“We could increase the rent,” I suggested weakly. A group of elderly ladies came into the shop and I slipped into the storeroom, knowing that this conversation could very well get heated.
“Who in their right mind would pay more than eight hundred dollars a month for that house? It’s a shit hole!”
I started to see red. Tamsin had never shown an ounce of regard for the house our parents had purchased shortly after they had gotten married. Sometimes I wondered if my older sister was missing that vital ingredient that made us all human. Emotions.
On the flip side, I guessed that’s what made her such a great lawyer.
“Look, it’s too much. Jared and I really want to sell.”
“What does Jared have to do with it? His name isn’t on the deed!” I exclaimed, my voice rising. In some ways, Jared, Tamsin’s husband, was worse than she was. Shallow and vain, he seemed to only care about making money and being a prick.
“Jared is my husband, Corin, so of course he has a say in my affairs. Don’t be an idiot!” she seethed, and I clenched the phone so tightly in my hand that I thought it might break.
“I can’t deal with this right now. I have a lot going on—”
“Is this about your stupid health stuff?”
I couldn’t help the tears that welled up and started to drip ever so slowly down my cheeks. I hated crying but it seemed an instinctual response when talking to my sister. Tamsin could be hateful and cruel. Sometimes there had been glimpses over the years of a person who could be kind and loving. But it was usually overshadowed by her irritation with me.
I spent most of my life desperately hoping that my parents had simply never gotten around to telling me that Tamsin was actually adopted.
“Stop it,” I whispered hoarsely into the phone, knowing I was only moments away from breaking down. And my sister was the last person I wanted to detonate in front of. Even if it was only over the phone. She’d hold it against me forever.
Tamsin sighed. “Okay, I don’t mean to give you hard time. I just think you really need to get over this block you have about selling the house. Financially it doesn’t make sense for us to hold onto it just because it belonged to Mom and Dad.”
I couldn’t justify myself to her again. It wouldn’t matter anyway. The best thing to do was to shut the conversation down.
“We’ll talk about this another time. I have to go.” I didn’t give my sister a chance to speak and disconnected the call.
I stood there for a few minutes after Tamsin hung up. Talking to my sister was akin to jumping in front of an oncoming train. Probably avoidable, but totally devastating all the same. She could squeeze my heart and stomp on it like no one else.
Adam came into the storeroom and grabbed a box off the shelf, pausing a moment to look at me as I stared blankly into space.
“You okay?” he asked.
I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Not really. I need to get out of here for a few minutes. Are you good to watch things until I get back?”
“Uh, sure,” he said, giving me a strange look, but true to form didn’t ask any questions.
I wiped at the tears drying on my face and hurried out to my car.
I thought about going to my parents’ house but I hadn’t been back since moving out years before. The house was all mixed up with hard-to-place emotions in my mind. There were so many good memories there. But the bad ones seemed to trump them every time.
Instead I somehow ended up at the park. Which was strange, given that even as a child, I wasn’t exactly a “park” kind of person. I didn’t like swings. I didn’t do jungle gyms. And don’t get me started on sandboxes. The thought made me shudder.
I parked my car and got out, walking across the crunchy grass, my shoes soaked after stepping in a pile of melting snow.
I would probably end up with hypothermia. I should get back in the car and take off my shoes and socks. I could feel my toes going numb and started to experience the telltale signs of unreasonable hysteria as I thought about all the possibilities of letting my toes stay in my freezing, wet shoes. Amputated toes. Irreparable nerve damage.
I was out of breath by the time I had reached the far side of the park. I noticed that a soccer game was going on. What sort of maniacs played in this weather? And wearing only shorts and T-shirts? Were they nuts?
It didn’t look like any sort of organized game. Just a bunch of guys kicking a ball around while shouting obscenities at one another.
I scanned the field, not sure why I had come there in the first place, only knowing that I had needed to be somewhere, anywhere but closed up in my shop.
I suddenly caught sight of a familiar face and stopped.
Beckett Kingsley, my unwanted savior and fellow Mended Hearts group member, sat on a bench, leaning forward, with his elbows braced on his knees. He was watching the group of soccer players fixedly, his brown hair a messy mop on his head.
He didn’t notice me, his focus entirely on the soccer game.
There was something about his face that made me pause. I half hid behind a giant oak tree, peeking out from behind it like a weirdo. He didn’t know that I was watching and I didn’t want him to. It would ratchet the awkward between us up to an agonizing level.
But I couldn’t help it.
He looked sad.
No.
He looked heartbroken.
He seemed so different than how he had come across at the Mended Hearts group. Then he had been jovial and upbeat. Incredibly optimistic given all he had been through. I had found it unsettling and jarring. I hadn’t been quite sure how to handle that level of positivity, given that I was the least happy-go-lucky person out there.
But this Beckett was someone I could identify with. Because right then, staring at the men running across the makeshift pitch, he looked like someone who had lost everything. He was a man that was mourning.
I swallowed around the thick lump in my throat, feeling a complicated rush of emotions that was both startling and unfamiliar. I knew how Beckett was feeling. I recognized the look on his face because I had seen it so many times when I looked in the mirror.
It was the look of a man who thought his life was over.
Beckett continued to sit there, unmoving, with a visible weight on his shoulders. Until the game was over and several of the guys noticed him sitting there and came over to speak to him. Then I saw a smile. I heard a laugh. And Beckett became Mr. Positivity once again.
But for a moment, when he was completely unguarded, I saw something else. Something that made him so much more real.
And in his grief I saw a man that I wanted to know.
Chapter 4
Beckett
“Beckett! How was your appointment last week? I forgot to ask last time!” Candace asked when I arrived at the Methodist church for the Mended Hearts support group on Tuesday. In some weird way, the ragtag group of randoms had become a second family. Friends that actually got it. People I wanted to spend time with.
The hospital social worker had given me a list of community resources and supports before I was discharged. I had looked them over and chosen the group at the top. And when I had shown up at the first meeting, I was still more than a little skeptical of the whole thing.
But as the weeks went by, I began to feel comfortable in that strange group. They didn’t ask a million obnoxious questions or look at me like I was walking death. They didn’t expect me to talk about how I was feeling or what I was going to do now that my life was oh so different.
“Pretty good.” I tapped at my healing incision. “Everything’s working the way it’s supposed to. So score one for the ole ticker.” I smiled and it was genuine.
Candace patted me on the shoulder in a maternal way. “That’s great. I have no doubt you’ll show that obstinate heart who’s boss.” I winked and she laughed, a deep belly guffaw that sound a lot like a donkey, before turning to Clive and Jennifer, two group members who had just arrived.
I
poured myself a cup of tea and took a sip, closing my eyes briefly. I missed coffee. It was just another thing in my life that I had to give up. I hated tea. I hated the taste. What it represented for me. But I drank it anyway. Because I had to. Because that’s what my life was now.
One never-ending concession.
“I’ve never seen someone look so unhappy to drink tea in my life.” I opened my eyes and found Corin standing beside me, her hands tapping the tabletop in a nervous, repetitive fashion.
I was glad to see her again. After my mildly disturbing behavior toward her last week I hadn’t been so sure she’d come back. But I had been so surprised and honest-to-God relieved to see her that day that I couldn’t help but be over the top.
That day when I found her having a panic attack in the slushy snow had been a big deal for me. I didn’t really know why, but there was something about her that made me instantly protective. It was weird and made absolutely no sense, but it had been powerful stuff.
I hadn’t thought twice before I knelt down beside her, not caring about my soaked jeans and freezing fingers. She couldn’t breathe, her hands fluttering wildly in front of her throat as she made scary gasping sounds.
I knew what a panic attack looked like. I had suffered from my fair share after finding myself in the hospital, hooked up to a few dozen beeping machines. I also knew that what she was feeling was very real and very scary.
I had gotten her to her feet and spoke calmly, trying to soothe her. I had been on my way to pick Sierra up from work. But then I had stumbled upon Corin. In those few minutes I didn’t think about where I needed to be or what I should be doing.
I just wanted to help her.
And when she had finally gotten herself together, she had rushed off before I could say anything else. I never even got her name.
I found myself thinking about Corin a lot after that. Wondering about her. Hoping she was okay. I wasn’t sure why I was fixating on her so much, but the thought of her had burrowed deep regardless.
So when I saw her at the Mended Hearts support group last week, I saw it as some sort of sign. Like fate had thrown her back into my path for some important reason I didn’t comprehend yet. I had felt an understandable relief that she was okay. She was standing there still breathing and that made me feel good.
But Corin hadn’t jumped at the chance to engage in further discussions about that day that had connected us. In fact she looked as though she wanted to deliver a swift punch to my throat.
The whole thing had been odd. Unsettling. And I had convinced myself that Corin Thompson was just a random blip on the radar of my life. If she never came back to the support group, then that was her decision, and I couldn’t care one way or another.
Yet here she was. Bobbing up and down on her tiptoes, drumming her fingertips on the tabletop, attempting to smile and failing horribly. And I wanted to laugh at how awkward we both were. There was this twist of genuine humor that felt pretty damn awesome.
I gave her a broad smile in a way that was slightly insane and registered pretty high on the creep-o-meter.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, grabbing another cup and pouring her some. “Milk and sugar?” I asked.
Corin frowned. I hadn’t thought my question was that confusing. Maybe I shouldn’t have given so many options. Should I speak slower? Perhaps make a list on PowerPoint? Because I could swear I almost saw her brain exploding.
“Uh, yeah. Both please,” she answered after a painfully uneasy pause, her gaze flittering away from mine and then returning again. And when she met my eyes, it felt like a gift. As though she were giving me something she never gave anyone.
What was wrong with me? I was thinking in sentimental bullshit!
This sort of insanity should be reserved for the meeting of supermodels and sports icons.
Not quietly good-looking girls with obvious social phobias.
The truth was Corin was very pretty. Though understated. Not the type of pretty I was used to with Sierra, who dressed in a way meant to show off as much skin as possible with her boobs on permanent display. That had been such a turn-on when we had first met.
Corin’s brown hair was long and held back in a simple ponytail. Her eyes were a dark, intense brown that was nice to look at when she wasn’t staring at her shoes. She didn’t seem to wear any makeup. I hated when women caked that shit on their faces so it was impossible to see what was underneath. I hadn’t seen Sierra’s natural skin tone until we had been together for eight months and that was purely by accident after walking into the bathroom just as she got out of the shower.
But I could tell Corin didn’t care about stuff like that. She was too busy chewing on her bottom lip and drilling a hole through the table with her fingers.
She was tall. Almost as tall as I was. Though she stooped her shoulders, which I figured had to be on purpose so her height wasn’t as noticeable. I had known a few girls growing up that were on the giant side, and each of them had been really self-conscious about it.
It seemed Corin Thompson was no different.
But without trying, she exuded an innate sexiness that was compelling. Mesmerizing even. I couldn’t stop looking at her, no matter how hard I tried. And it wasn’t just her looks.
It was something just below the surface that I was eager to find.
I wasn’t typically such an observant guy. I was a notoriously poor judge of character. Just ask my mother about every single one of my ex-girlfriends—including Sierra—and you’ll get the picture.
But Corin made me want to read between the lines. I found myself watching her. Noticing her. Trying to figure her out. She was intriguing without meaning to be. I felt triumphant when I thought I could understand her. And I knew, without a doubt, that it was difficult for her to talk to me. To talk to anyone.
I felt strangely flattered that she was making an effort with me.
“Here you go.” I handed her the cup of tea and watched as she slowly sipped, some of the liquid beading on her bottom lip.
“Did I do okay?” I asked.
“Huh?” That seemed to be her go-to response.
“The milk to sugar ratio. Is it all right? It’s an important thing to know,” I prompted. I tried the grinning thing again and hoped I looked more like a normal dude and less like a serial killer.
“Oh, sure.”
I placed my hand over my thumping heart and feigned a pained expression. “You’ve made me doubt my tea preparation abilities. She says sure. I hear shit.”
Corin didn’t crack a smile. She gave me nothing. Clearly my attempts at humor were lost on her.
But I just wanted her to smile. I felt compelled to do whatever it took to make it happen. Standing on my head wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Because she seemed sad.
Too sad.
And I hated that.
“Your tea preparation abilities are superb. No need to be overly dramatic about it,” she replied dryly.
And then I saw it.
The elusive smile. It was there and then it wasn’t and I couldn’t help but miss it when it was gone.
“Everyone have a seat,” Candace called out, and we all started shuffling unhurriedly toward the chairs.
I waited for Corin to find a seat and sat down across from her, noticing that once again she chose a chair without an opening beside her. That seemed intentional.
I bothered her. A lot.
I needed to change that quickly.
“Does anyone have news they want to share?” Candace asked, beginning the group in the usual way. My gaze found its way back to Corin who sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap. She was still chewing on her full bottom lip, looking anxious. I noticed her rubbing her chest periodically and wondered if she was all right.
Without thinking, I mirrored her movements, rubbing the always-sore spot below my collarbone. I found myself doing it frequently, usually when stressed.
She looked my way once or twice but otherwise kept her focus on whoever
was speaking. Finally after everyone had shared their news, Candace turned to Corin, who looked about ready to jump out of her skin.
“Do you think you’d like to introduce yourself to the group? Perhaps tell everyone why you’re here?” Candace gently urged.
Corin looked at me, her face blank but her eyes wide.
Geoffery, the resident grandfather figure of the group, held out his trusted bag of mints for Corin to take one. She shook her head. Geoffery could be a little pushy about those mints of his.
“My name is Corin Thompson,” she began, and I leaned forward almost unconsciously.
“I’m twenty-five years old and I own the Razzle Dazzle pottery studio downtown.”
Beside me, Stella made a cooing noise. “My granddaughter loves your studio! I’ve taken her there a few times! It’s lovely!” she enthused, and I could see that the compliment made Corin happy. She flushed red and her lips quirked upward into an almost smile. A genuine expression on an otherwise frozen face.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, rubbing at her chest again. My fingers still rubbed at the spot on my own skin.
“Do you mind telling us what brought you here?” Candace asked.
Corin looked uncomfortable and I understood that feeling well. It sucked having to talk about your condition to complete strangers. You quickly got tired of explaining the details over and over again until you wanted to snap. I could see her getting flustered, her cheeks burning red. Her bottom lip was bloody from being torn to shreds by her teeth.
Corin fidgeted in her seat, her eyes darting from Candace, to me, back to Candace.
“I, uh…well…”
“Do you think we’ll have time to go over those yoga techniques we talked about last week? I was trying to remember them the other day and couldn’t,” I interrupted. Candace gave me a dark look, clearly not appreciating my perceived lack of sensitivity.
There was a second or two of silence after my abrupt subject change, and then a few others murmured their agreement.
I glanced across the room at Corin, hoping she didn’t think I was being rude. I hoped she realized that I was only trying to help her. Our eyes met and her severe expression softened, her dark eyes almost warm and it was like a punch to the gut. Real and raw and unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The air between us crackled with energy that I felt everywhere.
Butterfly Dreams Page 5
