Butterfly Ginger

by Stephanie Fournet

  He took a sip of the whiskey and hoped the potency would burn away some of his bitterness.

  Pete’s bartender was called away again, so Nate tried to be sociable.

  “What’s her name?” he asked, wanting to sound interested.

  Pete’s smile was immediate.

  “Megan… She gets off at ten.”

  In spite of himself, Nate grinned, remembering the feeling of eagerness he recognized in Pete’s look. It had been a long time, but he still knew its power.

  Pete narrowed his gaze and pointed a question at his boss.

  “What’s her name?” he asked, cryptically.

  Nate felt his brows leap.

  “Uh… Who?”

  Pete eyed him with something close to disappointment. Nate stared back without blinking.

  “The one you’re thinking of right now,” Pete sighed, exasperation clear in his voice.

  Nate swallowed. Could Pete really see that much? The guy was so innocent, so guileless; there was no way he could know what Nate was thinking. What he felt.

  Nate sipped his drink and gave Pete a pitying shrug.

  “Sorry, man. I don’t know what you mean.”

  Pete rolled his eyes and took another gulp of beer.

  “With all due respect, boss, that’s bullshit,” he said, shocking the hell out of Nate. He’d worked with the guy for ten months, and he’d never heard Pete say so much as “Jiminy Cricket.”

  But Pete didn’t let up.

  “The look you just had on your face? That sorta… wistful-once-was kinda look?” Pete said, pinning Nate with a no-nonsense stare. “You get that look in your eyes like once a week. If that’s not about a girl, I don’t know squat.”

  Nate stared at Pete, speechless. Was it that obvious he still carried a torch for a woman he hadn’t seen in six years? As he sat on the barstool next to Pete, trying to hide from the truth, he turned over the saying in his mind.

  I still carry a torch for Blythe Barnes.

  He pictured shouldering a rough-hewn branch of walnut, flared in flame. At times, heavy in his hand. At times, the only source of light in his darkness. Impossible to set down. Refusing to burn out.

  The saying rang true.

  But it defied all logic. How could he still feel this way after so long? When they’d only been together a handful of weeks? It made no sense.

  Pete raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Your silence speaks volumes, man. You gonna tell me her name?”

  Nate gave one shake of his head. He wasn’t going to talk about Blythe.

  “Ancient history.”

  Pete just nodded, waiting patiently. Knowingly. But how could he understand? He was too young to understand.

  He’s two years older than you were when you lost her…

  Still, he wasn’t going to talk about her. He’d never talked about her. In truth, there was no one to talk to.

  What would it feel like to talk about her?

  His heart raced at the thought. He felt his neck heat under his collar.

  “Blythe,” he said, tasting the word on his tongue.

  This was familiar enough. He’d been known to speak her name into the night when he couldn’t sleep. He’d say it alone, on his knees, like a prayer when he planted bulbs or shrubs in someone’s garden. He’d whisper it into his palms when he tried to picture a future that wasn’t as empty as his now.

  “That’s different,” Pete mused quietly.

  Nate nodded, trying to appear calm despite his galloping heart.

  “She was different. Is different, I guess.” Nate had never known anyone else like her, before or since. Funny. Real. Beautiful. Fragile and strong in equal measure.

  “When did you two break up?” Pete asked, giving him a sympathetic look.

  “It’s been a while,” Nate hedged. And then he told the truth. “Feels like yesterday…”

  Pete wore a knowing smile.

  “Yeah, that’s how it is when the one you thought was The One dumps you.”

  Nate winced at the words.

  “She didn’t dump me,” he said, unable to let Pete’s words lie. “I broke up with her.”

  The surprise on Pete’s face was almost comical.

  “No… Really?”

  Nate nodded bitterly and braced himself for the inevitable.

  “Dude… why?”

  Nate threw back the rest of his glass and shook his head as the whiskey burned its way down his throat. It was time to go.

  “Long story,” he rasped. “And I’m not telling it tonight.”

  Pete shook his head and put up a hand to stop Nate from getting up.

  “Wait! You broke up with her? And you’re still hung up on her.” It wasn’t a question. There was no question about it.

  Nate decided there was no point in denying it. He hoped Pete wouldn’t go blabbing to the rest of his men, but a part of him needed to say it out loud.

  “Like I could die of it,” he admitted.

  Pete blinked, looking stunned.

  “Wh-Why… Did you try… Did you try to get her back?” he asked, mystified.

  Nate closed his eyes, remembering an afternoon that still had the power to slice him in half.

  “No…” he said. “She hates me.”

  He opened his eyes to see the mystified look morph into disbelief.

  “How do you know if you haven’t even tried?”

  Nate didn’t waiver.

  “Trust me. I know.”

  Pete looked unconvinced.

  “Boss, you should call her right now.”

  Nate’s own laugher — wild and unchecked — caught him by surprise.

  Pete, all innocence, scowled at Nate.

  “I’m dead serious. Does she still live in Lafayette?”

  Nate wiped his eyes and tried to get a hold of himself.

  “Well… she moved to New Orleans,” he said, hoping this would put the matter to rest. “And I’m pretty sure she has a boyfriend.”

  Pete rolled his eyes.

  “So that’s worth living the rest of your life boudering?” Pete asked, his Cajun roots coming out in the question. Nate felt himself color.

  “I do not bouder,” Nate defended. He didn’t spend his life pouting like a child.

  Did he?

  Pete said nothing, but he leveled his boss with a cockeyed glare. He let the silence make Nate squirm before speaking up again.

  “New Orleans is not that far, and a possible boyfriend is not her married with kids,” he explained with no small hint of condescension. “You should at least give her a call.”

  “I don’t think she’s in New Orleans anymore…” Nate admitted.

  Pete frowned, interested.

  “Well, what makes you say that if you haven’t talked to her?”

  Nate shrugged, but blurted it out anyway.

  “Something Lila said.”

  “Well, where is she then?” Pete was relentless. Nate never would have pegged the mild-mannered guy as having such interrogation skills.

  “Maybe… here…”

  “Here?!” Pete nearly shouted. Nate sat bolt upright on his stool and glanced around at the tables behind them.

  “Will you be quiet!” he hissed.

  Nate needed to shake his attention. Change the subject. Anything.

  He looked down the end of the bar for Megan, and as he waved to catch the girl’s attention, a couple came through the door.

  Recognition flared.

  “Oh my God…” Nate muttered. He turned to face Pete with wide eyes.

  “What? What!” Pete demanded.

  Lila’s parting words echoed in his head. How the hell did she know these things?

  “That’s Blythe’s best friend. Rae Landry.”

  “Dude!” Pete crowed. “No fucking way! What if Blythe’s coming here to meet her? It’s fate, man!”

  Oh shit!

  “I have to go.” Nate got to his feet and reached for his wallet. He stuffed a handful of ones in the tip j
ar.

  “What? Hell no, boss! C’mon, stick around. I’ll be your wingman,” Pete promised, almost pleading. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I have to go,” Nate repeated, feeling nausea tickle his throat.

  “So, you’re just going to abandon me to sit here until ten o’clock? Megan will think I’m a stalker or a freak!”

  “Good luck,” Nate said, facing away from the table where Rae and her companion sat as he sped for the door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Six years ago

  NATE HAD SPENT THE LAST TWO hours digging a French drain trench with Richland. At least the scar in the earth from the client’s house to the ditch attested to that. Despite his aching hands and the sweat that soaked his face, he barely remembered the effort.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the night he’d spent at Blythe’s.

  They’d waited until after midnight. Blythe had met him in the back yard with Phoebe so the dog wouldn’t bark when he entered the house. Together, they had crept upstairs, and Blythe had locked her door behind him.

  Her room was a sea of packed suitcases and crates.

  They’d only had a few hours before the sunrise would take her away to Tulane, but they’d made every minute count.

  Nate had kissed every inch of her. He’d kissed her so well that he feared her sweet, maddening cries would wake her brothers just across the hall.

  They’d talked about LaPlace and next summer — just two semesters away. They’d talked about after college when the world would be theirs to go where they chose.

  And he’d held her until the night sky began to soften with dawn.

  What he now kept replaying as he worked were her words.

  I love you… No matter where you are. No matter where I am.

  “Nate? Do you?” Richland stood in front of him, eyeing him sharply.

  “Huh?” What had he asked? Nate didn’t have a clue.

  “Do you want a drink? We should probably take a break,” Richland said, still watching him and breathing heavily. “This heat can sneak up.”

  “Yeah… sure,” Nate agreed, dropping the shovel and following his father to the trailer where they kept the coolers. It was parked in the shade to give the ice a fighting chance against the August heat, and as Nate filled his Solo cup, the welcome cold bit into his hand.

  He drained the Gatorade and felt the cold soak through him. Switching to the cooler with water, Nate refilled and guzzled it down. He pulled off his baseball cap, and with the third refill, he poured clean, shocking cold water over his head and into his hat. This would keep him comfortable for a while.

  Richland sat on the edge of the trailer and mopped his forehead.

  “You were out late last night,” he said, catching his breath and making a show of looking away. Since their little talk about safe sex, Nate could tell that Richland tried to tread carefully when it came to Blythe.

  “Yeah…” Nate mumbled, hoping he wouldn’t get another lecture.

  “Blythe left this morning?” His tone was gentle, and Nate silently thanked him for it. He hadn’t told anyone that her leaving tore him up inside, but maybe Richland knew anyway. It was Blythe’s dream to escape Lafayette, and Nate would never begrudge her Tulane, even if the thought of not seeing her every day made him want to shut down.

  “Yeah, but I’ll see her on Saturday,” he said to himself as much as to Richland. “She’s gonna meet me at LSU and help me move into my dorm.”

  Richland smiled at this and handed his empty cup to Nate.

  “Top this off, would ya? This heat’s about done me in,” he huffed. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.”

  Nate filled the cup and handed it back.

  “She texted me a while ago, saying she’d gotten to her dorm,” Nate continued, reaching for his phone.

  To his delight, she’d sent him another message. This one with a picture. In front of her newly made bed, Blythe smiled at him, all dimples and blue eyes, making his chest ache.

  Thursday, Aug. 21 11:03 a.m.

  This bed can’t compare to sleeping in your arms, but at least my pillow smells like you.

  It was ninety-five degrees out, but Nate felt chills spill down his neck. It helped that she missed him, too. He texted back.

  Thursday, Aug. 21 11:21 a.m.

  I still smell like you… at least I did before coming to work.

  “Let’s get back to it, Nate,” Richland said, rising and rolling his left shoulder. “We’re almost done with the trench, and then I can give this old shoulder a rest. It’s killing me today.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nate stuffed his phone back into his pocket, pulled on his work gloves again, and picked up his shovel.

  He wondered what she’d text back. This was something he hadn’t really considered, but the thought now excited him. He’d see her in two days, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t play a little before then.

  Nate stuck the spade of his shovel into the earth and jumped on it with both feet. He loved the satisfying snap of grass roots and the soft sinking with each dig. Blythe liked to tease him about little things like that, calling him “Nature Nate.”

  Nate smiled at himself, remembering the day he’d first met her when he’d feared she would call him “Green Card.” Now, nothing like that seemed possible. Blythe loved him, and she made sure he knew it. It was the best feeling in the world.

  “Damn this shoulder…” Richland muttered.

  Nate glanced at his father and found Richland grimacing.

  “You okay, Rich?”

  “Yeah… I’ll take some Aleve when we finish,” he grunted, rolling his shoulder again.

  “I can finish it,” Nate said, jumping on his shovel again. “Not much left.”

  Richland nodded and headed back to the truck.

  Nate levered his shovel out of the trench and made another jump when the clatter of metal on concrete tore across the yard. Nate looked toward the sound.

  Richland slumped against the truck, clutching his chest.

  “Rich!” Nate flung down his own shovel and sprinted to his father.

  “Call 911…” Richland groaned, falling to his knees. Nate saw then that Richland’s lips were white, and a fear like he’d never known grabbed him deep in his gut.

  “R-Rich!” Nate followed his father down and caught his head before it could strike the sidewalk.

  “… 911…”

  “O-Okay… Oh, God! Shit!” Nate cursed as he fought to tear his phone from his back pocket. His fingers wouldn’t work, and he hit the 9 twice. “Damnit! Fuck! Oh, God!”

  By some miracle, the call connected.

  “911. What’s the emergency?” A woman’s voice answered.

  “Yes! Please! I think my dad’s having a heart attack!” Nate shouted into the phone.

  “Calm down, please. What’s the address?” she asked, evenly.

  “Wha-I-I don’t know… We’re on Buena Vista… i-in Arbolada.” Nate stammered. He craned his neck to search the house and saw the numbers over the door. “212! 212 Buena Vista!”

  “Nate…” Richland rasped and reached for Nate’s hand. All color had drained from his face, which twisted in pain, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. Nate clasped his hand and squeezed.

  “What’s your name, sir?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Nate… Nate Bradley…”

  “Nate, paramedics are on the way. Is your dad breathing?”

  “Yes… yes…he’s talking to me.” Nate said, relieved at this realization. He would be okay. It would be okay. At that moment, he heard sirens. Fire engines. The fire station on Johnston Street was less than three blocks away. “Oh, thank God…”

  “Nate…” Richland choked, squeezing his hand.

  “Yes, Rich? Help is coming. They’ll be here soon.”

  “Lila…”

  It was then that Nate saw the deepest sadness in his father’s eyes.

  “I’ll get her, Richland. I’ll bring her to the hospital as soon as I can,” Nate
promised.

  “Lila… My Lila…” The words gurgled from Richland’s mouth, and his grip on Nate’s hand fell away.

  “Richland!” Nate shouted.

  The blare from the fire engine drowned out the crack in his voice. The shadow of the truck fell over them, and in seconds, fire fighters surrounded Nate and Richland.

  “He needs an ambulance!” Nate yelled.

  “One’s coming, son.”

  Someone pulled Nate back, and another fireman who knelt beside Richland started pumping his chest.

  “I can’t find a pulse.”

  “Oh, shit…” Nate whimpered, crouching on the ground as the fireman at Richland’s head fitted an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. The sight of it — so surreal and foreign — took the rest of his composure, and Nate broke into sobs.

  ****

  NO ONE NEEDED TO tell him that Richland was dead.

  Even as the paramedics had tried to revive Richland in the ambulance, Nate watched from the corner and knew the truth. No one alive could be that color. A greenish white. Like eggplant flesh. Like honeydew rind.

  They’d made him sit in the hospital lobby and wait for the doctor. But Nate knew what this meant. Only a doctor could pronounce someone dead.

  “What am I going to do?” Nate said out loud. To no one. A woman seated near him with a child on either side of her turned to stare at him. What she saw in his face must have softened her because she gave him a pitying smile.

  He’d sat for fifteen minutes. Frozen. Knowing the truth but unable to do anything.

  When his certainty had set in — that Richland was gone — his first thought had been to call Blythe, but what could she do? She was in New Orleans. She’d just moved into her dorm. What would be the point?

  He buried his face in his hands.

  “Mr. Bradley?”

  Nate looked up at a doctor’s regretful eyes. He absently thought that she looked too young to have to give people awful news.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Arceneaux. Are you a minor, Mr. Bradley?”

  Nate swallowed and shook his head. At this moment, he felt about seven years old, but that didn’t matter. That wouldn’t bring back the man who’d raised him.

  “I’m eighteen,” he said, finally.

  The doctor nodded and placed a kind hand lightly on his shoulder.