“Wow!” I’m in awe. In all the years I’ve lived in Manhattan, I’ve never been to New York’s American Museum of Natural History’s Butterfly Conservatory. In fact, I never knew it existed.
Enclosed by glass, the twelve-hundred-square-foot domed vivarium, located in the heart of the museum, is a tropical paradise. Canned artificial lighting simulates sunshine. The climate is warm and humid, and I’m almost tempted to take my jacket off. Or maybe I’m just hot because of the energy radiating from my companion. Neither of us has mentioned the nail salon incident—something that was not intentional on my part. It just happened. And she let it.
“How many butterflies are in this place?” I ask, suppressing the memory of her pussy fluttering around my big toe. And the flush that accompanied it.
“Over five hundred with close to eighty species represented.”
“Where do they come from?”
“From farms all over the world. They’re sent here when they’re pupa.”
“Pupa?”
“In their chrysalis state. Cocoons. There’s even a pupa gallery. If we’re lucky, we’ll see a butterfly hatch.”
A little boy wearing a sweatshirt whizzes by me, knocking into my hip. Letting out a groan, I want to curse him out.
“I hope you don’t mind kids,” says Sofi with a smile. “It’s a really popular exhibit with families and many schools take field trips here.”
The conservatory is indeed filled with children of all ages, their squeals of delight tickling the air while butterflies flit all around them. “I don’t mind them,” I say half-heartedly. The truth is I avoid children at all costs. My chest clamps as a sharp pang of sadness shoots to my gut. She would have been going on nine.
Sofi’s perky voice stops me from getting depressed. “I love kids. When I was in college, I participated in a community outreach program and taught underprivileged kids how to paint.”
Before I can ask her how she learned to paint, she points a finger at a medium-size butterfly. “Look! There’s a Heliconius Charithonia”
“A what-the-hell charithonius?”
She laughs. “A Heliconius Charithonia”
I repeat the name back, barely able to say the syllables. My vision shifts to the black-and-white-striped winged insect that’s perched on a purple flower.
Sofi smiles. “Yes. The scientific Latin name for the Zebra Longwing.”
Wow! It does look like a zebra! I learn from my adorable guide that it’s the official butterfly of Florida and can be found in many parts of the world. I also learn it’s one of the few butterflies that feeds on pollen. Most species prefer nectar and fruit juices, but they all need water, hence why the museum staff regularly sprays the plant leaves at night.
“And look! There’s a rare one!” She points excitedly at another butterfly, but I can’t see it. Even squinting with my good eye.
“Look closer!”
Certain that no one will recognize me here, I lift my Wayfarers on top of my head to get a better look. My eye zeroes in on the stem of a leafy plant, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for.
“There!” my companion says, zooming in on what looks like a dead leaf. “It’s an Indian Leafwing from Asia. When its wings are closed, it looks just like a leaf, ribbing and all. It’s how it camouflages itself and protects itself from predators.”
Still dubious, I stare at the brownish leaf, and when its wings spread and it flies off, I blink hard. My doubts fly away too.
“That’s amazing!” I say as we continue through the exhibit. She points out numerous other species and I’m awed by her knowledge of the winged creatures. She’s a veritable walking encyclopedia. I bet she can identify every kind of butterfly there is.
“What’s your favorite butterfly?”
“The Luna. But it’s actually a moth.”
“What’s the difference between a butterfly and a moth?”
She explains that butterfly antennae are thin with club-shaped tips whereas those of moths are feathery or comb-like. Butterflies flit around during the day while moths are nocturnal. Moths also tend to be stout, fuzzy, and smaller than butterflies, though the majestic Luna is an exception and more closely resembles a butterfly.
“Will we see one here?”
“I’m not sure. They may not have one, and if they do, it’s hard to spot because it may be sleeping under a leaf. Its green wings make it difficult to see.”
Halfway through the exhibit, a disconcerting thought hits me. I should be taking pictures. As well as videos. I reach into my back pocket and slip out my phone. Dammit. It’s dead. Sofi hears me curse under my breath.
“What’s the matter?”
“My phone died. I should be photographing all these butterflies for reference.”
“Don’t worry. I have photos of most of these butterflies on my phone. Plus, you can buy a reference book in the gift shop and watch YouTube videos of the exhibition online.”
Relieved, I shove my phone back into my pocket. On my next breath, I feel a prickle on the back of my hand. I glance down. To my shock, a shimmering crimson butterfly has landed on top of it. Slowly, I raise my hand and show Sofi.
Her eyes grow wide and her face lights up. “Oh my goodness! It’s a Red-Spotted Monarch from Nigeria.” We both stare at it as it stays perched on my hand. It doesn’t move. I think it likes me.
“You know, when a butterfly lands on you, it’s good luck,” Sofi tells me. I can’t help but smile thinking that in some serendipitous way, Sofi landed on me and my life’s about to change. It already has. It’s been years since I spent so much time out of my studio or surrounded by so much color. Or with a girl who can put a smile on my face. Another green-eyed beauty . . .
“Are you getting hungry?” My stomach rumbles after the butterfly flies off. It’s way past noon and I haven’t eaten a thing since early morning.
“Very! The museum has a nice café we can go to.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“But before we go, let’s check out the pupae.”
A few minutes later, we’re standing before a lit-up glass case. Inside it, there’s a long branch from which several pupae hang. They look like mini punching bags. A little African-American boy and his mother are huddled next to me.
“Do you think we’ll see one hatch?” I ask, getting hungrier and more impatient by the second.
“Maybe.”
The word “maybe” is not part of my black-or-white vocabulary. For me, it’s got to be yes or no. Yea or nay.
“C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving.”
“No, wait!” Sheesh! She’s worked for me for not more than an hour and she’s giving me orders? Before I can give her a piece of my mind, her voice grows animated. “I think I see something!” She points her finger at the branch. “Look!”
Suddenly, I see something break through the middle pupa. My eye blinks several times. It’s a wing. My pulse speeds up with excitement and I involuntarily grip Sofi’s warm hand as we silently watch the butterfly emerge. I’m mesmerized. Five astonishing minutes later, a huge butterfly—bright blue laced with black—is clinging to the branch. Its wings still closed. New to the world. Afraid to move.
“Holy fuck!”
“Mama, that man said a bad word!” It’s the little boy standing next to me, whom in my trance-like state I totally forgot about. I turn to the kid and shrug. “Sorry.” His mother shoots me a scathing look, then grabs the child’s hand and yanks him away.
Sofi bursts into laughter. “You’re forgiven.” I can’t help but laugh too. Her joyous laughter is infectious. When was the last time I laughed? I can’t remember, but it feels good. So good. Quieting down, our attention returns to the newly born butterfly, still afraid to make a move. Sofi squeezes my hand and I let her.
“See, that butterfly that landed on your hand brought you luck.”
You bring me luck.
“I’ve been here many times and this is only the second time I’ve seen a butterfly hatch.”
“What kind is it?”
“It’s a Blue Morpho. They hail mostly from the rainforests of South America, and with their six-inch wing span, they’re one of the biggest butterflies in the world.” She pauses reflectively. “They remind me of you.”
It resembles the decal on my thumbnail. Still mesmerized, my good eye stays fixed on the blue butterfly. “Why is that?”
“Because they’re so imposing. Plus, on account of their coloring—the combination of black and that fiery blue—the color of your eyes.”
Yes, my eye. She doesn’t realize her faux pas, but I don’t bring it to her attention. Why turn this amazing day into a downer?
“I’ve actually begun to paint a Blue Morpho,” she adds.
“I’d love to see it.”
Then, without warning, the butterfly spreads its wings and leaps to the top of the branch, facing us and proudly holding its wings outstretched as if to say I’m the king of the jungle.
A feeling that I can’t put into words surges inside me. A collision of lightness and power. Of renewal and strength.
I feel like I’ve emerged from a dark cocoon. Like I’ve been . . .
Reborn.
CHAPTER 12
Sofi
I’m surprised. Mr. Bossy readily agreed to have lunch at the self-serve museum café. He seems to be someone with champagne tastes who’d much prefer to fine-dine at Petrossian, feasting on caviar and Bellinis. But I’m wrong. The more I spend time with him, the more I discover he’s a paradox. A walking contradiction. The man who dwells in darkness and comes to life in an explosion of color. Over burgers, fries, and Cokes, I tell him more about my ambition to become a professional painter and my dream to one day go to a tropical rainforest to see butterflies in their natural habitat. He lets me do all the talking; I’ve honestly never been with someone who takes such an interest in me—well, except for my parents and my friend Vincent. When I attempt to ask him some questions about himself, he turns the subject back to me. I sense it’s a defense mechanism. He’s definitely closed off and I can’t help but wonder why.
After sharing a massive slice of chocolate layer cake, we head to the gift shop where I show him the butterfly anthology. He leafs through the pages, but ultimately passes on it because he doesn’t want to lug it. It weighs a ton. Instead, he purchases a stunning butterfly-print silk scarf and hands it to me.
“This is for you, my butterfly.”
“I can’t take a gift from you,” I say, my voice hesitant. He’s already given me way too much.
“It’s a small token for a great day. You’ve inspired me.” He affectionately flicks the tip of my nose, and my skin prickles everywhere. “Put it on, Sofi.” He juts his chin at me. “Now, please.” Mr. Bossy. At least he said please.
On impulse, instead of wrapping it around my neck, I tie it in my hair. Not knowing what he’ll think.
Roman’s piercing blue eye stays on me as I knot the ends into a bow. A smile blossoms on his face. “That’s what I like about you. Most women would have worn it as a scarf, but you made it into a headband.” The perfectionist fixes the bow. “Better. Let’s get some fresh air.”
He does a final adjustment of my new headband and I feel my cheeks heat. Is it suddenly hot in here or is it me? I could use some fresh air too. As we’re about to exit the museum shop, my new employer is drawn to a small object. His good eye lights up.
“I bet that’s a Luna moth,” he says, studying the life-size green glass paperweight. I tell him it is, noting the small sculpture is as beautiful and delicate as the actual winged creature. He says he wants it.
Carefully, he lifts it from the shelf and strides back to the cashier. She rings it up, and to my surprise, it’s on sale. The last one and only twenty-five dollars. Before he can hand her his credit card, I whip out mine and insist on buying it for him. He protests.
“No, please, Roman! I insist! I can afford it. I have a big-paying job now. It’s the least I can do. I want you to have it . . . a gift from me.”
With reluctance, he puts his card away and gives in. “Don’t do that again, Butterfly,” he reprimands as the cashier carefully wraps up the glass figurine in layers of tissue paper and places it into a small shopping bag. Roman takes it in his hand.
There are no thank-yous. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here while I’m still inspired.”
Passing by the formidable T-Rex before we exit, we head outside. The weather is still pleasant. Sunny and in the low seventies. The lukewarm breeze is a welcome reprieve from the stuffy museum.
“I should head home,” I breathe out. Truthfully, I’m not looking forward to taking the subway to my apartment. I don’t want the image of this beautiful day, filled with this gorgeous man and all those exquisite butterflies, to be obliterated by the grime of the smelly, crowded, bleak metro. Roman spares me the trek.
“Let’s walk for a bit. I don’t get out much.”
By dusk, after several stops including one for pizza and another for ice cream cones, I’m not far from my Hell’s Kitchen apartment. I don’t want him to see where I live. While the once drug-infested and crime-ridden neighborhood is now rather gentrified, my decrepit rent-controlled tenement building is embarrassing and nothing like the grand, turn-of-the-century residence he occupies. My phone rings. Sliding off my backpack, I slip it out of the front pocket and glance down at the screen. It’s my landlord. He’s probably calling me for my past-due rent yet again. Knowing I can pay it as well as next month’s thanks to Roman’s generous salary, I ignore it. The phone rings again. I let it ring.
“Who’s calling?” asks Roman, his voice challenging.
“Nobody important.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“You should catch a cab,” I tell him, evading his question and throwing the phone back into my bag. “I can make it home by myself.”
He looks at me like I’ve given him a slap to his face. “No fucking way. It’s getting dark. And your neighborhood’s not safe. I’m walking you to your door.”
“Roman, it’s perfectly safe. When was the last time you were there?”
He stops in his tracks and, gripping my shoulders, flips me around. At the touch of him, every nerve ending sizzles. His good eye burns into me.
“Twenty years ago. For your information, I grew up there. My mother and I lived in some shithole apartment. We were lucky neither of us was knifed down or shot by a stray bullet.”
His revelation shocks me. I wonder how much his upbringing has impacted him, but instead say, “Well, things have changed. A lot. It’s a nice neighborhood now.”
Roman’s brow furrows. “Don’t argue with me. In fact, I’m making that one of your job requirements. Simply do as I say.”
Five minutes later, we turn onto my street. A dozen bright red fire engines line it. It takes me a few moments to realize what’s going on. Oh my God! My building’s on fire! That’s why my landlord was calling me!
In a state of panic, I break away from Roman and race down the pavement. Firefighters, in bright yellow hazmat suits, are hosing the sky-high flames shooting out from the windows, many of them smashed. The air, thick with smoke, suffocates me and clouds my vision. I’m barely aware Roman is standing beside me.
“That’s my building!” I choke out, tugging the arm of a burly firefighter. “I have to go inside!”
“Please stand back, ma’am,” he says, jerking me free of him. “This is a danger zone.”
“But I live here! All my things are inside!” I cry, tears stinging my eyes from both the smoke and this horrifying reality. All my possessions are going up in flames. I’m losing everything I have! My art supplies! My paintings! My laptop! My life!
Desperately, I make a mad dash for the building, but two strong arms hold me back.
Roman’s. “Sofi, what the fuck are you doing? You can’t go inside there!”
“Let me go!” Writhing and wailing, I try desperately to free myself of him. “You can’t stop me.” But my will i
s no match for his strength. I succumb.
With limp limbs and a splintering heart, I watch as the building crumbles, and burst into a tsunami of tears. Hysterical, ragged sobs rack my body and if Roman weren’t holding me up, I’d crumple to the ground. Gently, he turns me around and takes me into his arms.
“I’ve lost everything! All my paintings!” I blubber, my sobs clogging my throat, my hot tears scalding my cheeks. “I have no place to live.”
Wordlessly, he draws me in closer to him, his protective arms wrapped around me like a hug. So sad, so numb, and defeated, I rest my head against his solid chest and sob into his jacket, my ugly tears and snot staining the buttery leather.
He just lets me cry and cry and cry until his voice, as soft as a prayer, sings in my ears. “C’mon, Butterfly. You’ll stay with me.”
CHAPTER 13
Roman
Five seconds can change a life. That I know all too well. A lottery ticket can be scratched to reveal a winning number. A marriage proposal can be sealed with a ring. A car can slam head-on into a tree.
And a fire can destroy everything.
Seated at my desk in my upstairs study, I stare at the delicate glass paperweight in front of me, mesmerized by the iridescent green wings that look as though they can airlift it into the heavens. The figurine’s beauty and fragility remind me so much of my butterfly. Of our magical day . . . that literally went up in smoke. A horrific thought slams into my brain. What if she’d been trapped inside the building when the fire burst out? A shudder ripples through me as light footsteps sound behind me. I look over my shoulder. It’s Madame DuBois.
“How is she?” I ask my trusted chief of staff, who’s so kindly set Sofi up in one of the guest bedrooms down the hall. Next to hers.
Her expression is somber. “She is not feeling well and took to her bed.”
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