Butterfly Dreams

by A. Meredith Walters

  I started the workshop by handing out lumps of clay and filling up bowls of water for everyone. The Webbers, having been my faithful customers for several years, already knew what they were doing and turned on their pottery wheels.

  Beckett picked up the lump of clay and slapped it down on the wheel, patting it with his hand.

  “I’m supposed to make something out of this? Seriously?” he asked incredulously. I sat down beside him and turned on the wheel.

  “Get your hands wet first,” I instructed, dunking my own in the bowl of water I had placed on the table.

  “Okay, wet hands. Check.” He held up his dripping fingers proudly.

  I rolled my eyes and pointed at the clay spinning in circles. “Now cup your hands around the clay and squeeze. Just a bit. Not too hard or it will flatten.”

  Beckett did as I told him but obviously exerted too much pressure. The ball collapsed and flew off to the side of the wheel.

  “Crap. Sorry,” he apologized.

  “Here, let me show you,” I offered, pulling my chair in closer. I dipped my hands in the water again and curled them around the clay, squeezing gently, manipulating it until it became a cone. I pressed my thumb into the top, creating a slight divot.

  “How did you do that?” Beckett asked, watching me the whole time.

  “It’s not that difficult. It just takes some practice. If you want to make a bowl, which is probably easiest for a beginner, you will need to anchor your arm like this and press down. Use a little pressure from the side. You want to keep the clay wet so it’s easy to mold.”

  There was a high-pitched moan from the other side of the room, and we both looked over to where Mr. and Mrs. Webber were rubbing each other with wet clay. Mrs. Webber put her head back and moaned again as Mr. Webber ran dirty, clay-covered fingers over the base of her neck.

  “What the hell?” Beckett laughed in disbelief.

  “They come every week. And every week I have to remind them this isn’t a porn show.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Webber, please keep the clay on the wheel,” I called out, feeling like I was instructing kids rather than a couple in their sixties.

  Neither of them looked at me but they thankfully returned to their project.

  “And you said there wouldn’t be any dirty Ghost stuff. You lied, Corin!” Beckett scolded.

  “Do you want to know how to make a bowl or what?” I asked.

  “Can I cover you with clay when I’m done?” he asked, his eyes strangely heated. Was Beckett flirting with me?

  I swallowed thickly and kept my eyes trained on the spinning wheel.

  My chest felt tight and my breathing became a little labored. But I knew it had nothing to do with a heart problem or a possible illness.

  It had everything to do with the man who sat beside me.

  “Okay, come on. I need you to pay attention,” I said after clearing my throat a couple of times.

  I went through the steps slowly and when I was finished, I had a perfectly formed bowl. I turned off the wheel and carefully picked it up from the base.

  “I’ll never be able to do that. No way,” Beckett proclaimed after I set my piece aside. I grabbed him another lump of clay and dropped it on his wheel.

  “Well, that’s very defeatist of you, Mr. Positivity. Where’s that so-perky-it-makes-me-want-to-throw-up personality I’ve come to expect from you?” I teased, slipping back into our banter effortlessly.

  “Are you mocking me, Cor-Cor?” he demanded affably.

  I flicked a piece of wet clay at him. “Don’t call me that. It sounds like something you’d call your dog.”

  Beckett grinned and wiped the clay from his arm. “Didn’t you just tell the Webbers to keep the clay on the wheel? Are you having a hard time following your own rules?”

  I flicked more clay at him. Who was this spontaneous, gleeful woman? I kind of liked her.

  Beckett shook his head and there was something about his expression that made my heart flip over on itself. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation. It was actually pretty terrifying.

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he threatened, sinking his fingers into the wet clay and holding them out in front of my face.

  I backed away and held my hands up in surrender. “I give up! I give up!”

  He wiggled his fingers and inched closer, and I found that I was laughing so hard I had tears running down my cheeks.

  I grabbed a handful of wet, mucky clay and pressed it to the side of his face. He let out a laugh that I felt in the pit of my stomach. It stomped on the butterflies. Pulverizing them into nonexistence.

  “No!” I squealed, smacking Beckett’s hands away as he tried to retaliate. He reached for me and I evaded.

  His eyes sparkled and I let mine sparkle back.

  Then he stopped, his hands dropping into his lap. He bent over and I could hear him start to wheeze.

  “Beck?”

  He held up a finger to indicate I should give him a minute but I wasn’t about to listen.

  I gripped him by the shoulders, trying to get him to look at me. “What’s wrong?” I asked, hearing the panic in my voice. A panic I couldn’t suppress.

  His face was contorted into something that looked a lot like pain. He lifted his hand and clutched the front of his shirt, balling it up in his hand.

  I was frozen, not sure what to do. My palms started to sweat and my hands began to shake.

  Then I wasn’t seeing Beckett. I was looking at someone else.

  Somewhere else.

  “I’m sorry, Cor. So sorry. I don’t want to leave you all alone…”

  All alone…

  “Beck?” I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

  Mr. and Mrs. Webber were looking in our direction. “Is everything okay?” Mr. Webber asked, getting to his feet.

  Finally Beckett looked up, his face unnaturally pale.

  “I’m fine,” he rasped, holding up his hand. “Seriously, just a little heartburn or something,” he told Mr. Webber, who nodded and returned to groping his wife with the clay.

  “Heartburn?” I asked, weak and overcome.

  “Don’t leave me, Dad. Please!” I cried and I cried and I knew he couldn’t hear me. He was past listening.

  He was already gone.

  “I’m sure that’s all it was. I just had a doctor’s appointment, Corin. I’m fine,” he said, trying to placate me.

  But I wasn’t having it. I felt an answering pain in the middle of my chest and I was pretty sure I was going to pass out.

  “That didn’t look like heartburn,” I whispered.

  Beckett smoothed out his shirt and briefly touched his incision scar. The telling gesture did nothing to reassure me.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” I asked, feeling the ever-present panic rearing its horrible head.

  Beckett reached out and grabbed my hand. “Stop it. Right now, Corin,” he demanded harshly.

  “You should go to the doctor. You should get checked out. What if there’s something wrong—”

  “It’s my heart, Corin. I know when something’s wrong. Just chill out.” He laughed but it sounded more like a bark. He wiped the drying clay from his face.

  Before I could think better of it, I reached out and grabbed his hand, gripping it in mine. So tight I could crush bone.

  “I saw your face. I saw it, Beck!” My words sounded like a plea. A desperate, naked plea.

  “Corin, it’s okay—”

  I shook my head. “I’ve seen that look before! Don’t brush me off!”

  I was being ridiculous. Deep down I knew that I was overreacting but I couldn’t help it. Beckett’s episode had triggered me. And I couldn’t rein myself in.

  Beckett looked over at the Webbers and I realized I was making a scene. I quickly got to my feet and left the workshop without another word.

  I walked out into the dark shop and tried to get myself together.

  Beckett was a sick man. Very sick. What was I doi
ng becoming invested in someone who could leave me at any moment?

  I had been through that twice. I couldn’t do it again.

  “Corin.”

  Of course he had followed me.

  “Don’t. Just don’t,” I said, bracing myself against a table. “I just need a moment.”

  Beckett took my shoulders in his hands and pulled me around to look at him. “What’s wrong? Why are you freaking out like this? I told you it was nothing!” He was getting upset.

  “I just can’t—”

  “Can’t what? Be around me? Why? Because I could drop dead at any moment?” Beckett sounded so angry.

  “I thought you were different, Corin. God, I thought you would be the one person who wouldn’t look at me like I was always dying,” he agonized. His fingers dug into my arms and he held me tight. So tight.

  “You don’t understand.” He would never get it. I wasn’t sure I could ever tell him.

  “Understand what? That I’ll always be the guy whose heart stopped? Yeah, I’ve gotten pretty used to that role. I had just hoped I didn’t have to play it with you.”

  “I can’t lose you,” I whispered. I covered my mouth, horrified at what I had said.

  “What?” Beckett asked, frowning.

  “I’ve lost so many people, Beck. You scare me. You scared me. I don’t look at you as the guy who could die. I look at you as the guy who could devastate me.”

  Why in the hell had I said all that?

  What was wrong with me?

  Damn my lack of filter!

  But what I had said was true.

  Because things with Beckett were precarious and terrifying.

  And real.

  The realest thing I had experienced in a very long time.

  “Corin,” Beckett murmured, and I could see his blue eyes, bright in the dark.

  It was quiet but for the sound of our breathing, shallow and loud.

  He leaned in, his thumb pressing against my lips. I didn’t know what he was going to do. I didn’t know what to think. What to feel.

  But I was feeling.

  I was feeling so damn much.

  I was drowning in these complicated, unfamiliar emotions.

  He was close. So close.

  Too close.

  Not close enough.

  “Corin,” he said my name again, softly. Oh so softly. Almost reverently. As if my name was the most important word he had ever spoken.

  I shivered. I couldn’t help it.

  The butterflies in my chest pushed and pressed, squeezing a beating, lonely heart.

  “God, Corin,” he repeated in a tormented whisper.

  His hands moved from my face to cup either side of my neck. Fingers pressed against my thumping, thumping pulse.

  Electricity sparked. Blood rushed through my veins. I was dizzy and light-headed and overwhelmed.

  I wished I could say something. But words were lost. None would have been good enough anyway.

  Because this powerful, out-of-control moment was swallowing the both of us.

  “Corin,” he whispered again, moving closer. Leaning down.

  I could feel the heat of his mouth against my skin. Not quite touching.

  My eyelids fluttered closed and I waited.

  I gripped my hands at my sides. Scared to touch him. Hating myself because I wouldn’t.

  I waited…

  Slowly, ever so slowly, I felt it. His mouth on mine. It was warm and dry and everything it should be.

  Perfect.

  Beckett let out a sigh. Straight from his heart to mine, and my entire body went liquid as I opened my lips to let him in.

  Letting him inside where he belonged. Where he would stay.

  He was careful. As if he wasn’t sure whether I would push him away.

  Maybe I should.

  But I wouldn’t.

  Then with a groan his kiss became urgent. Mashing of lips against mine. Kissing deep. So deep. His teeth, his tongue, his lips devoured me. His fingers inched their way up into my hair and I shivered.

  I was buzzing. Tingling. Filling up and overflowing.

  I let my lips tell him everything I couldn’t put into words. My fear. My panic. My trepidation.

  And my hope.

  My god, my hope.

  It was there, burning bright.

  Because of Beckett Kingsley and his beautiful, perfect kisses.

  “Touch me, Corin. Please,” he begged against my mouth, and I felt an odd wetness on my cheeks. Tears I hadn’t realized were falling.

  I loosened my rigid arms and wrapped them around him. He sank into me, bending at the knees so he could pull me up against his chest.

  I could feel the pounding of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. I pressed my hand over it, needing the reassuring reminder that it was still beating.

  I tentatively let my other hand roam up and down his back. Feeling him. But wanting to touch so much more.

  “Corin. Corin. Corin,” he chanted my name. Like a prayer. Like a song.

  Or a wish for something he wasn’t sure he could have.

  “Beck,” I sang back. Strong. Sure.

  I felt it. The moment when my life changed.

  This was it.

  What I had been waiting for.

  And then his phone rang.

  Discordant tones, vicious and violent, pulling me straight back into the ugly, dark present.

  My eyes popped open and I pulled out of his arms. I ran fingers over trembling lips.

  “Fuck,” Beckett cursed, pressing his hand to his mouth, bruised and swollen from kisses passionately given.

  He ran his hand through his hair and looked as though he wanted to pull it out.

  Our moment had passed.

  It was gone.

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.

  But I did neither.

  He closed his eyes as though in pain and when he opened them again, he gave me a strained smile. A fake smile.

  His phone beeped with a new voice message and he growled in frustration, pulling it out of his pocket. “I’m so sorry,” he said, searching my face. I gave him nothing. My mouth tingled and I could still almost feel him. There. Mixed with breaths and heartbeats.

  “Shouldn’t you call whoever that was back?” I asked.

  Beckett looked at the phone in his hand, then at me. “It’s just my buddy Aaron. I’m sure it’s not important. He probably just wants to bitch about the ball game on TV.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Corin. You matter! This,” he grabbed my hand and pressed it to his chest. Over his steady, thumping heart. “This is what matters.”

  The phone went silent but the air hummed and crackled between us.

  I was trembling in the aftermath of what had just happened.

  Because it had been so much more than kissing.

  Beckett with his fragile heart.

  His temporary life.

  My world was in limbo. Not sure it would last.

  Terrified. Fearful. Afraid to open myself to someone I couldn’t be sure would stay.

  I had forgotten what it meant to live.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready to begin now.

  I felt a sharp pain in my head and rubbed my temples.

  “Say something, Corin,” Beckett begged.

  I pressed my fingers to my mouth, wishing I could still taste him. But I couldn’t.

  I watched as he rubbed his ICD scar.

  “We’re friends, Beck.” Three words that said everything.

  Beckett gaped at me and then laughed. Not a pleasant sound. It jarred my bones and hurt my heart.

  “Of course.” He continued to rub at that spot on his chest. That horrible spot.

  “I need to get back in and make sure the Webbers haven’t started using their body parts to make art.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the fifty-dollar bill he had handed me earlier.

  “I won’t take your money. You don’t need to pay for anything.” Beckett stared at me. Confused. Angry.
Hurt.

  I knew what he saw on my face.

  Fear.

  “I came to your workshop. I’m paying.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to argue about it. I didn’t feel like engaging in witty banter either. So I pocketed the money again and shrugged.

  “You can come another time and make something. Get your money’s worth.”

  “Are you telling me to leave?” Beckett asked, his face dark.

  “No! I’m just…I was just saying—”

  I didn’t know what I was saying.

  All I knew was that I was scared.

  Of so many things.

  So I did what I did best. Curl into a ball and pretend like the world around me didn’t exist.

  “I get it. I really do,” he said quietly, with obvious disappointment and a whole lot of hurt.

  No, he didn’t get it. Not one little bit.

  “I’ll see you in group,” he said.

  “Sure.” One word. So loaded. So heavy.

  “Bye, Corin,” Beckett said, his eyes seeking me out. I knew he wanted me to say something.

  Anything.

  But I couldn’t.

  Silence was all I could give him.

  Chapter 13

  Corin

  I had told myself I wouldn’t go back to the Mended Hearts support group.

  I had planned to avoid Beckett.

  I spent the weekend since the disastrous pottery class convincing myself that distance was the best for both of us. That a relationship between us would never work.

  I had my issues. Mountains of them.

  He had his. And they were possibly life ending.

  Memories of my father as he had been after losing my mother played like a movie on an endless loop in my mind.

  I remember hearing him sob at night, long after I was supposed to be asleep.

  His grief was a tangible thing that strangled him. Weakened him. Destroyed him.

  Until I lost him too.

  The possibility of facing that kind of anguish again left me paralyzed.

  I wasn’t sure how to get around any of it. No matter how much I wanted to.

  Because for the first time in my life, I felt something good. Something real.

  Something that was all mine.

  And that kiss had shown me that I could have everything I had ever wanted. With Beckett.

  Connection. Foundation.

  Love.