Page 47 of Tied

“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. “Iwaslucky, Holly. Now I’m just a mess.”

He ends the conversation by picking up the box, whistling for Poppy and Boomer, 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 of 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 afeather. 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. Its screen is lit up, and the text message indicator is on.

My heart speeds 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.

:-)

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.

Okay. That’s fair.

Tyler

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