“This is coming out all wrong,” he says, reaching up to tie his hair back.

“I hope so.”

“Let’s go sit.” He grabs my hand and leads me outside to the garden bench. Boomer and Poppy trail after us and look at us expectantly, waiting—just as I am—while he lights up a cigarette.

“Everything about you is driving me fucking crazy. Your perfume, your voice, the shape of your lips, how you make me smile, how you look cute and innocent one minute and all fucking sexy as hell the next.” He swallows and coughs. “I can’t deal with this shit.”

“Oh.” I push my hair out of my face. I had no idea he felt this way. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like it.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Too much.”

I hang on to that space between him liking it and too much. The contradiction confuses me. Boomer nudges my hand with his black leathery nose, and I pet his head while I try to make sense of what Ty is saying.

“Is it possible to like something too much?” I ask.

“Fuck yeah.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He flicks the flame of his lighter on, then off, then on, then off.

“So last night…I contacted an escort.”

I narrow my eyes at him, my confusion mounting. “An escort?” Have I seen those on TV? I can’t remember.

“Upscale fuck-for-hire, basically. Like a professional hooker.”

“Oh.” My vocabulary has greatly dwindled during this conversation.

“So I went to the hotel room, and the girl came in. And as soon as she started to talk, I recognized her voice.”

The puzzle pieces instantly form a vivid picture in my mind, and my stomach turns. “The escort girl was your sister?”

Nodding, he leans back against the bench and stares up at the clouds. “Yup. Seriously fucking embarrassing. Just my luck, though.”

Tears threaten to burst from my eyes, and my stomach roils. Intense jealousy, shock, fear, and sadness all clash inside me. Processing so many feelings at once is completely rattling. I swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Have you…been with an escort before?” If he says yes, my heart will shatter right here on this garden bench.

“No.” He replies. “Never.”

My relief only lasts a few seconds. “Why this time?”

“You don’t want to know, Holly.”

“Yes I do.” Do I?

He smashes his cigarette out with his boot. “Because ever since I kissed you, I’m out of my friggin’ head thinking about what your skin feels like. What you taste like and how it would feel to have your thighs wrapped around my fucked-up head. Because I don’t want you to move five fucking hours away from me. That’s why.”

My heart catapults up into my throat, and a tingly sensation spreads from my chest down to my toes. His admission creates a battle inside me, and I have no idea which side will win. The fear of a man touching me and hurting me again? Or the desire to be touched, loved, and wanted? “Oh,” I breathe.

“Yeah,” he says. “Oh.”

I have to know more. “Then…why… why an escort?”

“Because I can’t touch you.”

Once again, my heart jumps, and I’m starting to worry this conversation is going to send me into cardiac arrest. “Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

I count to ten in my head. This is definitely one of those crazy real-life moments Dr. Reynolds told me I would eventually encounter. “Because of what happened to me?” I ask. “That’s why you can’t touch me?”

“That’s part of it.”

I’ve never felt more unwanted than I do right now. And that’s saying a lot.

“What’s the other part?”

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Let’s not do this, okay?”

“No. I think we should talk. Please…” I can’t possibly let this conversation go. It will eat at me and eat at me, and I won’t sleep for days, wondering about every little word and detail.

“Holly, look at me. Look at you. I look like someone beat me with a whole lotta ugly, sugar.” He turns, but all I see is a beautiful man who finally trusts me enough to not hide behind hair hanging over half his face anymore.

“I don’t see anything wrong with you. You’re perfect.”

“You’re blind. I’m a fucking mess, inside and out. And you? You’re gorgeous, but I think on the inside you’re a still a little bit messed up too, and I’ll only make you worse. We had proof of that a few days ago. You deserve better. You need better.”

“I don’t. I need you.”

He shakes his head back and forth. “It’s just wrong for us. Trust me.”

I wonder how long he’s felt this way. I’ve been daydreaming about him more and more. Not to the graphic degree that he described, but in my own way. I’ve been hoping he would kiss me again, now that I know what to expect.

“Ty…do you think I don’t want to be touched? Do you think I don’t want you to touch me? Am I disgusting to you?” My voice rises in pitch. “Because of what happened to me? And because of how I reacted the other day?”

“No. None of that. I’m just not the right guy for you.”

He says it right to my face, his beautiful blue eyes drilling into mine, but I don’t think he believes his words any more than I do.

“Isn’t that for me to decide?”

He gives me his lopsided grin. “I’m not the prince on the white horse, Holly. I’m just a fucked-up ugly loser on an old beat-up motorcycle.”

“You’re not any of those things,” I say. “What if you are the right guy?”

His head shakes back and forth. “I’m not. Not for you. Probably not for anyone.”

Hearing him say that rips my heart apart, and tears spill down my cheeks as my entire body trembles and I start to sob uncontrollably. “Why not?” I beg.”What’s wrong with me? And why do you think something’s wrong with you?”

He stands and pulls me up with him. “Holly…I don’t want you getting this upset. No more talking. Come on.” He takes my hand again, and I follow him into the house, where he sets me on the couch, kneels in front of me, and takes off my shoes.

“Lie down,” he whispers, and when I do, he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and gently places it over me. “You’re beautiful.” His fingers trace the curve of my jaw. “And you’re perfect. You deserve all the love in the world.” His scratchy voice is soft, oddly soothing, caressing my soul and seeping into the deep cracks that threaten to break me. I wish he would let his walls down and let this sweet side show more often. I know in my heart this side is the man he was meant to be.

“I only want your love,” I whisper.

“You have my love,” he whispers back. “It’s just not enough.”

He’s wrong. How could love not be enough?

“I want you to rest here with me, and we’ll talk about all this later when you’re calmer. I won’t let you cry here, Holly. This is where we’re safe, with the trees and the squirrels and the birds and Boomer and Poppy. Nobody hurts us here.” His hand strokes my head, and his lips brush lightly across my cheek. I want to reach for him and pull him down under the blanket with me, feel his warm, strong body wrapped around mine, and stay here with him forever.

Instead, he sits on the floor, leaning his back against the front of the couch, his head near mine, and opens a book to read while I rest. Poppy has jumped up on the couch to curl up on my feet, and Boomer has squished himself up into a ball on Ty’s lap.

I have no idea what love is supposed to be like, but I can’t imagine it can be any better than what we have right here. He just has to open his eyes and see it.

22

Tyler

When I step out of the bathroom, she’s awake, drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, staring out the window. I thought I’d take a shower while she was napping, and now I’m standing in this tiny space between the kitchen and the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, shirtless, with my hair wet and slicked back.

All my scars on display.

She turns, and her eyes widen when she sees me standing there watching her. I can’t tell from her expression if she’s feeling fear of being so close to a half-naked man or shock at all the scars from the burns and the glass, but there’s no way for me to hide them now, because they’re everywhere.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I say. The conversation earlier has my thoughts all over the place. I ran from it all—everything she was saying and asking and everything I was feeling and fighting—because I’m scared of hurting her, and I’m scared of losing her.

Maybe you are the right guy.

I never expected her to react the way she did. I always thought she’d clam up and run if she knew what kind of thoughts ran through my head. I never thought she’d be open to any of it, or even remotely want it.

“I woke up when I heard the water running.”

I take a deep breath. “This is what happens when you try to ride through a wall of glass windows in someone’s house,” I say, gesturing to my torso. Most of the time she acts like she doesn’t see my scars at all. “This is also why drugs are bad.”