“I had my brother pick it up for me. I don’t do stores.”

“I-I don’t know how to use it,” I stammer. “And I don’t really have any calls to make…”

Ignoring my protests, he reaches over and presses the power button, and when his scarred fingers brush across mine, an electric tingle runs up my arm. I wonder if that feeling will ever stop. If he were to touch me every day, for the rest of my life, would I still feel it? And is it crazy if I want to find out? I don’t believe what Feather said this morning, that everlasting love can’t happen with him. My heart knows better.

“You should have one. For emergencies.”

Statements like that always make me want to burst out into insane hysterics. I had many emergencies over the past ten years that I managed to live through, yet people like Feather freak out if she’s half an hour late to meet Steve, and then she makes ten phone calls to let him know, like some terrible tragedy is happening, when it’s actually just that she can’t find the perfect shirt or can’t find her black eyeliner.

I run my finger along the smooth edge of the rectangular phone. My first cell phone. Does this mean he might call me?

As if reading my mind, he says, “It’s easier to talk. With texts. For me.”

Ohhh. I had forgotten about texting. Like Feather and Steve do all the time, with little smiley faces and three-letter codes that I don’t understand. I’ll have to ask Feather for a cheat sheet.

“If you want to,” he adds quickly. Behind the shaggy hair covering half his face, he slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine, and it feels like a visual caress, the way they change color from turquoise to sapphire and back again like a kaleidoscope. Long ago I learned how to read the eyes of a man, to use them as a meter to gauge mood and intention.

In Tyler’s eyes, I see the man behind the scars and the mask, the man he was before life tore him apart and drove him to hide in the woods. Before some tragedy made him a man who could strangle someone to death. Just like me, there’s a person hiding in there who had their very soul stolen from them, and I see him, trying to let me in.

I see him trying to get out.

“I want to.” My voice shakes, and so does my hand holding the phone. “Very much.”

He spends the next half hour showing me how to use the phone to make calls and how to text back and forth. He adds himself to my contacts and shows me how to use the camera. He takes a photo of Boomer and adds it as the photo for “Tyler” in the contact profile. I want to use a picture of him, but he refuses, agitation instantly evident in his eyes and body language at the mention of capturing him with a photograph. He does, however, take a photo of me holding Poppy and uses that for my profile in his phone.

Slowly, our walls are deteriorating.

“Let me give you some money for the phone,” I say, reaching for my backpack, where my wallet is hidden.

“No.”

“I’m sure it was expensive. I have money my father gives me.”

He grabs my hand, stopping me before I reach my wallet and, for a moment, I freeze as old demons rise to the surface. Sensing my reaction, he immediately lets go.

“Sorry. The phone’s a gift.” He coughs into his hand. “For you.”

I’ve noticed after he talks for a while, his voice becomes wheezy, cracking over certain words and shifting in odd places. Matching his mood and intention to his tone of voice must be difficult, and maybe that’s why he’d rather not talk. Thankfully for me, his eyes are very expressive of his feelings, and I’m sure once I get to know him better, words won’t even be necessary for me to know what he’s thinking.

“Thank you.” I put the phone in my backpack along with my wallet. “Does it hurt?” I ask softly, treading lightly because I know all too well how much a simple question can offend. “When you talk?”

His lip twitches. “Not really. Just dry. Fatigued. It’s fucked up.”

I don’t ask how it happened, and he doesn’t tell me. I hope maybe someday our friendship will be in a place where we can share our pasts, but I have no problem waiting. Time and patience are two things I can offer in abundance.

“Will drinking help?” I ask.

“Quit drinking years ago.”

“Um…I meant water. Or tea.” I bet honey would help soothe his throat, and I make a mental note to read up on that.

He lets out a gruff laugh. “Water helps a little.” He stands up from the bench and tilts his head at me. “Want to do something with me?”