“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.”