“Megan, you sound like you think you invented death. Everybody will die from something. You were looking at a butterfly. He ran—not you.” Braden pressed my wet head into his neck. “He gave his life that day. You didn’t take it.”
I reached up trying to wipe my slick face. “What if he wants it back?”
Braden crushed my hand in his until my fingers almost hurt. “Time for that stupid thing I wanted to say.” The distant sound of people exiting the museum swept over us, the laughter strange and unwelcome to my ears. But when he spoke again, I heard nothing else. “I’m not good at big declarations, but you have to know that you make everything in that museum look…ridiculous. Every painting, every sculpture, everything. You are a thousand times more…” He paused, the words contorting the corners of his eyes. “Better than any of it. You should know that.”
I shook my head, but he pulled it close against him, wouldn’t let me disagree. “If he’s seen you, and I’m sure he has, I think he’s so glad he did what he did. I think he might be the one who brought you and Charlotte together. I think it might be your turn to save her.”
“She doesn’t need saving. She’s stronger than I am.” The words broke on my uneven breaths, each one like shards of glass in my chest.
“Sometimes you miss so much.” He whispered it over my head, as if half speaking to someone else, someone above us. “Megan, I took that stupid, awful drama class because you were in it.”
I pulled back until I could see his face, the memory of him tomato red every Friday, grimacing bravely through every performance. He looked so different now. So certain.
“Only because you were in it,” he promised. He searched my face for a moment before touching his lips to mine something simple and easy lingering there. After the dark, heavy wine of death and despair, he tasted like bright spring in the middle of winter. Like clear water.
I wondered if I could sleep there, in the hammock of Braden’s arms, under the December stars. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to walk back to the car. Instead of suggesting we go, he let the quiet fill us. The cold night rested on me like an icepack over an injury, numbing the ache. My mind opened to his words and accepted them. Inhale, exhale. Eyes raised and lowered. Like the wings of a butterfly testing the air before it flies.
For the first time in my life I let my imagination begin the scene where it usually ended. I followed the orange butterfly in my mind past the crowd and ambulance, coasting over the fountains and parks, dodging the apartment buildings, until it landed on the sweeping lawn of the art museum. It rested on the soft blades of grass, more lovely than any work of art inside. It was bright and shining and fragile and strong.
And it looked nothing like death.
THE ESSENTIAL FACTS:
My name is Megan Riddick.
I fell in love with a junior in high school.
A man died to save me when I was only two.
It all started with a stuffed monkey and a butterfly.
I have no idea how this all ends, but I think it will be good...
Thank you!
If you enjoyed reading this book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com.
* * *
MORE FROM REGINA SIROIS
On Little Wings
The Truth About Fragile Things
To Move the World
* * *
Connect with Regina
To find out more visit ReginaSirois.com
The Truth About Fragile Things Page 28
