Once I used it to look at the letters carved across my stomach, even though the reflection made the word backward. That was the first and last time I used the compact to look at the ugly letters on me.

Feather has told me numerous times how pretty I am, how she wishes she had a body like mine. Rockin’ curves were the words she used. At the time I laughed nervously and told her to shut up, not believing her, or even caring. I didn’t need or want to be pretty.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if I really am pretty. More specifically, I wonder if Tyler thinks I’m pretty. As the fog fades from the mirror, I wrap the white towel around my body to cover it all up. Even if he does think I’m pretty, he would change his mind damn fast if he ever saw what I looked like under my clothes. The pretty girls on TV don’t have scars and words carved into them.

This time, when I get out of the taxi, he’s sitting on the ground waiting for me, his back leaning against a tree, staring up at the sky with a small twig in his mouth. Poppy and the fox are sitting with him, and it’s obvious they’re very attached to him in the way they stick by his side. I think that’s a good sign because animals don’t like bad people. His subtle acts of chivalry might seem small, but to me they are huge. It’s a hint that he cares, maybe even likes me.

Or is it a sense of responsibility? I wonder what it feels like knowing you saved someone’s life. Do you feel forever responsible for them? Like feeding a stray cat that keeps coming back and you’re not sure what to do with? So you just keep feeding it out of a sense of pity and obligation?

God, don’t let me be a stray cat.

He stands as I approach and brushes debris off the back of his jeans. “They wait for you?” he asks, nodding toward the taxi.

“Yeah.”

“Tell her to go.”

“But how will I—”

He interrupts me. “I’ll get you home.”

I hesitate, leaning down to pet Poppy, not sure if I should trust Tyler so completely yet. Last night was nice, but not enough to gauge who he really is. If I tell the driver to leave, I’ll be stuck here—on the edge of town, on a back road near the woods—with a man I barely even know.

Alone.

Trapped.

“You can trust me,” he says. “I’m a good weird.”

Smiling at our inside joke, I walk back to the car to tell the driver she doesn’t have to wait for me today. She eyes Tyler suspiciously, doing nothing to hide her obvious distrust of leaving me here with him. It was clear from our conversation on the phone this morning that she feels some sort of concern for me, but she finally relents after I insist that I’ll be fine. Apprehension simmers through me as I watch her drive away. This is another big step for me, letting part of my safety net go voluntarily.

Without a word, he turns and heads down the dirt road, and I walk briskly to catch up to him, as do Poppy and the fox. “How did you come to have a fox for a pet?” I ask. “Are they common as pets?”

“No, they don’t make good pets at all. They’re destructive and hyper and hard to train.” He coughs. “I found him as a kit, stuck in a trap. He had a broken leg.”

“Oh…that’s so sad.”

“Yeah. I tried to release him back into the woods after it healed, but he kept showing up at my door, scratching and crying. He didn’t want to go. So I let him stay.”

Oh, God. He does have stray cat obligation tendencies.

“He’s in one of the Christmas tree pictures I bought at the boutique. I look at his adorable little face every morning, he almost looks like he’s grinning. What’s his name?”

“Boomer. Well, Boomerang. Since he kept coming back.”

Yikes. Just like me.

He’s a magnet, I convince myself. That’s why me and the fox keep coming back. It’s not because we’re desperate. It’s something about him.

When we get to his yard, he points to an old wrought-iron bench that appears to be in what will be a flower and rock garden when the winter season has ended, and we sit on it together. Without thinking, I put about two feet of distance between us.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket, pulls out a cell phone, and holds it out to me. “For you,” he says softly.

I stare at it, my brow furrowing, not sure what he means. “I’m sorry?”

“I got it for you.”

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Wow…” I hold the silver phone in my hand, not sure what to do with it or how to even say thank you for such an unexpected gift.