Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“I’m not drinking them both,” I inform her. “One is for my friend.”
“Hey, I don’t judge. People bring all sorts of weird things into the car.”
My stomach twists into knots as we get closer to the edge of the woods leading to Tyler’s house. What if he doesn’t want to see me again or refuses to talk? Obviously, he can talk but chooses not to. His voice is hoarse and different but, to my ears, it doesn’t sound so bad that he should be ashamed or afraid to speak. I actually like the way it sounds and the way it makes my insides flitter around like I swallowed a butterfly. Unless, perhaps, it causes him physical pain to talk. Or emotional pain which, in some ways, can be worse.
The driver has brought some paperbacks with her and agrees to wait for me once again. She doesn’t seem to mind waiting as long as she’s getting paid, and sitting here reading is probably better than driving random strangers around all day. I really need to talk to my parents about getting my driver’s license and a car, because this is becoming expensive. I feel that I’m more than ready and able to drive a car.
Carrying the two teas, with my backpack over my shoulder, I make my way down the path. It has a light dusting of snow over it, and I’m curious whether anyone else lives out here or if his house is the only one. He certainly has gone out of his way to put himself as far away from other people as possible, and I can’t help but wonder why. Whatever that reason may be, it led him to saving my life that day.
As soon as I enter his yard, via a short dirt road that’s overrun with weeds, Poppy comes running to me from out of nowhere, with another dog chasing after him.
“Hi, Poppy!” I say, not able to pet him with my hands full of drinks. “You have a friend.”
The small reddish-brown dog starts to run circles around my feet, round and round and round, making a strange squealing noise, while Poppy stands to the side and watches, with his tail wagging, looking very amused.
“Wow, you’re very excited,” I say to the red dog, who has turned and is now running counterclockwise around my ankles, in a blur, preventing me from walking. I have never seen such an odd dog, and he’s making me very dizzy.
A whistle suddenly pierces the air, and the dog stops cycloning around me and runs to the source of the whistle: Tyler.
He’s standing at the open door to his garage, with dark sunglasses hiding those beautiful eyes and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He must not feel the cold since he never wears a jacket—just jeans, boots, and a thick flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up. The dog bolts to him, its massive tail flying behind him like a fluffy flag, and that’s when I realize it’s not a dog at all—it’s the red fox that’s in the Christmas tree photographs I bought. Poppy and I approach Tyler and his fox together, and an odd sensation of comfort encompasses me, like the four of us are old friends or family.
Dare I say, a feeling of belonging?
“You have a fox,” I say, watching the animal play with Poppy. He’s beautiful —hyper and goofy —unlike Poppy, who’s much calmer. They seem like best friends as they frolic around the yard, and it warms my heart to see Poppy in what looks like a very happy home. Tyler nods and snuffs out his cigarette then throws it in a small garbage can next to the door he’s leaning against.
“Is he a pet?” I ask. I’ve never heard of anyone having a fox for a pet, but my life knowledge is still pretty limited.
He nods again while taking the sunglasses off and placing them on top of his head. His eyes settle on me, slowly looking me up and down, but not in a creepy way. More like he’s just…taking me in. Getting used to me being in front of him.
I hold one of the drinks out to him and smile. “I bought you a bubble tea. This one has the bubbles that pop. They’re not the squishy tapioca ones. It’s my favorite.”
He takes the drink from me and examines the clear plastic cup, watching the bubbles swirl around. “It’s purple,” he states, and that dry, hoarse voice of his shoots through me like a laser, bringing a mix of guilt, unease, and excitement. I never knew little things about a person could make my body feel such boggling sensations. His eyes, his voice, the width of his arms—even his handwriting has a baffling effect on me. These feelings are totally alien to me, and experiencing them with a man brings on small waves of uncertainty. Are these feelings normal? Are they safe?