Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  ***

  At the bottom of the third inning, the Dodgers are down by two, and I’m about the same. At least I’m not completely striking out, since Andrea’s next to me, a nice reminder that someone in this crowd is rooting for me, as the sun sets on the City of Angels.

  Michael is on her other side, so we’re too far apart to do much talking, but I can tell he’s pleased to see her responding to me so strongly. The occasional smiles he transmits in my direction tell me so. And sometimes I catch him looking at me, even when Andrea’s busy watching the game, and I wonder what he’s thinking. It seems harder than usual to read his rich brown eyes tonight. I wonder why? Thank God he’s sitting on my good side, so at least I don’t have to feel self-conscious about that.

  Andrea whispers in my ear frequently, a marked change from how quiet she normally seems to be. In fact, she’s downright gregarious, commenting on the game, the players, a bizarre fat man with a painted belly several rows down from us. That guy’s taking face-painting to whole new dimensions, I’m telling you. Andie keeps perching Barbie on the arm of my seat, allowing the doll to narrate her life for me. She’s the one who tells me that Andrea’s last day of school is on Friday. It’s a parade of childlike intimacies, shared only with me. And most of the time Andrea grins and giggles shyly at just about anything I say.

  If only everyone else were so easy to please. Marti’s friendly enough, sitting on my other side, so that’s good, but she’s still kind of formal. Like maybe it’s weird to her that I’m here with the rest of them. I’m not really sure. Of course paranoia’s a definite possibility, too.

  Casey, though, maintains a churlish expression constantly, and at one point I saw him whisper something into Michael’s ear that cast an angry shadow over my would-be boyfriend’s face. Michael stared down at the field for a long time without talking to anyone, his jaw muscle visibly twitching. I don’t think he’s even looked in my direction ever since.

  “He would’ve done this to anyone, you know.” I turn to Marti, confused by her sudden remark. “Casey. He would’ve cold-shouldered anyone trying to step into Alex’s shoes.”

  “Good to know,” I reply. Wrapping up the remnants of my chicken and biscuit into a square of tinfoil, I remember the way he taunted me earlier. “Mike doesn’t like fried chicken,” he said with a harsh laugh when I retrieved the takeout package from my tote bag. “God, we all know that!”

  Michael protested, explaining that he just didn’t like bad fried chicken—as in Kentucky Fried, or heaven forbid, Popeye’s—but it was too late for a save. I’d gotten Casey’s none-too-subtle message: you don’t belong here. My chicken gaffe merely exposed my imposterhood.

  “Rebecca, I want to tell you a secret,” Marti confesses, her voice hushed beside my ear. “Just listen, okay?”

  I nod, watching Manny Ramirez slide into second. There’s an explosion of tribal cheers and chants in every direction, but I stay still as a statue, wondering what she’ll say.

  She leans right up against me. “Casey Porter is the biggest teddy bear you’ll ever meet. Bigger than Michael, even,” she continues. “But you have to be patient. Stick with him long enough to get past his rough hide.”

  “I’ve always been a big believer in first impressions,” I say, sipping from my water bottle.

  “Well you’ve obviously made quite an impression on Casey, that’s for sure.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He wouldn’t be treating you this way unless he thought you were a serious threat.” I remember the biting remarks he made in the car on the way over, the “jokes” about Michael’s new “outlook” on dating. Little gibes about which team would he be cheering for tonight, what with the way he’d switched jerseys lately.

  I shrug, looking sideways at both Michael and Casey, silent in their own form of détente. “I think it’s because I’m a woman.”

  “Humph. He’d like you to believe that.”

  “That’s not the problem?” Again, I glance across to where Michael glumly sits, ignoring the stony-faced Casey right beside him.

  “Casey’ll be loyal to Alex Richardson until his last breath,” she explains patiently, leaning closer to be heard. There’s a strange intimacy to being so quiet within the noisy stadium, sharing girlfriend secrets amidst the din. “So even if you were from the boys’ club, he’d be acting up the same way. Hell, maybe worse, for that matter.”

  I nod, not sure what to say, but feeling a swell of appreciation for her analysis. “So how do you feel about Michael dating a woman?”

  She laughs, loudly—a little too loudly—and it startles me, but then she leans so close against me that I feel a soft roll of flesh on her upper arm pressing against mine. She’s not fat, just soft everywhere, and likes to touch constantly. “I think the better question was how did I feel when Michael first started dating Alex.”

  My eyebrows arch upward until I actually feel my hairline lift. “Do tell,” I say, hearing my soft southern accent kick in double-time. Marti reaches into her purse, retrieving a subtly disguised flask, and douses her Coke with a bit of liquid that smells like bourbon. She extends the silver container to me and I hold out my own Diet Coke for some enhancement.

  “Has he told you that Alex was—” she hesitates, taking a large swallow of her drink,“—a departure? From his usual ways?”

  “Yeah, he did, actually.”

  “Did you know Michael used to date me? That I’m the one who introduced him to Alex?”

  “No way!” I exclaim like a shotgun, and she begins to laugh, shaking her head.

  Now, I have to tell you that picturing my Michael Warner with this round, squat woman beside me is almost as hard as picturing him with a man. Harder, maybe, because I can’t fathom a lick of chemistry between these two. Some women exude motherhood and comfort, and Marti’s one of them, which in my mind doesn’t exactly translate to romantic allure. Then again, looking into her luminous green eyes, wide-set within a heart-shaped face that’s framed by carefree black curls, I can also see the natural beauty that would have attracted my guy. In fact, between Alex and Marti, and now disfigured me, I think I might be detecting a pattern here.

  Michael Warner goes with his heart.

  “It didn’t last long,” she says with an almost nostalgic smile. “We were much more friends than anything. We bickered constantly, like brother and sister, but we had a lot of fun, too. I met Dave right after, and Michael…” she hesitates, glancing at Andrea, then stage-whispers in my ear, “…he figured out his Alex thing pretty much right away, too.”

  “Was that bizarre?” I’m thinking about Trevor and our close bond of friendship. “Seeing your boyfriend hop from you to your best guy friend?”

  “It might have been, but none of us knew for a long time. And when we finally did know, well, the bigger shock was how they’d hidden it from us in the first place.”

  “Really?” I can’t imagine someone as confident and honest as Michael keeping his sexual orientation a secret from his friends. For some reason, this newfound knowledge fascinates me. “For how long?”

  “Six months, can you believe it? Poor Alex, he was going crazy getting shoved back into the closet like that.”

  “So what happened?” I take a slow sip of bourbon-spiked Coke.

  “Michael was so scared by the whole thing, so uncertain and weirded out, that apparently they almost broke up before he’d even let Alex tell us.”

  “But they did tell you.”

  “Not exactly. One Saturday morning Casey showed up at Alex’s apartment, wanting to drag him off to breakfast. Michael was in the shower, and never heard him enter the apartment, and then, bam! He wandered right into the kitchen wearing only a towel and a sloppy grin on his face.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Oooh, Casey was pissed, too,” she titters in my ear, clucking her tongue. “Oh, my Lord! Warner was totally on his shit list for a long time. The Closeted One, that’s what he called him every time we got together.”


  “Was Casey jealous, you think?”

  “Protective. Possessive, maybe,” she says, reflecting. “But not jealous. It was never desire with Alex; they were too much like brothers.”

  “How’d he handle his death?”

  Her expression darkens, and she looks to the field, contemplative. “How have we all handled it?” she finally reflects. “We’ve tried like hell to be there for Michael and Andrea. Ignored our own pain, because we know it’s nothing compared to…” She glances next to her at Dave, who is listening to his Walkman for the radio play-by-play. She slips a fleshy palm onto his forearm, squeezing.

  “To what Michael and Andrea lost,” I finish and she nods with a faint smile.

  “My point, though,” she says, “is that Casey put Michael through some serious hell over ‘queering up’ with Alex, as he called it back then. Now that you’ve come along, he’s just as protective of Michael as he used to be of Alex.”

  “He’s afraid I’ll hurt him?”

  She nods and is about to say more, but beside me, I become aware of a soft tapping on my forearm. Then a tugging on my T-shirt hem, so I turn sideways and find little Andrea staring at me. A Mona Lisa smile plays at her lips, and she asks, “Wanna go get some ice cream?”

  “Now, sweetie?” I glance back to Marti, afraid of losing this confessional moment when there’s so much more I want to learn. But a pair of bright blue eyes are actually crinkling with happy expectation, an auburn ponytail bobbing excitedly. Michael leans around her, extending a twenty-dollar bill and explaining, “I told her maybe just the two of you’d go?” There’s apology in his expression, and I push his hand away. “My treat,” I say, thinking of that first time we met in my office. There’s a similar lost look in his soulful eyes now—all the more when Andrea ignores him as he tells her to have fun.

  He and Casey stand so we can press past, and it’s that melancholy thing in his gaze that makes me reach for his hand as I squeeze past him. For a brief moment there’s the feel of fingertips brushing mine. There’s electricity and nerves and a flare of desire.

  Then there’s just baseball and beer and a gay man glaring at me like I’m the über bitch as I worm past him into the aisle.

  ***

  “I’m not sure this is working, Michael.” We’re the last ones left in his driveway, since everyone else has pulled out and gone home. Andrea’s scuttled inside to brush her teeth and put on her nightgown.

  “This?” He blinks at me, dark eyebrows furrowing together.

  “You know, the whole… whatever we’re doing.” I’m thinking of how little we’ve even talked all evening; how distant he’s seemed at times. And I’m thinking of what a bust I was with Casey. I’m pretty sure I’ve never hit it off so poorly with anyone in my whole life.

  “It’s working for me,” Michael protests, searching my face uncertainly, and I drop my head, feeling awkward and self-conscious. Feeling way too aware of the numb area to the left of my mouth, and how my lips tremble gracelessly into a smile.

  “But what are we doing?” I ask after a moment, looking up into his eyes again. I always forget how tall he is until I’m standing close like this, and then I feel delicate as my nana’s Wedgwood beside him.

  “Well, I think we just had a date,” he answers quietly; then, frowning, adds, “At least I think that’s what it was. I told my boss I had a date. Hope that’s okay?”

  God, could he be anymore adorable? Could he?

  “Sure. That’s okay,” I reply, my voice all quiet and filled with emotion. Relief washes over his face, his playful grin spreading wide.

  “Scared me there for a minute, Rebecca.” He reaches for my hand. “Thought maybe you were about to dump me right in my own driveway.”

  “I thought maybe we were only friends. You’ve seemed kind of strange tonight.”

  “Ah, strange. Yeah, guess maybe so.” He stares up at the full, lazy moon that’s perched right over the hillside, reflective. “Lately things with Andie have been…tough,” he says, kicking at the asphalt. “Bad counseling session today. Good in theory, but it hurt.”

  “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

  “Did you really think we’re only friends?” he asks again, back to his original question. I can tell it troubles him.

  “I know it felt like a lot more, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re gay?” I blurt, then shake my head, wishing I could erase that statement. “No, no, because…” I try to pinpoint the insecurity that’s plaguing me, and finally explain with a heavy sigh, “Because Casey didn’t like me.” His fingers thread through mine, solidifying our physical connection, as he steps closer. I continue, “And he’s one of your very closest friends. He really, really didn’t seem to like me, and I think he wants you with a guy, not a girl.”

  “Think I give a damn what Casey Porter wants?”

  “That’s the thing.” I shrug, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I don’t. Hey, and do you really think I’m gay, by the way?” he asks, cupping my cheek within his other palm. My face turns upward toward him, and there’s unabashed desire in his golden eyes. “That it’s really that simple with me?”

  I have to swallow hard, and murmur, “Not gay. Not…exactly.”

  “I have always liked women, Rebecca,” he rumbles, closing the distance between us. “Alex couldn’t change that. Never tried to, matter of fact. He liked the way I was.”

  “Me too,” I practically purr into his palm. I’m aware of rough skin against my cheek, of long thick eyelashes lowering sexily to half-mast as he looks at me. I’m aware, too, that I’m not beautiful—I can’t be to this gorgeous man, and yet I see lust glinting in his eyes as he leans low toward me. Desire shoots to every part of my body, alarming and arousing me, and completely silencing any doubt.

  My eyes close, my lips part, and I’m ready.

  And oh my GOD my cell phone is ringing? It actually thrums right between our two hips, like an angry little vibrator. Our eyes lock and I sigh. “My phone.”

  “I just thought you were happy to kiss me.” He grins, and I stare at him blankly, not believing that my freaking phone is interrupting this divine moment. “You gonna get that thing?”

  I nod, checking the incoming number. Now, I have to tell you, I am a big believer in signs and omens. Nobody has to convince me that God speaks to us in ways both subtle and obvious. The Big Guy loves a good symbol like any great writer, and I have always known that. But Jake calling me right now? Managing to interrupt my first kiss since he dumped me? That’s not a sign, that’s a billboard. That’s a flashing neon message that something’s wrong with my life.

  “My ex.” I cough, still staring at the telecommunications weapon holstered at my side.

  “Does he always call you at eleven-thirty at night?” Michael’s clearly feeling a little possessive and it shows.

  “Considering I never gave him this number, the answer to that question would be no.”

  The phone rings again, calling out between us into the dark, sweltering night. “What about at home?”

  “Michael!”

  Getting sheepish, he asks, “Okay, want me to answer it?” He’s sounding protective. A bit angry, too, as he waits for my answer.

  “No, let’s ignore him.” Finally the ringing stops, but the moment is already shattered.

  We both stare at the phone like it’s an alien entity, a virulent thing that burst into our pure connection.

  “I still want to kiss you,” Michael says after a moment, “but I’m not going to do it now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because when I do, it’s going to be sweet and perfect. Not second best.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, well, don’t worry, I’ve already had second best.”

  He leans close, brushing a long wild strand of hair back from my cheek with his fingertip. His skin against mine; I could so get used to that sensation.

  “You deserve perfect,” he t
ells me, his fingers lingering against my cheek. Near the scars, but he doesn’t even seem to notice; his eyes are locked with mine. “Rebecca, you are perfect. And this is working.”

  “This?” I rasp, burning beneath his touch, his intense gaze.

  “We’re dating, Rebecca. That’s what this is. Right here, right now, I’m saying so. No more confusion about that, okay?”

  I nod, and he adds, “’Cause I know it’s got to be confusing as hell to date someone… like me. So I want to be clear about what we’re doing, absolutely clear. This is dating.”

  “This is dating,” I repeat dazedly and an absolutely adorable smile fills his face, his single dimple flashing from nowhere.

  “Good! We’re on the same page now,” he says, still grinning at me. “So when you least expect it, expect that perfect kiss.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “How’s Saturday?” He opens my car door for me.

  “For the kiss?”

  “For our next date.”

  “Uh, it’s my friend Cat’s birthday party,” I say. “You’re welcome to come. I mean, I’d like you to come, if you want to, but it’d be like a group thing with all my friends. And you might not want to actually do that, now that I think about it—”

  “Rebecca?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Oh, my. This is dating. This is dating, and it is very, very cool.

  Chapter Ten: Michael

  I want to kick Casey’s ass in a serious way. The taillights on Rebecca’s car aren’t even fully vanished down the end of my palm-lined street, and I’ve already got him on speed dial, standing right there in the middle of my driveway. We need to have this talk now, and not where my daughter can overhear it.