighter, so tight that I hate to tell her we’ve reached the place I had planned on us sitting because I don’t want her to let go.

“Let’s sit here.” I reluctantly release her hand and spread an old, frayed blanket I brought with us on the ground, next to a large rock, for us to sit on. The rock is almost the size of half my truck and about twenty feet from the river, which has thawed out and is slowly flowing downhill. We both take off our jackets, the walk here having warmed us up enough that sweaters are just enough to be comfortable, and we settle down on the blanket. This is one of my favorite places to come and relax. I used to come here to smoke a joint every day, but since I’ve quit that, now I just come here to chill out and get my head together.

Knowing she feels uncomfortable with too much silence, I pull up my favorite playlist on my cell phone and set it off to the side on low volume, so we have some background noise in addition to the sound of the river behind us.

“You remember everything,” she says softly, pulling her new blanket into her lap.

“I try to.”

She lies down flat on her back, pulling the blanket over her, and stares up at the sky. “I love watching the clouds. I think I could stare at the clouds and the stars every day for the rest of my life and never get bored of it.”

“You’d love my loft bedroom. I have a skylight right over the bed.”

She squints up at me. “What’s a skylight?”

“It’s a window in the ceiling, so you can see the sky.”

The way her mouth falls open in awe is priceless and adorable. “Are you serious? There’s ceiling windows?”

“Yup.”

“I had no idea.”

“You’re welcome to check mine out any time you want. I’ll stay downstairs.”

She turns her attention back to the sky, but her mind has drifted as far away from me as those clouds. I can’t tell if giving her distance makes her feel safe or unwanted. We have so many fucked-up gray areas between us we’re practically a black-and-white movie.

“Can I lie down next to you?”

There’s that flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, that moment when I can see her breath catch in her throat—most likely a thousand bad memories rampaging through her mind—and it sucks that I’m always the cause of it, constantly having to scare her to move forward with her.

And why am I even trying to move forward when I know damn well one or both of us will end up getting hurt or left behind? Because, even in pain, there’s a degree of pleasure, and I can’t stop myself from wanting my own little shred of that.

“Okay,” she finally replies, and I lie next to her, leaving half a foot of safe space between us, and she gently spreads the blanket over me.

“Does it make you feel safe, too?” Her soft voice has taken on a nervous lilt, and it makes my heart pound harder.

“Yeah. It does.”

Poppy and Boomer join us, curling up at the end of the blanket for a nap after their game of chase and leaf stalking.

“I love being here with you and them…hearing the river…watching the clouds…having a soft blanket…I feel so free, like I can breathe.” She turns to me, her blond hair cascading around her head against the flannel blanket. “Is that strange?”

“Not at all, sugar. You were forced to live in a state of defense for a long time. I think your brain and your body are just finally learning to relax.”

“I like how you put that.” She looks up at the clouds again. “I want to live in a place like this. Do you think New York is like this?”

“Not if it’s the city, but there are parts of New York like this.” I’ve always loved living here in this remote corner of the woods I’ve carved out for myself, but having her here lately has made it complete. She’s like the star on top of the Christmas tree—that final glittering touch that brings it all together.

“I hope I can relax there, like this.”

“I’m sure you will. Every day, you’re getting stronger. I can see it.”

“So are you.”

“Me?” I ask. “How so?”

“You smile more. You don’t seem as mad. You don’t hide your face from me anymore. And you talk now.”

“That’s because you’re like Boomer. I didn’t have much of a choice with any of it.” I say it teasingly, but it’s all true. She’s changing me.

I don’t know how to admit it, or say it, but I don’t want her to go. I prop my head up on my arm and turn to face her, the blanket falling to our waists. Her sweater has shifted, the scoop neck exposing the curve of her neck and shoulder, enticing me to caress or kiss…

Her gaze moves to my arm, which is bent between us. “Can I touch your tattoos?” she asks.

Hiding under most of my ink is bumpy, scarred flesh that a blind person could probably interpret into some strange language. No woman is going to want to feel that.

“Sure.” I force the word out, confident this will be the first and last time she’ll ever touch me.

Her hand slowly moves along my forearm, her fingers trailing over the art, and she pushes my sleeve up farther so she can see—and touch—my shoulder. When her small hand closes around my bicep, I can’t help but close my eyes and enjoy her touch for more than what it is.

“Your arm is so big and hard.” Of course, she has no idea what she’s saying—sexual innuendo isn’t something she understands—but that doesn’t change my body’s reaction to her soft-porn commentary as she squeezes my arm.

“Mmm…” is all I can manage to mumble.

“What do the designs mean?” Down to my wrist her hand moves, slowly tantalizing me.

“They’re mostly how my fucked-up brain felt at the time…abstract flowers, monsters, and words.”

“It’s all beautiful. Like a book, only better.”

“I was pretty high when I picked most of those designs out. The ink on my back is a better representation of me straight and sober.”

Her hand stills. “You do drugs?”

“Not anymore, but I had a wicked bad habit. That’s how I crashed through a glass wall and almost sliced my own head off.”

“Oh.”

Hello, surprise and horror. I knew you’d show up and take away that sweet voice of hers.

“I’m totally clean now, Holly. I have been for years.”

“Is that what happened to…” She halts herself, afraid to ask.

“To my voice?” I finish for her. “Yeah. A piece of glass severed part of my vocal chords.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I deserved a lot worse.”

“Ty…how can you say that?”

I stare at her across the blanket, our faces just inches apart. Being this close to her lying down in the forest is much different than being this close to her standing up in my workshop or in my kitchen. Resting in the same space, our bodies under the same blanket, spins an entirely new intimacy level between us.

“Because it’s true.”

Her eyes are wet with the start of tears, and the heavy feeling in my chest returns. I don’t want to talk about my past right now or see her upset. All I want is to lie in my favorite spot with her, beneath her magic blanket, and for her to keep touching me and looking at me without pulling away.

“You don’t deserve anything bad.”

“No, I really, actually do. I was a junkie. I stole money from my family to buy drugs. I treated them like shit. The night of my crash I had a fight with my dad.” I clear my throat, which is choking me. “He wanted me to go to rehab. I refused. I left the house in the middle of the night, high and drunk, on my bike.” I swallow hard. “He chased me down the driveway and had a heart attack. That was the night he died. Because of me. My mother found him in the fucking driveway. Then I choked someone to death without a second thought. Once a month I go to private fight rings and let people punch the crap out of me, then I beat them to a pulp and walk out with a pile of cash I don’t even want. I ride around with masks on and stare at people at red lights. I hide in the woods and scare the shit out of hikers. I’m a fucked-up freak.”