“I only want your love,” I whisper.

“You have my love,” he whispers back. “It’s just not enough.”

He’s wrong. How could love not be enough?

“I want you to rest here with me, and we’ll talk about all this later when you’re calmer. I won’t let you cry here, Holly. This is where we’re safe, with the trees and the squirrels and the birds and Boomer and Poppy. Nobody hurts us here.” His hand strokes my head, and his lips brush lightly across my cheek. I want to reach for him and pull him down under the blanket with me, feel his warm, strong body wrapped around mine, and stay here with him forever.

Instead, he sits on the floor, leaning his back against the front of the couch, his head near mine, and opens a book to read while I rest. Poppy has jumped up on the couch to curl up on my feet, and Boomer has squished himself up into a ball on Ty’s lap.

I have no idea what love is supposed to be like, but I can’t imagine it can be any better than what we have right here. He just has to open his eyes and see it.

22

Tyler

When I step out of the bathroom, she’s awake, drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, staring out the window. I thought I’d take a shower while she was napping, and now I’m standing in this tiny space between the kitchen and the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, shirtless, with my hair wet and slicked back.

All my scars on display.

She turns, and her eyes widen when she sees me standing there watching her. I can’t tell from her expression if she’s feeling fear of being so close to a half-naked man or shock at all the scars from the burns and the glass, but there’s no way for me to hide them now, because they’re everywhere.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I say. The conversation earlier has my thoughts all over the place. I ran from it all—everything she was saying and asking and everything I was feeling and fighting—because I’m scared of hurting her, and I’m scared of losing her.

Maybe you are the right guy.

I never expected her to react the way she did. I always thought she’d clam up and run if she knew what kind of thoughts ran through my head. I never thought she’d be open to any of it, or even remotely want it.

“I woke up when I heard the water running.”

I take a deep breath. “This is what happens when you try to ride through a wall of glass windows in someone’s house,” I say, gesturing to my torso. Most of the time she acts like she doesn’t see my scars at all. “This is also why drugs are bad.”

Swallowing hard, she takes a step closer, clearly shaken. “That’s horrible. You could have died…”

“I was in the hospital for a long time. I missed my dad’s funeral.”

Her eyes brim with tears. “I’m so sorry, Ty.”

“I am too. I’ve done a lot of shitty things.”

“Just remember you’ve done a lot of good things, too.” Her voice is soft and sincere. “I’m proof of that.” Her hand raises and she touches her fingertips lightly to the scars that run down the side of my face.

I hold my breath, and I don’t move. I don’t want to do anything that will make her move away and take her soft touch with her.

“Is this… from the fire?” She breathes.

When I don’t answer, she moves her hand away, but I capture it in my own and hold onto it, gently, between us, and rub my thumb along the top of her hand.

“The fire and the glass window. I could have more plastic surgery. It might make it look a little better. But I’m afraid to get all fucked up on pills again.” I shake my head to make my hair fall over my face, but she pushes it back away.

“Don’t hide,” she says softly. “Not from me.”

With her free hand, she traces the other scars on my chest with her fingers, her eyes following as she explores each one. My chest heaves beneath her touch as I fight the urge to either hide myself from her or lean her into the kitchen counter and kiss her senseless. I lace our fingers together, and she squeezes my hand.

“I have scars, too,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

Gently, I brush my knuckles across her cheek. “Show me,” I whisper back.

Without breaking eye contact, she lets go of my hand, unbuttons the front of her sweater, and slides it off, letting it fall to the floor. A thin, cream-colored camisole barely covers her, its fabric stretching over her breasts. She steps toward the window, where the golden light of sunset casts just enough light over her for me to see her. She holds out her arms, showing me cigarette burns like the ones I’ve seen on Poppy’s ears and stomach. She bites her lip as she lifts up her camisole to show me her stomach and rib cage, and the long thin scars that slash across her, the memories of her torture etched into her flesh.