My eyelids lower, a velvet curtain at the end of the show—a macabre ballet about witches and cruel boys and lakes that swallow people up—and I fall asleep listening to the roar of the fire and Oliver saying my name and the crackling pain of warmth returning to my bones.

Men never stay long in our lives, Grandma would say.

We drive them away. We sneak potions into their coffee to make them crave the smell of the sea, so they will leave these mountains and never come back. We refuse proposals and leave love letters unopened and don’t come to windows when boys toss pebbles against the glass at sunrise. We prefer to be alone.

But it doesn’t mean our hearts don’t unravel. It doesn’t mean we can’t love deeply and painfully and chase after boys who refuse to love us back. But in the end, always in the end, we find a way to shatter whatever hint of love had grown inside us.

I wake on the couch thinking of this.

I wake recalling Oliver pulling me from the lake and carrying me home. I recall his hands on my skin, wiping the sweat from my brow. And I think that maybe, possibly, he cares about me. But I’m also certain I’ll find a way to ruin it.

Just give me time.

I press my palms into the couch, my arms shaking as I prop myself up. Outside, the sky is dark. But I have a memory of the sun shining through the windows, reflecting off the walls, a hollow orb that felt too bright. How many days have passed? How many nights?

I flex my fingers and the numbness is gone—a dull warmth returned to my skin.

I untangle myself from the blankets, grip the edge of the couch for balance, and pull myself up to my feet. My joints crack and my head sways a little, as though water is still trapped in the hollows of my ears.

Fin is lying at my feet, and I reach down to run my fingers through his thick fur, his tail swishing once against the floor. “I’m all right,” I assure him, and he blows out a soft breath of air and lowers his head, like he can finally sleep now that he knows I’m awake.

On wobbly feet, I walk into the kitchen and drink a glass of water, then two more—my body desperate for it. Sandpaper in my throat. I hold on to the edge of the counter and listen for Oliver. “Hello?” I call into the house, but my voice comes out as a croak. Barely audible.