Butterfly Dreams

by A. Meredith Walters

  “No. Nothing like that,” I replied a little breathlessly. I coughed to cover my discomfort. “I also provide workshops several times a week where you can make your own pieces. I have some pottery wheels in a small studio in the back. But there will be no Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore antics. It’s not that kind of place.” I laughed, though I couldn’t ignore the weird tingling in my belly.

  Beckett snapped his fingers together. “Well, damn it. There goes my idea for the afternoon.”

  I tried to think of something funny to say but came up short. Talking to Beckett could be so easy.

  Until it wasn’t.

  And I was left thinking about slathering him with wet clay and rubbing him all over.

  “Can I paint this one?” Beckett asked, saving me from my pit of awkward. He held up the butterfly that was perched on a leaf.

  “Odd choice for a guy, don’t you think?” I asked, relieved that the strange moment of tension was gone.

  “Don’t impose your gender stereotypes on me, Corin,” Beckett scolded good-naturedly. “Guys can like butterflies too,” he said, standing up straight and putting his shoulders back.

  “I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise,” I said, waving him toward the empty table. “Have a seat and I’ll bring you some paint.”

  I walked toward the storeroom as Adam was coming out of the office. He startled when he saw me. “Feeling better?” I asked him. Looking jumpy, he ran his hand through his hair. What was up with him?

  “Oh, yeah, I’m cool. All better now. Getting back to it.” He looked behind me to where Beckett was sitting at the table. “What’s with the dude?”

  “Oh, he’s just a friend.” No big deal. Nothing to see here, folks.

  “Uh-huh. Since when do you have those?” Adam asked.

  Ouch.

  “I have you, knucklehead.”

  “Adam, did you see my hair tie—oh hey, Corin,” Krista chimed, coming out of the office.

  Wait. What was she doing in there?

  “Yeah, I was bringing it out to you. Here…”—Adam shoved the elastic in Krista’s hands—“Now get back out there. I think the group is leaving,” he told her gruffly.

  Krista scampered off and I glared at him.

  “You really need to work on being nicer to people. She’s going to quit if you keep treating her like that.”

  “Whatever. She’ll be fine,” Adam muttered.

  “If she quits, you have to find her replacement,” I threatened. I grabbed a couple of pots of paint and stomped off, annoyed with Adam’s surly attitude even if I should be used to it by now. I returned to Beckett and dropped the paint on his table.

  “No blue? What self-respecting butterfly doesn’t have blue…” he trailed off as he looked up at me. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

  “If you want blue, I’ll get you some,” I offered.

  He pulled out the chair beside him. “Don’t worry about it. But why don’t you paint something too?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t sample the merchandise.”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve never painted something in your own store?” Beckett asked in disbelief.

  “Uh, no, I guess not.” I didn’t do a lot in the way of painting and sculpting anymore. Unless it was for a workshop. I couldn’t remember the last time I made something because I wanted to.

  “Well, grab something and sit down. Let’s de-stress together.” His offer was appealing in its simplicity.

  I grabbed another butterfly off the shelf. This one appeared to be in mid-flight. Its wings lifted up as though gliding on a gust of wind.

  “The butterflies will always protect you, Corin. They’ll keep you safe.”

  The memory of my mother’s voice rang in my ears. I hadn’t been able to find comfort in her words in a long time.

  And that often seemed like the greater loss.

  But seeing the delicate butterfly in Beckett’s hand had me remembering when my butterflies made me happy.

  I sat down beside Beckett, who was already dipping his brush into the pot of yellow paint and smearing it on the plaster.

  “It’s fun hanging out with you, Corin,” Beckett said, and I laughed.

  “I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.”

  Beckett frowned. “Well, then you’re not hanging out with the right people.”

  “And you’re the right people?” I asked, teasing but suddenly serious.

  “Yeah, I think I am. In fact, give me your phone.” He held his hand out and I gave him my phone without thinking twice.

  No hesitation.

  He so easily stepped right over any resistance I may have had.

  He tapped away and a few seconds later his phone rang and then stopped.

  “Now I have your number and you have mine,” he said when I obviously looked confused.

  “Why?” I asked stupidly.

  “So you can hang out with the right people again,” he commented, picking up his paintbrush and continuing with his project.

  “We see each other at group, you know,” I threw out there.

  I sounded unsure but I really wanted to hang out with him again.

  I didn’t want to admit out loud how much.

  But I did want to.

  “Yeah, but I’d like a reason to come here again.” Beckett looked around before his eyes returned to mine. Dancing and happy.

  “I like this place,” Beckett said sincerely. He meant it. I could tell.

  The noisy preschool group had finished and were filtering out the door. The quiet that was left behind was nice.

  My shop was the closest thing I had to a home. Home wasn’t the place I grew up. It wasn’t the apartment where I laid my head at night.

  It was in the studio where I had lived through my grief and tried to come out on the other side.

  It was in the tables and the chairs and the paint.

  It was in the smiles of customers and the knowledge that for once I had done something that was just for me.

  And I knew that somehow, someway, this stranger, this man I was only barely beginning to know, saw that.

  He liked my studio.

  That meant more than him saying that he liked me.

  I stopped painting, feeling the tiny frantic wings of my butterflies in my stomach and they didn’t feel painful or frantic.

  I looked over at Beckett, whose head was still bent over his figurine, taking his time to get the colors just right.

  He liked the studio.

  He liked it.

  And he wanted to call me.

  He wanted to hang out…with me.

  He thought I was fun.

  I smiled, feeling strangely full.

  “I’m glad.”

  Chapter 9

  Beckett

  “Hey, I brought you the information about the pottery workshop if you want to sign up,” Corin said, handing me a pamphlet.

  I was filling up my mug with tea and waiting for the rest of the members of the Mended Hearts support group to show up. I was dragging today after having very little sleep the night before.

  I took the pamphlet from Corin and smiled at her.

  I was glad to see her.

  I thought about calling her on my lunch break today but figured that would be a little much considering I’d see her that evening in group.

  “I almost called you today,” she said, as if reading my mind.

  “Oh yeah?” I asked.

  “I bought myself a box of that green tea stuff you had on Friday.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “I wanted to tell you that it’s so much better than coffee and that you’re crazy for thinking otherwise.” She brushed her long brown hair over her shoulder and I couldn’t stop staring at her. When I had first met her, I thought she was pretty in an understated way. Now I realized that pretty didn’t really describe Corin Thompson.

  She was beautiful.

  I found myself staring a little too long at her mouth and notic
eably cleared my throat, looking away.

  “Well, you should have called.”

  “I will next time. No sense in wasting an opportunity to tell you how wrong you are,” Corin remarked.

  I laughed. “Don’t get used to it. It won’t happen often.” I took a drink of tea. “Thanks for the pamphlet,” I said, holding it up.

  Suddenly I was hit by a wave of light-headedness that had me holding onto the edge of the table. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

  I concentrated on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. The dizziness was starting to make me sick.

  No. This can’t be happening.

  “Are you all right?”

  I opened my eyes to see Corin watching me closely. She was gripping at the hem of her pale yellow sweater, bunching it in her hand.

  The light-headedness started to fade and I was able to let go of the table. I took another deep breath and steadied myself.

  “I’m fine,” I answered casually. I held up the pamphlet that had become wrinkled in my hand. “Thanks for this.”

  Corin was still watching me, her eyes a little wider than they had been. Staring at me searchingly in a way that made me self-conscious. “Not a problem,” she said.

  What the hell had just happened? I felt a twisting in my stomach as I tried not to worry myself about the possible implications of getting suddenly dizzy.

  Maybe my blood sugar had gotten low.

  Maybe my blood pressure had dropped suddenly.

  One thing I did know was that I could never dismiss light-headedness ever again. I knew I was going to have to call my doctor and go in and get checked out.

  And I tried really hard not to get frustrated about it.

  I smoothed out the brochure and looked at it. “Looks like fun,” I said, trying to sound energetic.

  Corin shrugged. “There’s no swinging from the rafters or anything, but it can be a good time.”

  She absently smoothed hair back from her face. I found myself noticing the tiny details of her face. The dimple in her right cheek when she smiled. The slight chip in her front tooth. The arch of her eyebrows.

  I noticed everything about her.

  “Do I have to sign up or can I just show?” I asked as she poured herself a cup of water and sipped on it slowly. I was feeling better. The dizziness was receding and I definitely didn’t want to talk about it.

  “You can just come if you want. And just so you know, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. Don’t think you have to or anything,” she said, waiting as I filled a plate with cookies.

  I quickly ate one, hoping the influx of sugar would get rid of the residual weakness.

  “I know I don’t have to come, but I’d like to. It could be fun.”

  “No dirty Ghost stuff though,” she laughed, and I grinned, feeling better with my sugar infusion.

  “Promise, no dirty Ghost stuff.”

  “Maybe we could go and grab some dinner afterward,” I suggested. Corin’s eyes bugged out of her head and I wondered what I said to make her look like that. Then I realized that it sounded like I was asking her out on a date.

  Which I wasn’t.

  Right?

  Damn, my light-headedness had scrambled my brains. Something must have short-circuited.

  “I mean, because the workshops go kind of late, so I figured you’d be hungry. What do you eat anyway?” I rambled. Dear god, I sounded like a fucking moron. I stuffed my mouth with another cookie. Anything to stop the verbal diarrhea pouring out.

  “The flesh of the unborn,” she deadpanned, and I made a choking noise. I swallowed the cookie and coughed.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” I gasped.

  Corin pounded on my back. “I’ll wait until you’re done eating to tell you about my peculiar eating habits,” she told me, smirking. I grinned at her grinning. When I was finally able to breathe again, she continued. “I like normal stuff. Though I’m a sucker for a good plate of pasta.”

  I made a face. “As long as it’s not lasagna, we’re fine.”

  Corin gasped in feigned shock. “You don’t like lasagna? What kind of heathen are you?”

  “The lasagna-hating kind,” I threw back at her.

  We walked to the circle of chairs in the center of the room, and I was glad that I was feeling normal once again. I could almost forget about what had happened earlier. Almost. But I knew I couldn’t. Ignoring symptoms was not a luxury I could afford. Not anymore.

  For the first time Corin chose a seat beside me instead of finding one between two other people. I considered that a huge step forward in our budding friendship.

  I continued eating the cookies on my plate and held one out for her. She hesitated.

  “I promise it won’t kick-start any crazy illnesses. I don’t think one cookie will incapacitate you.”

  She stuck out her tongue and grabbed the cookie, popping the whole thing in her mouth.

  “See, now that wasn’t so bad was it?” I asked. Corin wiped crumbs off her mouth

  and took another drink of water.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  I held my hand up in mock surrender. “I would do no such thing. Not now that you know my secret loathing of lasagna. I wouldn’t dare goad the woman who holds that sort of power.”

  We were sitting close. Really close. Only inches separated us.

  She had an eyelash on her cheek and without thinking about it, I reached out to brush it away. My fingers trailed the length of her face, still touching. Unable to stop.

  Corin’s breathing hitched and I felt my heart start to slam against my rib cage.

  All because I was touching her face.

  “You had an eyelash.” I held it up on my thumb, my voice hoarse.

  “I should make a wish, huh?” she whispered. We were looking at each other. Not looking away. I don’t think we could even if we had wanted to.

  She closed her eyes and blew lightly on my thumb, the eyelash disappearing.

  “What did you wish for?” I asked her, my voice cracking like a kid going through puberty. I leaned in a little closer. I couldn’t help it.

  She smelled like paint and something fruity. Strawberries maybe?

  Shit. Was I seriously sitting there sniffing a girl like she was a goddamned bouquet of flowers? If I made a habit of sniffing bouquets of flowers, that is.

  Corin’s eyes popped open and she looked at me nervously.

  Smooth, Beck. Real smooth.

  “If I tell you that, it won’t come true, will it?” she giggled nervously, keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

  “I won’t tell. I promise,” I whispered quietly, widening my eyes innocently.

  Corin snorted but didn’t answer. Which was probably for the best. I had already amped up the unnecessary discomfort to an unsettling degree.

  Why did I turn into a pile of moron around this woman?

  And then, to make matters worse, I draped my arm around her shoulders. I couldn’t help it. I needed to touch her. It was something akin to compulsion.

  I was making too much of a habit of invading her personal space. But I had always been an affectionate guy, I reasoned. I grew up in a family that hugged often. So it meant nothing for me to show affection in a physical way.

  That didn’t explain why I maneuvered every situation so I could carelessly caress Corin. So I could touch her hand or brush against her arm.

  I could feel her body heat through the cotton of my shirt. I could smell the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo. The paint flecked on her shirt. I could feel the way she breathed, in and out, her chest expanding and retracting with the movement. My fingers gripped her arm and I suddenly wished I could feel her bare skin under my hand.

  Suddenly what started as a purely platonic gesture began to feel like something else.

  I really should move my arm. I was making this way more complicated than it needed to be.

  But then she leaned into me. Just a fraction of an inch. Noth
ing much.

  But it was enough.

  So I kept my arm where it was.

  “Hello, everyone!” Candace bellowed from her spot in the middle of the group. I dropped my arm like I had been burned, and Corin noisily scraped her chair across the floor as she moved away.

  We glanced at each other out of the corners of our eyes and I was practically dripping in self-consciousness.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention? Grab your cookies and tea and head to your seats, please. I have to start today’s group with some unhappy news.” Candace reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue, dabbing her eyes. She waited a few more minutes while everyone found their seats. A thick tension settled in the room that I didn’t like one bit.

  “What do you think’s going on?” Corin whispered, and she seemed relatively normal after our strange moment, or whatever it was, minutes before.

  I didn’t get a chance to respond before Candace started talking.

  “I received a phone call earlier today that Geoffery suffered from a fatal heart attack this morning around ten o’clock.” There was an immediate cacophony of voices at the news.

  I sat there in a state of shock, my mind going in a million different directions.

  I thought about my earlier light-headedness and what it could possibly mean. What it could be a symptom of.

  I felt a shiver of fear that I tried to tamp down.

  I focused on Geoffery. His wacky Mickey Mouse watch and bag of mints that he shoved on everyone like crack. Realizing that he’d never show up in group again, wearing his plaid flat caps and insisting we take handfuls of sweets, hit me hard.

  Corin let out a gasp and I looked over at her. She had gone pale and was gripping her hands together in her lap.

  I started to say something to her, to offer some sort of support, but Candace was talking again.

  “I know you guys are going to want to process this. So instead of our normal group activity, we can spend the time talking about Geoffery and what has happened. His wife will be making arrangements for his funeral, and when I know more, I’ll pass on that information to you. I know you’ll want to be there to pay your respects.”

  Everyone seemed to start talking at once. Everyone was feeling the same mixture of grief, shock, and resignation that eventually we could all end up the same way.