Page 28 of Tied

I wanted her to know it was me.

I wanted her to know I was watching her.

I wanted a small shiver of apprehension to creep up her spine.

I wanted to be responsible for igniting a feeling in a soul just as lonely and broken as my own.

On my ride back home under the moonlight, I’d been determined to put her out of my head, because nothing good can come from me obsessing over a woman. But twice today she showed up, surprising me both times with her hypnotic chatter despite my ignoring her.

Why the hell she’d be walking through the woods completely alone, after what happened to her in those same woods, I don’t know. It’s totally fucked up. Does she have no fear? Harboring a death wish maybe?

I can relate to that.

I felt bad toward the end, and that’s why I wrote her the note. Her puffy eyes, tearstained cheeks, and the heaviness of the defeat in her voice got to me bad. It bothered me that she wasn’t living at home with her family, and she couldn’t keep her own damn dog.

Years ago, before my accidents, I would be at my mom’s animal shelter when the lost dogs were reunited with their families. The owners were always so happy to get them back. They would hold on to the dog extra tight and cry with relief. Second chances make people more grateful and make them pour more love and care into what they thought they’d lost forever.

It makes me sick that a little stolen girl doesn’t seem to be getting that same kind of love.

Three weeks after the girl brought the dog back to me, I’m in my garage fabricating new metal rings and belt buckles to sell at my brother’s bike shop. Suddenly, a whiff of vanilla and lavender tickles my senses.

I glance up from my work, my vision focusing on the gapwhere the side door is open a few inches, and there she is—walking toward the front door of my house with a paper bag in her hand and a backpack over her shoulder.

Squinting, I realize it’s the same backpack she had the day I found her.

Strange.

When I don’t answer the door, her head turns, the wind blowing her long blond hair across her face. She scans the yard with a slightly worried look, notices the side door of the garage ajar, and heads this way.

“Shit,” I mutter, quickly untying my hair from its ponytail holder and letting it fall over the messed-up side of my face.

I’m wiping my dirty hands on my jeans just as she pokes her head around the door, and I wish I had closed it and locked it so she would have just gone away. Usually I don’t have to worry about anyone springing an unwelcome visit on me, but this chick obviously hasn’t picked up on my antisocial rules yet.

She steps inside but stays right by the door, peering around at her surroundings. Her eyes flash with curiosity and a hint of fear as they rove over my massive collection of horror masks decorating one wall.

Finally, her eyes land on me. I suppose, compared to the masks, I might seem less scary. At least a little.

I hope.

“Hi.” Her shy, soft voice is so out of place in this space of dirt, noise, and horror. Like white lace being dragged through a puddle of sludge.

I say nothing.

“I hope you don’t mind… I bought some gifts for Poppy.” She holds up the paper bag as evidence. “For Christmas.”

Idomind. She’s not supposed to keep coming back here. Doesshe think I agreed to some kind of shared custody situation with the dog?

“I could never give him things before,” she continues. A strand of golden hair blown loose by the wind is stuck to her mouth, and I have an incredible urge to brush it away. “And… I was wondering, did you find him after he ran off… that day? Did my parents know you had him?”

I tear my eyes from the alluring and perfect heart shape of her lips and blink at her. She shouldn’t be here, with her bag of dog gifts, her expressive eyes, her perfume, and her pin-up girl lips. I can’t remember the last time a girl spoke to me like a regular person, without cringing or staring, and I don’t want or need reminders of the finer things in life I’m missing out on.

She’s looking at me today the same way she did the day I found her. Like she only seesme, not the ugly scars that are like a map imprinted on my flesh. It’s rattling. Back then, in the craziness of those moments, I didn’t attempt to cover my face or keep my head down like I usually do when I meet new people, and I’m surprised she didn’t scream when she saw me, going from one monster to another. Instead, she looked at me like I was some kind of hero or knight in shining armor. And the way she looked at me a few weeks ago when she brought the dog back reminded me of how the girls used to look at me in high school. I remember how they used to stare at me, smile, and giggle. All I had to do was flash my infamous smile at them, and they’d be blushing and slipping me their phone number. I reveled in the feeling of being wanted, accepted, and liked.

I steer my brain back to her question.

After the police let me go, I searched for her dog night and day—for a week, actually. Then one day he just strolled right into my yard. Much like she keeps doing. I fed and bathed him, tookhim to the vet who takes care of the dogs at the shelter to have him checked out, and hunted down Holly’s parents so I could return him. Instead of taking him from me as I stood in the dark on their doorstep, they sneered at me like I was yesterday’s trash, threw a few hundred dollars at me, and told me never to come back. They had no fucking idea how hard it was for me to go to their house and put myself in that position. To show up in the rich side of town in my old rusted truck, with my ripped jeans and dirty boots, scarred to hell, leaving myself wide open to judgment. So I shredded their cash, put it in a box with a fresh pile of the dog’s shit, and mailed it back to them.

Mature? No. Immensely satisfying? Hell fuckin’ yes.

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