{"product_id":"the-night-fox-isbn-9780593618929","title":"The Night Fox","description":"\u003cb\u003eThis luminous, haunting debut, alternating between now and then, reality and magic, tells the story of a girl confronting heartbreak while at a mysterious recovery program in the wilderness.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen seventeen-year-old Eli arrives at Raeth, a remote mountain retreat for teens with mental health issues, her mind is made up—she is not interested in participating, and she doesn’t need to “heal.” Still reeling from a breakup that left both her heart and faith shattered, she is determined to fake being “fine” so that the program’s warden will clear her to return home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the retreat itself has other ideas. The valley’s magical surroundings transform each time she ventures out, playing with her mind and dredging up her grief-laden memories. Despite the warning signs, Eli explores more of the area than she had ever planned, even venturing into the dangerous night realm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis spellbinding novel mixes prose and poetry into an exquisite and evocative portrait of love, grief, depression, and the slow path toward healing.\"An evocative, imaginative story about our emotional landscapes and the quest for mental health and independence. Prose and poetry weave the story of an inner journey of intense emotion, fantastical adventure, and, ultimately, healing.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"All the components ofthe story work, from the fantastastical setting to the poignant scenes of Eli grappling with distressing feelings.Readers will find complexity in Eli’s navigating expanding beliefs and new experiences while staying true to a worldview she feels certain of, especially in how she approaches the beliefs—or non-beliefs—of romantic partners.Sparingly few curse words, no violence, and chaste romance will make this a great fit for younger and older teenslooking for a comforting read with high emotional stakes and a gratifying bit of magic.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In an emotional and whimsical debut, Ashley Wilda weaves the present and past together to paint astory of pain and healing. Readers who enjoy stories of angst and introspection in liminal environments will appreciate Eli’s narrative. Teens familiar with the Tumblr culture—particularly its emo aesthetic—will also find plenty to recognize in the alternating prose and verse.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003eAshley Wilda has an MFA in Creative Writing for Children and Young Adults from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. In addition to writing, they love painting, making ceramics, playing music, rock climbing, and hiking with their rescue pup, Phoenix.\u003cb\u003eI\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The fox sleeps by my bed.\u003cbr\u003e Small, with a curled, quiet tail. Smiling.\u003cbr\u003e Its fur is a warm, earthy brown, hints of red.  Smooth under my reverent fingers.\u003cbr\u003e It smells of some faraway spice, and magic, and wood—for that is what it is made of.\u003cbr\u003e More perfect for its tiny imperfections—the notch by the head, the ripple on the left side\u003cbr\u003e of the nose—for they tell me it was made by you.\u003cbr\u003e The fox fits in the palm of my hand—where yours used to rest.\u003cbr\u003e I don’t run anymore. Feet bound to hard, barren,  gray earth.\u003cbr\u003e But the fox flies in my dreams,\u003cbr\u003e       always,\u003cbr\u003e                   always,\u003cbr\u003e                               trying to find\u003cbr\u003e                                                    a way home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                   It never does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e Mornings are unpleasant enough without a suitcase landing on your feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kicking, I shove myself up, clawing at the tangled hair falling into my face. My heart ricochets in my chest from the abrupt awakening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mom, seriously?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mother stands there, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes gleam, determination on the surface hiding something more vulnerable underneath. Pity? Concern?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I hate both.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pack what you’ll need for the next few weeks. You’re leaving in less than an hour.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve only been home a few weeks since my senior year at the Carwick Boarding Academy ended. \u003cbr\u003eGranted, all I’ve done is sleep, and occasionally eat, same as over winter break, but still—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBubbles of panic slowly rise in my sleep-numbed brain. “Where are we going?” My stomach lurches with unease.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom sighs. “\u003ci\u003eWe \u003c\/i\u003earen’t going anywhere, Liz.” Her gaze softens. There’s sadness too. “Just you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe words slam into me. “Wait, what? You can’t do that.” I’m not sure what she’s planning, but I’m positive I don’t want it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tucks an errant strand of blond hair behind her ear and turns to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know there’s no use in arguing with her. The sooner you stop resisting Ren Maven, the more time you get to live your life. You’re fated to agree with her at some point anyway. But this time, what she is asking of me is different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I’ll never agree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where am I going?” I call after her, a last-ditch attempt at information.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t forget to pack your retainer” is all I get from down the hall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just wonderful!” I holler back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo response.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFan. Freaking. Tastic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI get to spend an indeterminate amount of my summer at an undisclosed location. Me, the girl who doesn’t talk to strangers, or friends, or really anyone at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho sleeps and reads and watches Netflix and sleeps again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho hides in her room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho cries herself to sleep each night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, this sounds precisely like a recipe for disaster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy suitcase gapes at my feet, an open mouth. I sit beside it, curl my legs into my chest, wrap my arms around them tightly. I look around the room, trying to decide what to pack while my brain struggles to compute what is happening. I’m leaving. Leaving my room, the only place I feel safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe green walls are dusty, except for odd, brighter patches where school photos used to rest, stuck on with tape. They’re stacked in a shoebox under my bed now, where the faces of all the people who used to be my friends can’t see me, taunting me with their happy eyes. Next to the box lie rolled poem posters, never put up. My dirty hiking shoes peek out from under my dresser, my stuffed monkey sprawled next to them. The room of a girl who used to be. A girl who used to go to boarding school in the mountains. Used to have friends who made music and played Frisbee and roamed the campus at night. Used to plan movie nights with her mother. Used to be happy she believed in God. Used to be yours.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat would that girl have packed if \u003ci\u003eshe\u003c\/i\u003e had to leave? Is there anything that matters to both the girl I was and the girl I am now? I know the answer before I’m done thinking the question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy gaze lands on the carved wooden fox resting atop the open journal on my nightstand, a reddish-brown figure shorter than my index finger is long. Standing, I close the notebook, covering the poem I wrote the night before. I kiss my two fingers and touch them to the fox’s smooth head, like I do every morning. Every night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I love you,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’re probably the only true words I’ll speak all day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eII\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don’t remember meeting you.\u003cbr\u003e We just kind of\u003cbr\u003e f\u003cbr\u003e       e\u003cbr\u003e             l\u003cbr\u003e                   l\u003cbr\u003e                         together,\u003cbr\u003e like two atoms forming a molecule, or stars drawn into each other’s orbits.\u003cbr\u003e By the time you notice, it’s too late—you can’t go back.\u003cbr\u003e I don’t remember falling in love with you.\u003cbr\u003e I mean, I do, but not like in the movies, or the books,  or the fairy tales.\u003cbr\u003e No earth-shattering beginning in which I laid eyes on you and\u003cbr\u003e       \u003ci\u003eknew\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that I had fallen \u003cbr\u003e hopelessly,          tragically,         mystically,\u003cbr\u003e             helplessly,         brilliantly,          in love with you.\u003cbr\u003e But I have more memories of that time, that slow,  surreal  f l o a t i n g, than I do of any other\u003cbr\u003e time in my life.\u003cbr\u003e Do you know how much you made me bloom?\u003cbr\u003e Do you know how deeply and irrevocably you scarred me?\u003cbr\u003e I don’t remember the moment I first saw you.\u003cbr\u003e But the first moment \u003cbr\u003e I remember you,      singularly,\u003cbr\u003e separate from anyone else—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e       Sitting up in the balcony at a basketball game. End of our sophomore year. Neither of us           very interested, but we had to go once, right? It was a\u003ci\u003ething\u003c\/i\u003e. Sitting with our friends, the             group that absorbed us both. Three of us—you caught between me and a friend of mine—          talking about crushes. About what we found attractive in someone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e       I said, Blue eyes. Smile lines in the corners. (Like yours,\u003cbr\u003e       which I hadn’t noticed yet. Somehow.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e       She asked you. You shrugged, shoulders rising like \u003cbr\u003e       always when you didn’t know what to say—which you \u003cbr\u003e       said. We pushed you, teasing.\u003cbr\u003e       Finally, you said something like, I don’t know, dimples,      \u003cbr\u003e      \u003cbr\u003e      I guess. When pressed, you wouldn’t say more.\u003cbr\u003e       You were unassuming and adorable, and I\u003ci\u003eremember \u003c\/i\u003eyou. \u003cbr\u003e       The same understatedness that made me not \u003cbr\u003e       remember meeting you is the very thing I began to find \u003cbr\u003e       endearing. I never found out whether you noticed my \u003cbr\u003e       shy dimples or not.\u003cbr\u003e       I wish I’d asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here’s the thing—love never felt like it was “supposed to.”\u003cbr\u003e But it was perfect,\u003cbr\u003e       and obsessive,\u003cbr\u003e             and undefinable,\u003cbr\u003e                   and uncontainable,\u003cbr\u003e                         as I knew it should be.\u003cbr\u003e You didn’t make me feel fiery all over.\u003cbr\u003e You didn’t keep me up at night, not at first.\u003cbr\u003e You didn’t burn me up wildly from the inside.\u003cbr\u003e You made me feel peaceful. Still.\u003cbr\u003e You made me feel happy. Content.\u003cbr\u003e You were the soft, warm spring wind \u003cbr\u003e and the sun on new grass\u003cbr\u003e through the bright, dappled leaves.\u003cbr\u003e You were entirely unexpected.\u003cbr\u003e You were everything.\u003cbr\u003e You still are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e We ride in silence. It’s early for me—eight a.m. I crash early and sleep late these days. Still, at this hour, with such a rushed exit from the house, there’s no chance I’ll fall asleep. The smooth hum of the engine and Mom’s silent, loaded glances, which I do not return, are starting to get to me, so I fiddle with the radio. Country—too happy. Pop— memories push at the edges of my consciousness, and I push back—too romantic. Classical—too snobby. Christian—my shoulders tighten—nope, not that either. Not anymore. I turn off the radio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mom’s voice cuts through the silence, and I almost jump. “Liz, you aren’t even the tiniest bit curious about where you’re going? I expected you to ask again once we were on the road.” Her eyes hold the same gentle, slightly frustrated concern that they’ve had for the last few months. I see through the question. She wants me to\u003ci\u003ewant \u003c\/i\u003esomething, something other than you. She wants me to be excited, or afraid, or angry. Anything but indifferent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In truth, I am, just maybe, the tiniest, teeniest, ever-so-smidgenest bit curious. But that flutter of interest is buried under the avalanche of all my other crap. I can’t admit that to her . . . if I give her the littlest bit of hope today, she’ll expect me to be smiling tomorrow. Because that’s totally how feelings work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What do \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e think?” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sighs. “We’re going to Raeth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Raeth. RAY-eth. Round and unfamiliar and alluring on my tongue, like a smoky whisper. The name sparks something in me, although I’ve never heard it before. Something mysterious. Almost . . . magical. Like the smell of damp earth in spring beneath a full moon. That’s odd. Not the magic part, but the spark part. It flares in my gut, leaps to my chest, and dies quickly—but it was there. Unnerving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So I say, “Where the hell is that?” knowing it will tick her off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She doesn’t take the bait. “It’s a special place . . . somewhere you can heal.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Heal? I gave up on that a while ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mom, you know that’s not up to you.” In other words, drop it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I think a nice, long stay there will do you good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nice. Long. Stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White halls. Cold tile floor. The smell of rubbing alcohol. Forced therapy sessions. I swallow the fear down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You’re just going to drop me off somewhere random and expect me to be fine with it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All of a sudden, I do care, and the whiplash from nothingness to fury is jarring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She continues before I can butt in again. “It’s for kids like you. And it’s only for the summer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stare at her, at a complete loss for words, which, believe me, doesn’t happen very often. “The summer,” I say slowly, venom building. “Kids like me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She eyes me, and I can tell she knows the storm that’s coming just as well as I do . . . and is just as powerless to stop it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But somehow, I stuff it down. Push all the emotion down, down, down, from the top of my head to the bottoms of my feet, shove it into a bottle and cork it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And there it is again—that terrible, terrible emptiness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Almost worse than being the saddest or angriest or loneliest girl in the universe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Which I am.\u003cbr\u003e “Liz?” Her tone is hesitant, probing. Almost apologetic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shake my head. I don’t even look at her. I can’t. “You don’t get to talk to me right now.” My voice sounds flat, dead. Unfamiliar, like it’s not even mine. I close my eyes. Lean my forehead against the cool window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She’s sending me away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If my father were here, would he be handling this differently? Handling me, my love for you, differently? No use wondering. The dead can’t answer questions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I tug my journal free from my canvas backpack. The grief pounds under my skin, desperate for release. Only on the page do I feel understood. Only in ink does my story make any sense, even to myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The emptiness laps at my consciousness as I put pen to paper, threatening to pull me into the infinite darkness of myself, where I know I could fall forever and never be found.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But under it all, lives this pulsing truth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one understands the way I love. Not even my mother. It’s fiercer and deeper and faster than the blood in my own veins. Stronger and more savage and more stubborn than time. My love is different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I should’ve known that no one would understand my grief either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not even God.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eIII\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here’s the thing—\u003cbr\u003e before we got oh-so-serious\u003cbr\u003e before all was love and grief\u003cbr\u003e we were just two kids figuring out\u003cbr\u003e the many ways two people\u003cbr\u003e could fit together.\u003cbr\u003e The trip that started it all was\u003cbr\u003e by all accounts\u003cbr\u003e an epic disaster.\u003cbr\u003e Young, inexperienced, bumbling fools—\u003cbr\u003e I being the greatest, to be sure.\u003cbr\u003e The car got stuck, muddy tires spinning,\u003cbr\u003e I pushed it,\u003cbr\u003e you broke it free.\u003cbr\u003e The water jug leaked, flooding the trunk,\u003cbr\u003e you were the one who laughed,\u003cbr\u003e not me.\u003cbr\u003e The rock was high and exposed,\u003cbr\u003e water glistening beneath,\u003cbr\u003e you were the one who jumped off first.\u003cbr\u003e Who was the one to collapse the tent,\u003cbr\u003e waking you up at three a.m.?\u003cbr\u003e Ah yes, that was Definitely\u003cbr\u003e Certainly\u003cbr\u003e Undoubtedly\u003cbr\u003e Me.\u003cbr\u003e Yet even as I fretted and fumed\u003cbr\u003e worrying you’d see me as such a fool\u003cbr\u003e rather than brave, capable, interesting,\u003cbr\u003e a friend,\u003cbr\u003e I couldn’t help but notice how different it seemed\u003cbr\u003e sleeping in a tent with you next to me\u003cbr\u003e the warmest summer night\u003cbr\u003e the eve of our senior year.\u003cbr\u003e Not alone, surrounded by sleeping bags like\u003cbr\u003e giant caterpillars\u003cbr\u003e and not even touching,\u003cbr\u003e inches between your sleeping pad\u003cbr\u003e and mine—\u003cbr\u003e simply hearing your breath\u003cbr\u003e          pull in\u003cbr\u003e                   whisper out\u003cbr\u003e                                    repeat,\u003cbr\u003e the intimacy of knowing\u003cbr\u003e your face at rest\u003cbr\u003e innocent\u003cbr\u003e like a secret I shouldn’t\u003cbr\u003e know,\u003cbr\u003e too holy for me.\u003cbr\u003e I shook off the feeling\u003cbr\u003e thought it all just a fluke\u003cbr\u003e not understanding my own fascination\u003cbr\u003e not knowing one day you’d see me\u003cbr\u003e as brave\u003cbr\u003e and I’d see you\u003cbr\u003e as beautiful\u003cbr\u003e lying under the stars beneath\u003cbr\u003e a fall crescent moon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 3\u003cbr\u003e The drive seems endless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My thoughts pinwheel from desperate plan to even more desperate plan, pinging faster and faster until I can barely distinguish one from the other. I could pop a tire at the gas station. Or call someone to come pick me up. Or fake being fine once I get there so they \u003ci\u003ehave \u003c\/i\u003eto send me home. At this point, I’d even consider calling God with a banana phone, the way my mother convinced me I could as a child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In my mind’s eye, white walls close in on me. Blank. Sterile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If she is sending me to a place like that—I know I’d rather die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I rub my temples, hard, with my fingertips, as if the pressure can make the car stop moving. The ideas blend together until they’re an indecipherable, blurred tornado, and I have to stop thinking just to keep myself from losing my last shred of sanity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Despite my anxiety, I feel myself slipping into sleep as the sun flashes behind the trees. Mom has driven silently since I ended our last conversation, radio turned low to classical music I can barely hear. Maybe it’s the incessant violins, or the monotonous reel of shadow on asphalt, but sleep grabs me and pulls me under.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I often see your face in my dreams. Sometimes it’s wrong—you, but not you. Sometimes right. Sometimes smiling, that oh-so-familiar, soul-stilling smile, and other times looking sad. Bone-deep sad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A fox winds its way through a dark forest. Its fiery, white-tipped tail the only flame in the shadow. I’m desperate to keep up, but it slips out of reach. Leaving me aching. Grasping.\u003cbr\u003e I sink in and out of sleep, never fully waking, riding on a bumpy carpet of dream and nightmare.\u003cbr\u003e When I wake fully, late afternoon light is spilling through the window, and the scenery has changed—we’re now driving on a gravel road winding into a horizon of hazy purple-blue mountains. They loom. Stepping up and up until they kiss thunderheads the color of a day-old bruise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Where the heck are we?” I mumble. My tongue feels thick and dry in my mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Almost there” is all Mom says. The road lurches up . . . into the side of a foothill. I follow the snaking white line as it winds onward and upward . . . foothill to small mountain . . . small mountain to medium mountain . . . medium mountain to \u003ci\u003ebig \u003c\/i\u003emountain. Dipping and disappearing, materializing only to spiral upward once more. To the sky. To nowhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Crap,” I mutter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not only am I spending the summer at a psych camp for wrecked kids, but it’s also located in an impenetrable mountain fortress. My feebly hatched plans to hop on a bus or hitchhike out of here might need to be rethought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I grip the armrest. Shut my eyes. Feel the front of the car tilt up and up and up. Listen to the occasional stray rock rattling in the wheel well. Work to quell the irrational fear that we are going to climb up into the sky and then fall off the face of the earth into endless, awful nothing. The granola bar I forced down earlier threatens to make a reappearance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How do you know the way?” The sentence comes out breathless. She’s not using directions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mother just purses her lips tighter, a thin, determined line. Ren Maven wants up this mountain? Well then, by golly, we’re getting up it. Sometimes I don’t understand how she can be so amazed by my stubbornness, when I clearly get it from her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then, all at once, we are there—atop the ridge. At first, all I can see is green. Lush, deep, vibrant, layered green, of all shades, splashing up the sides of the valley and bleeding into the mountain slopes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The question \u003ci\u003ewhy \u003c\/i\u003eswells in my mind again, looking at all that beauty spread out before me. Why would God give this to the world, to anyone who chances upon it, when He won’t pay any attention to me? No use even thinking about it. The response is always the same—no answer at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mom has visibly relaxed now, shoulders slumped after the long drive. Her eyes are soft, looking far into the past, or future, or both. Looking down into the valley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I follow her gaze. At the very center of the valley, at the end of the winding, brown road—\u003cbr\u003e is a little white house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Raeth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eIV\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even in the beginning\u003cbr\u003e we were always tied together by grief.\u003cbr\u003e The news of my dog’s death\u003cbr\u003e reached my phone, buzzing\u003cbr\u003e in the middle of class, a chilling October afternoon\u003cbr\u003e of senior year\u003cbr\u003e and I knew—\u003cbr\u003e I only wanted to be with you with such sadness.\u003cbr\u003e Safety wafted\u003cbr\u003e around you like the clean, bright scent of clothes\u003cbr\u003e fresh from the dryer.\u003cbr\u003e I wanted to surround myself with it\u003cbr\u003e that broad smile\u003cbr\u003e daring me to speak\u003cbr\u003e to let the words pour out of me, unchecked.\u003cbr\u003e We sat beneath the fading trees\u003cbr\u003e on the brown lawn,\u003cbr\u003e stiff grass tickling my thighs.\u003cbr\u003e Silence with you felt like\u003cbr\u003e a cocoon, a connection that didn’t\u003cbr\u003e need words in order\u003cbr\u003e to be heard.\u003cbr\u003e The sound of pen on paper\u003cbr\u003e the occasional remark about assignments\u003cbr\u003e and weird teachers\u003cbr\u003e the knowledge that I could talk about it,\u003cbr\u003e the grief,\u003cbr\u003e if I wanted to, and if I didn’t\u003cbr\u003e that was okay too—\u003cbr\u003e you were here for it\u003cbr\u003e all of it\u003cbr\u003e all of me.\u003cbr\u003e I wanted to tell you then—\u003cbr\u003e I didn’t want to lose you too.\u003cbr\u003e Didn’t want to lose you because\u003cbr\u003e I loved you.\u003cbr\u003e I didn’t know how yet\u003cbr\u003e          didn’t know what kind\u003cbr\u003e                   didn’t have words for the quiet\u003cbr\u003e honeysuckle-scented growing like\u003cbr\u003e petals unfurling but\u003cbr\u003e I knew love when I saw it.\u003cbr\u003e It looked like you.\u003cbr\u003e It would have been the start\u003cbr\u003e of a string of endless\u003cbr\u003e beautiful, shocking\u003cbr\u003e things we would say to each other\u003cbr\u003e that we would be hearing for the first\u003cbr\u003e time in our lives.\u003cbr\u003e Instead, we stared at homework scribbles\u003cbr\u003e picking Skittles from the bag.\u003cbr\u003e I said you had good handwriting\u003cbr\u003e and you laughed, saying no one\u003cbr\u003e had every told you this before.\u003cbr\u003e I placed the hated green Skittles\u003cbr\u003e on the blanket between us, and you\u003cbr\u003e ate every last one of them.","brand":"Rocky Pond Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300799795429,"sku":"NP9780593618929","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593618929.jpg?v=1767740719","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-night-fox-isbn-9780593618929","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}