Butterfly in Frost

by Sylvia Day

  “Thank you.” Garrett’s tone is sincere. “If you feel something looking at my work, that’s a high compliment, and I’m happy to take it.”

  Mike’s smile widens, and he visibly relaxes as he accepts his glass. I remind myself that Garrett is a rock star in certain circles, a great-looking guy with boundless talent. Thanks to his penchant for dating supermodels, he’s been mentioned on tabloid shows and gossip blogs, sat front row at fashion weeks, and popped up on high-profile social media feeds. I don’t see him as a celebrity, but I understand that Mike and Roxy do. And Garrett has put Mike at ease in a matter of moments.

  “This one in particular,” Mike goes on, “just blows my mind. I thought so even looking at it on my computer. There’s so much energy in it. And . . . I don’t know. Joy? It makes me feel good just looking at it.”

  I can tell Garrett is touched. So am I.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Roxy says from her perch on the sofa. She sits where she was before, with her legs crossed and one arm draped over the back of the couch, looking perfectly at home. “It’s a happy painting. And it reminds me of snow. What was the inspiration photo?”

  “A pile of ski gloves on a table,” Mike answers. “Can you believe it? To see that and then see this.” He gestures with both arms wide toward the canvas.

  Garrett returns to the pass-through and takes a long drink of his wine, nearly draining the glass. “That was my breakout piece,” he says somberly, licking wine off his lower lip. “Prior to it, I was focused on still lifes. It was my wife who challenged me to try conveying emotion through paint, instead of painting objects and trying to make them resonate emotionally.”

  Roxy’s brows shoot up. “Oh. I thought you were a bachelor. Not that I know very much about you, but nothing to the contrary came up when cyberstalking you—I’m harmless, I promise—so I guess I just assumed.”

  His faint smile quickly fades. “When things took off for me, my wife preferred to stay in the background, so I never discussed my personal life when interviewed.”

  “It’s great you kept the painting for yourself and didn’t end up selling it to someone,” Mike says.

  “I did sell it, actually. I had to buy it back, but the fact that I wanted it returned made the buyer even more determined to keep it. He tried to wring me dry.”

  Roxy nods. “I can understand having an attachment to a breakout piece. I kept the first bowl I made; I was so proud of it.”

  “That was a factor, certainly.” Garrett walks over to where I stand by the windows. “But what makes that piece so special is what you can’t see. Underneath the abstract on the surface is the original still life of my wife’s and son’s gloves. I was so frustrated with her when she told me what I didn’t want to hear about my art, I covered over what was already there. I was trying to prove a point but proved hers instead.”

  “You have a son!” Roxy’s face beams. “How old is he?”

  Garrett takes a deep breath before answering. “David would have been seven this year.”

  Turning my head, I look up at him, and the familiar cold, hard knot tightens in my stomach. His hand rubs up and down my back, as if he’s comforting me, when it’s his face that is stark and pale.

  The moment hardens in amber, forever preserved. Mike and Roxy have frozen in place, their faces showing shock and sorrow.

  I slide my arm around Garrett’s waist, trying to impart whatever comfort I can. I rest my cheek against his chest, feeling helpless.

  “Oh, Garrett.” Roxy winces. “I don’t know what to say . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I,” he says, releasing the tension in his body with a deep exhalation. “I’m sorry every day. It’s been fourteen months, three weeks, and four days, and it still sometimes feels like a nightmare I’m waiting to wake up from.”

  “I . . .” She looks at Mike helplessly.

  “There’s nothing to say, Roxanne,” Garrett tells her gently. “Losing a child is a horrible, godawful thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mike offers, his voice gruff. He looks everywhere but at Garrett when he takes a drink. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “Don’t try.” Garrett presses his lips to the crown of my head. “Just hold on to the ones you love. Make time for them. Enjoy them.”

  There’s a pervasive weight in the air, a chill despite the sunlight streaming in. Garrett glances down at me, and I see the deep well of his grief in his gaze.

  He stands tall, shoulders squared, chin lifted. A shattered man using all his strength to hold himself together.

  7

  “You hardly ate anything.” Garrett is walking me back to my house. He reaches for my hand, joining our fingers together. It’s later tonight than the night before, late enough that it’s truly dark out.

  “I’m just not that hungry.”

  He doesn’t ask why as we climb the short set of steps that connects his yard—which sits lower on the bluff—to mine. We walk around the retaining wall that affords me a flat lawn, then onto the pathway to the front door.

  “You stopped talking after I mentioned David,” he says quietly.

  I sigh and squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry if it seemed that way.”

  “It didn’t seem that way; that’s what happened.”

  I almost want him to be angry with me so I can feel something other than terribly sad, but he’s not. His tone is matter-of-fact, his grip on my hand easy and comfortable. “I’m sorry, Garrett.”

  “Stop apologizing. I’m just checking in with you, that’s all. You’ve been somewhere else most of the night, and wherever that is, I want to be there, too.”

  “And how fucked up is that? It should be the reverse. I should be checking in with you.” I shake my head, angry with myself for being worthless to him.

  I pause before my front door. Reaching up, I cup his cheek in my hand. After a year of wandering around in the dark, I see him becoming such a light for me. I feel things for him I thought I’d never feel again. That’s why I don’t want to be a burden that holds him back. “You deserve someone who can be a comfort to you.”

  “You are.” He pulls me into a loose embrace. “Having you beside me tonight—that was enough.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t get to say what works for me, Teagan,” he says with gentle firmness. “It made you sad hearing me talk about it. That’s normal.”

  Normal. I had a normal life once. I was normal once, but that’s behind me. Sadness is something normal people experience within a spectrum of emotions. For me, it’s a crack that widens into a chasm that swallows me whole and takes days to climb out of.

  “I’m so tired, Garrett,” I say honestly. I’m so exhausted, my limbs feel leaden. Even breathing is an effort. “I’m still fighting jet lag, and it’s been a long day.”

  His frown is fierce. “It doesn’t feel right leaving you alone right now.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Besides, you’ve got Roxy and Mike waiting.”

  He rests his forehead against mine with a sigh. “If I don’t come back, they’ll get the idea and leave.”

  I can feel myself swaying in his arms, like a reed under water. The surface is farther and farther away as I sink.

  “I’m seriously going to pass out the moment my head hits the pillow,” I tell him, my voice sounding far away to my own ears.

  He releases me reluctantly, watches me as I open, then close the door in his face. My keys hit the floor. Turning the dead bolt is too much work. I long for the couch but force myself into the bedroom instead.

  It’s been some time since I felt this way, but I recognize the path. And the destination. Only the oblivion of sleep can comfort me now.

  A soft moan escapes me when I wake up enough to comprehend that someone’s knocking on the front door. The sound is aggressive, impatient, accompanied by demanding rings of the doorbell.

  Drifting back to consciousness feels like being pulled from the bottom of a lake. I’m buried in mud and silt,
the heaviness slowly sliding off me as I’m reeled back up to the surface. I fight the pull, turning to my side and squeezing my eyes shut. I’m still so tired.

  I sense the light of the sun. I didn’t close the blinds. The brightness tells me nothing about the hour. The sun rises early in the summer.

  Reaching behind me, I yank the coverlet over me, wrapping myself in a cocoon. The noise fades, and I fall back to sleep.

  The irritating sound of rapping on glass pulls me back to consciousness. Curling into a tight ball, I ignore it. But the door to the deck slides open anyway. A breeze rushes in, carrying the cries of birds and the distant rumble of airplanes. Why is the door open? I struggle to remember.

  “Teagan.”

  The sound of Garrett’s voice brings tears to my eyes. The door seals shut. The room is enveloped in quiet once again. He tugs at the bedspread, gently uncurling my clutching fingers, undoing my efforts to hold on to it. In short order, it no longer covers me.

  “Oh, Doc,” he says quietly, heartache in his voice. A shoe drops, then another. The mattress depresses under his weight, and he crawls onto the bed behind me. He wraps around my back until we’re fitted as tightly as matched spoons. His arm bands my waist; his lips press into my neck. Warmth settles into me. I sink back into obliviousness.

  The need to pee finally forces me to rise. I rub at my puffy, crusty eyes before opening them, seeing a soft orange glow on the wall that tells me the sun has made its journey across the sky. In my stomach, the ball of ice sits like a stone, burning with cold.

  How can something so solid feel like yawning, agonizing emptiness?

  Kicking out my legs, I wince at the tightness in muscles cramping into one position for too long. The arm around my waist loosens, freeing me to sit up on the edge of the bed. I don’t look at Garrett when I stand or when I walk to the bathroom and shut the door. I don’t look in the mirror after I’ve relieved myself and wash my hands. But when I open the door again, Garrett’s waiting there, standing beside the bed in black running shorts and socks.

  I look beyond him to the sliding glass door, realizing I must have forgotten to lock it after he and I came in from the deck the day before.

  That interlude seems like it happened ages ago.

  My gaze returns to him. A frown draws his brows together, and his eyes have darkened to a deep emerald. He looks worried and pale, and concern for him penetrates the numbness engulfing me.

  It hurts to take a breath. Still, I manage it. “I’m sorry.”

  He catches me close, hugging tightly. “The only thing you need to apologize for is not letting me stay with you last night. Damn it, Teagan. I know what depression looks like, what it feels like. You don’t have to suffer alone.”

  It takes a long while before what he said actually pierces through the fog in my mind. Licking dry lips, I tell him, “I’m not okay.”

  He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I can see that.”

  “You’re so much stronger than I am.”

  “So? Maybe I am. You’re a damn sight smarter than me. Helluva lot prettier, too. That’s called balance.”

  “Check your mirror, Frost.”

  “No false modesty here. I know I’m a good-looking guy—I’ve been taking advantage of that with hot chicks like you my whole life.”

  I would groan at that statement if I had the energy. “You’re trying to distract me.”

  “Not a crime.”

  “I’m so tired.” I yawn, weary beyond belief.

  “I ordered food while you were in the bathroom. If you eat something, you can go back to sleep.”

  Against my better judgment, I burrow into him.

  Garrett glowers and stubbornly holds the spoon to my lips. “Keep going. You’re only halfway through.”

  “I’m full.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I open my mouth just because I don’t want him to spill soup on me, not after I dragged myself through a shower at his insistence. The soup has cooled but is still lukewarm. I have no clue what it is, aside from some kind of broth.

  “It doesn’t taste like anything,” I complain after swallowing.

  We’re sitting in the dining room eating delivered takeout. I’m at the head of the table with my back to the adjacent kitchen. He’s sitting beside me with his back to the view. Now I’ll never be able to look out from this vantage without picturing him here, bare-chested and backlit by the slowly setting sun.

  “This happens to be a damn good chicken noodle soup,” he retorts. “You’re welcome to my sandwich, if you’d prefer that.”

  “I’m not hungry.” I feel like crap and also guilty. He’s got to be starving after a day without food, but he’s making sure I eat first.

  I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a child, but he shoves a spoonful of soup in before I can get a word out. I glare at him.

  “There we go,” he murmurs, dabbing at my chin with a napkin. “Starting to see some fire in those pretty brown eyes.”

  “I’m going to dump that soup on you.”

  The deep frown line between his brows softens. “Oh yeah? Think you can take me?”

  The thought is absurd. He’s six foot three and at least two hundred and twenty pounds. That makes him a foot taller and nearly a hundred pounds heavier than me. There was a time in my life when I’d taken care of myself, worked out, ate well. Now . . . well, I’m too thin, lack any muscle tone whatsoever, and probably couldn’t take on a kitten in play mode.

  Still. “You wield a paintbrush, hot guy. I wield a scalpel.”

  “Ooh, fighting words. I like ’em.” He finally sets aside the plastic tub of soup. Then he grabs the armrests of my chair and drags me into the space between his spread legs. “Speaking of paintbrushes . . . I dreamed about you last night. I had drop cloths spread on the floor, you were stretched out naked on top of them, and I was driving you crazy running brushes all over your body.”

  I’m in no condition to appreciate his sexual fantasy.

  “Nothing?” he queries.

  “What can I say to that? You’re going to a lot of trouble to get into my pants, but you’re far too gorgeous to work this hard for sex with a head case.”

  “Wow, that was a mouthful.” Despite his amusement, the shadows linger in his eyes. “For the record, I’m shooting for more than a single roll in the hay.”

  “What happened to taking things one day at a time? Focusing on right here and right now and all that?”

  “Yeah, we shot past that.” Garrett takes my hands in his. “Now it’s us—you and me—and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.”

  I lean closer, holding his gaze with my own. “You deserve to be happier than this. Don’t punish yourself with me.”

  He sighs. “Teagan, I don’t know what you think I should be out there looking for, when I’ve got all the mystery of the deepest oceans sitting right here in front of me.”

  That stuns me into a moment of silence before I protest, “I’m no great mystery, Frost. There’s no treasure to uncover. What you see is what there is.”

  “I’m a guy who finds the expedition itself more worthwhile than the treasure. One can last forever; the other is the end of the road.”

  His gaze is earnest and direct. My head lowers. I look at my hands in my lap.

  “I have shit days, too, you know,” he goes on. “Trust me on that.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  “You’re looking at it the wrong way.” His grip tightens. “You’re broken. I’m broken. We don’t throw the pieces away. We fit them together until they make something new.”

  A picture forms in my mind, rising through the haze. “Like the mosaics Roxanne makes,” I say quietly.

  “Exactly.”

  “Roxy wears gloves so the jagged edges don’t cut her fingers.”

  “We’re not wearing gloves. We’re digging in with our bare hands, and if we get cut, well . . . you’re a surgeon. We’ll fix it.”

  �
��That’s mixing metaphor with reality,” I point out dryly.

  Garrett gives me a genuine smile. “Nah, that’s mixing you and me, babe.”

  I’m giving up the fight. I’m too exhausted; he’s too determined . . . and too tempting. If he wants to deal with my shit, I’m going to let him. In the past, it would take me days to get around to showering and eating after hitting bottom.

  He makes things better.

  I doubt my ability to do the same for him, which makes me feel selfish. But I can try. He deserves it.

  “You ready to go back to bed?” he asks.

  “Not until you eat your sandwich.”

  “You keeping me company?” He reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from my face.

  Turning my head, I kiss his palm. “That’s my plan.”

  8

  I tell myself not to get too excited before the doorbell rings, but when it does, I have to consciously slow my steps so I don’t reach the door too quickly. I’ve already disarmed the alarm. It takes only a second to disengage the dead bolt. I have come to anticipate the early-morning coffee break I share with Garrett, and when I open the door, I’m reminded of the reasons why.

  “Good morning, Doc,” he greets me, standing on my doorstep in black running shorts and shoes. He’s got one hand on my doorframe, his sculpted body casually on display. I take my time staring, as if I haven’t been treated to the same exceptional view every morning for the past week.

  Of course, if he were only physically attractive, I would eventually come to take it for granted. It’s the powerful sexual confidence he radiates that takes my desire for him to another level entirely.

  “Good morning, Garrett.” Pulling the door open, I step back to let him in. I take a deep breath as he passes me. He smells so good. Then I close the door slowly, maybe too slowly, alive with anticipation.

  I’ve come to crave the sensation of his mouth on mine, the way he tastes and how I feel when he holds me. There is a yearning for him inside me, growing every day.