Page 56 of Our Secrets and Scars

Something I learned during my time studying them is that they are one of the only shrubs to blossom in late winter. When everything is cold and bleak, witch hazel blooms little golden flowers that look like exploding fireworks. Every year, when the months were dark and sad, I’d look at those trees through my window, and they’d remind me that even when things seem gray and hopeless, there is always beauty to be found.

As special as they were to me though, it’s an incredible thing to experience nature away from the confines of my eight-foot cell, and I ache to immerse myself in it. So, I take my truck up to Memory Grove Park and follow the trail north on foot to City Creek Canyon, where the trees are dense, and orange leaves fall around me in abundance.

It’s a two-and-a-half-hour hike up the dirt trail, and I spend it all thinking about the girl I’ve been trying desperately not to think about since I took her home four days ago and haven’t seen since. The girl who, it turns out, is the very same one whose letters were my lifeline during my time in prison. The girl who, despite this, doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me.

In a lot of ways, Kinsley, to me, is like those witch hazel trees. Except, I got to see her colors all year round. She showed them to me in the words she wrote, in the sass she handed me all too often that would make me shake my head at her and laugh.

That was always a funny thing to me. That she could make me laugh even when she wasn’t intending to. I thought it would be impossible to find joy in a place so bleak, but she gave it to me—Every letter. Every word, she made me smile.

And by some miracle, fate found a way to bring us together the way I’d always hoped it would. But it never occurred to me that Kinsley might feel differently, that she’d rather I just remain that faceless figure she’d scribble her secrets to like I was her own personified journal.

I’d hoped that the falling golden leaves would help me process it all. That maybe the clarity of the air would bring me clarity of the mind somehow. It hasn’t though. If anything, I’m more upset than I was the day I found out who she was, aching to take her in my arms and celebrate that I’d found her, only for her to beg me to take her home.

I thought I’d lost her when my letters went unanswered. And that alone was gut-wrenching. I can’t cope with losing her in real life.

I follow the dirt trail back to my truck, the sound of the rippling water in the creek doing little to wash away the dejection I feel down to my bones.

For so long, I’ve held the faith that one day, fate would show its face to me. I’ve clung to the blind belief that the universe would give me a sign that it’s looking out for me, and I can’t help but think that’s what it’s done by putting Kinsley in my path. So, what kind of man would I be to let her slip through my fingers?

I can’t lose her now.

She’s scared. I know she is. Hell, I’m scared too, but I know enough about her from those four years of correspondence that she’ll be finding this situation particularly overwhelming. After all that she’s been through, it’s understandable. And I wish I could make it all easier for her, but the truth is, I won’t allow her to run from me, even if it terrifies her.

I’m hit with a new sense of determination as I dust the mud off my boots and climb into my truck. A refusal to take no for an answer.

Because fate has finally looked out for me, and I’m not about to let it down now.

The next morning, I’m holding her ridiculous pink drink and leaning against the wall of the café as I wait to intercept her on her way to class.

Students pass, hunched under the weight of their backpacks, chins tucked into their chests as they try to shield their faces from the fall wind. I lift my nose to the air and breathe in the smell of November approaching, like damp moss, pine needles, and dirt paths.

It reminds me of when I was a kid and Uncle Mack would take me pumpkin picking at a ranch his old friend used to own. They’d always set aside the biggest one for us, and we’d sit on the porch of Mack’s little rundown shack, carving funny faces and sipping from mugs of hot apple cider. He’s a serious man, my uncle, but he always had fun with me.

The scent of Kinsley’s perfume catches on the cold breeze, and I turn my head to find her walking up the path toward me. She hasn’t spotted me yet, so I just watch her shamelessly. Everything about her entrances me. The grace to her gait, the eternal preppiness of the clothes she wears, the golden quality to her eyes.

It’s an odd experience seeing her now that I know who she is. It goes without saying that I thought Violet was beautiful. But looking at her in the context of Kinsley, the woman is practically iridescent. Because I can see further than just the surface of her. I know of the secrets she keeps hidden from the rest of the world, the ones that only I know. I understand how her mind works and why she’s so self-conscious about her appearance. I know how hard she strives for perfection and the hatred she feels toward herself when she inevitably fails to achieve it.

Because perfection is unattainable, I told her that so many times in the years we wrote to each other. And I wouldn’t want her to be perfect anyway. She wouldn’t be real if she was, she wouldn’t be her.

Her eyes find mine, wide and surprised. They slide down to the drink in my hand and light up, yet she still approaches me with caution, her steps slow and unsure.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, head tilting to one side.

“Waiting for you.” I shrug in aduhsort of gesture. “I didn’t order this ridiculous pink monstrosity for me, did I?”

“How would I know?” She cocks a hand on her hip and juts it out.

I roll my eyes. “Just take the damn drink, Kinsley.”

For a long beat, she doesn’t move. But she’s practically trembling from the temptation, so much so that I give up putting up with her unnecessary stubbornness and take it upon myself to reach for her hand and curl her fingers around the cup. She tries to fight it, but her lips twitch until, finally, a smile breaks out across her face.

“What’s this about?” she asks, sucking from the straw with hollowed cheeks.

“Missed you.”

It’s a statement. A fact. She may want to ignore the issue and pretend that everything between us isn’t happening just so that she can go back to living in her little bubble where nothing can hurt her, but I won’t let her. She’s facing this, whether she likes it or not.

“It’s been four days,” I tell her. “I think I’ve given you enough time to freak out and get it out of your system, don’t you?”

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