The Butterfly Box_A SASS Anthology

by Anthology

  She’s curled into a tiny ball, her arms tucked between us and her head laying on my chest. Her breathing is shallow, and the shudders that had been afflicting her petite frame have completely subsided. It took a while, but she's finally asleep. And while I know I should move her, maneuver myself from beneath her, I can’t bring myself to do either. Having her on top of me, her heart beat synchronizing with mine in what I can only describe as perfect harmony, well… it’s not a feeling I’m ready to stop experiencing.

  I've never been one to believe in fate or destiny. There is too much awful shit that occurs in this world to make me believe that everything is supposed to happen for a reason. So, I tend to fall on the more rational side of the thinking spectrum. Things happen either out of pure or shit luck.

  End of story.

  Everything that has brought Cassi and me together has been a result of shit luck. But as I hold her—listening and feeling both of our hearts—I can't help but think that maybe this, this is pure, or perhaps it's something else entirely.

  Can two hearts possibly be meant to only beat for each other?

  Lifting my head, I stare down at the blanket of brown hair sprawled across my torso, and my hand moves of its own accord, reaching up to brush away the strands so I can better see the beautiful face hidden beneath them. It’s wrong to look at this woman and want more from her, especially knowing she doesn’t have it in her to give, yet, I can’t help myself. I can’t help but want to be around her, to see her smile, to hear her voice.

  She may be in my arms, but she fell asleep listening to his heart, and a part of me wonders if she’s secretly wishing that I, too, was him. If she is, can I blame her?

  Closing my eyes one more time and inhaling the sweet vanilla scent of her skin, I stand up, holding her tightly, one arm across her back, the other under her thighs. Her arms immediately circle around my neck, and as she nuzzles herself deeper into my shoulder, she releases a soft murmur.

  “Adam.”

  The stab of pain that slices through me at the sound of his name has my entire body flinching, and I’m instantly reminded that although I’m slowly falling in love with her, she is still hopelessly in love with him. Shaking my head, I move to correct her. “No, Cass… it’s me. It’s Sam.”

  She doesn’t respond, and I suspect it’s because she’s still asleep. I continue the short journey to her bedroom, kicking the door open with my foot and walking straight to her bed, and I lie her down in the center of it. I’ve never been in her room before, and I’m not sure I should be now, but it’s nearly seven a.m., and since I have somewhere else to be, I can’t leave knowing she is sleeping on the couch. Pulling the blankets up and tucking them in around her, I smooth a finger over her soft cheek and then step back. My gaze slowly moves over the room that is filled with memories of Adam, and I almost choke on an inhale. While the rest of her house bares no shred of evidence of him, this space is shrouded in it.

  Sighing defeatedly, I take one more look at the woman who is becoming more than I ever expected her to be, and then make my way to my car.

  A CARDBOARD CARRIER with two styrofoam cups of coffee in one hand, I breathe out through my nose and bring my free arm to the door, hesitating only momentarily before rapping my knuckles against the hard oak and stepping back. Being the house that I had grown up in, you would think I didn’t have to knock, but not knocking could send this visit in one of two directions, and with my lack of sleep last night, I prefer to deal with the lesser of the two evils today.

  I wait patiently—a ball of nerves in my stomach from not knowing what kind of state I will find him in this time—and let my gaze drift over the property that has been neglected even more so in the last couple of years. Before my transplant, I had done what I could to help my father with the upkeep of this place, and now that I’m finally in a state where I’m physically fit to be doing such work again, it’s time I get back to it. Lord knows if I don’t, he won’t bother.

  Overgrown weeds and bushes cover the tile pathways, and decomposing leaves that have long since fallen from their branches litter the yard. The porch is in need of several new coats of paint, and the siding on the house could do with a good power wash. Frowning, I make a mental note of everything that needs to be done at the same time the door in front of me swings open.

  Standing in a pair of black sweats and a t-shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been washed in days, is my father. The wrinkles around his eyes look even deeper than they did a week ago, and his gravelly, just woken up voice has me internally shaking my head and sighing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I inhale deeply, refraining from rolling my eyes, and move to grab the mail overflowing from the mailbox. Stuffing it under my arm, I pull the screen door open and let myself in, sidestepping around the man that rivals me in height. “It’s Sunday, Dad,” I say, reminding him as I make my way into the kitchen. “I’m always here on Sunday.”

  “Is it?” Confusion digs its way into the tired lines on his face, and I shake my head.

  Why do I even bother?

  “Yeah, it is. And here—” I thrust the container holding the coffees in his direction, and nod down at it, gesturing for him to take one. “I brought you coffee.”

  Ragging a hand through his greasy, gray hair, he grumbles something under his breath, and his inability to show even an ounce of appreciation has my blood pressure rising.

  “If you don’t want it, a simple ‘no, thank you’ would suffice.”

  We do this every Sunday. We have done this every Sunday for the past year, and at fifty-six years old, he needs to start taking some responsibility. He’s my father, and I love him, but I can’t keep holding his hand. I have my own life that needs figuring out.

  Huffing in annoyance, I set the drinks down on the small wooden table, ignoring the hot liquid that sloshes out of the small hole in the lid, and push away the stacks of old mail. “If you're not going to go through this stuff, you should really just throw it away. It's collecting dust and your table looks like a paper factory exploded all over it.” I drop myself on the chair and begin to sift through the envelopes in front of me, tossing the junk mail into the trash can beside my feet, and placing the new bills on a pile.

  As I tear them open one by one, marking on the calendar what is due and by when, I glance up at my father who has sat down in the seat adjacent to mine. “Did you remember to send the mortgage check on Tuesday like I asked you to?”

  His white, bushy brows narrow in thought, and his lips twist to the side of his cheek. He doesn’t answer me.

  “Dad.” My tone grows firm, and this time I stare at him directly, repeating myself. “Did you remember to send the mortgage check?”

  He gives me an unconvincing look and turns his head, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “For Christ sake, Samuel, yes. I just told you I sent it.”

  My head rears back at the harsh sound of his voice, and I clamp my mouth shut. I'm speechless. The fact that he has the audacity to snap at me, while I’m here, taking care of his house, his bills, his entire life, has my jaw clenched tight and its muscle twitching. I bite my tongue, holding back the words desperate to lunge off of it, and continue to write out the checks that are due this month.

  Sitting there, unmoving, my father stares at me. It’s useless trying to get him to help, which is why I’ve stopped asking, aside from the odd mailing here and there.

  “Why don’t you go take a shower, Dad. You look like hell.”

  He laughs dryly, his shoulders shaking as it erupts from his chest. “That’s something coming from the guy who looks like he’s slept on a park bench all night.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t get much sleep.” Not that I ever do, but he’s never taken the time to notice or ask, but that’s beside the point. Last night my sleep deprivation was the result of an entirely different reason. It was about Cassi and making sure she was okay.

  “You were with her a
gain, weren’t you? The organ donor’s girlfriend.”

  My stomach lurches, and I grit my back teeth, every muscle in my body pulled tight with irritation at the way he's referred to Cassi. “She has a name, Dad.”

  There’s a long, drawn out moment of silence, and just when I think he’s going to drop the discussion, he pushes further. “Do you really think continuing to see that girl is a good idea?”

  “I like her.” It's as simple as that. We’ve grown close over the past few weeks, closer than I think either of us are truly ready to admit, but I look forward to the time we spend together. I love her laugh and her smiles, and unlike my father, I believe Cassi is capable of being saved from the pain she’s slowly drowning in. And if that’s the case, I want to be the one to save her. “I enjoy spending time with her.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Sam? Involving yourself with that girl is asking for trouble.”

  My hand stops mid-scribble, and I lift my chin, pinning my father with my glare. I shouldn’t have to explain myself, especially to him of all people. “I don't believe it's any of your concern who I see or what I do.”

  “You're setting yourself up for disappointment, son. Have you ever stopped to think how it’s going to end? You have his heart, for crying out loud... but you’re not him, Samuel. You’ll never be him. And once she realizes that, where is that going to leave you?”

  At his words, I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest with a baseball bat, and I press back in my seat, folding my arms and shaking my head, ashamed to call this man my father. “You're really something, you know that.”

  His mouth begins to fall open, but I don't allow him a chance to speak. He's said what he's needed to say, and quite frankly, he has real nerve to have even said it at all.

  “You want to talk about disappointment, we’ll talk about disappointment. What's disappointing is that I need to show up here every Sunday just to ensure your bills are paid and there is food in your refrigerator, all because you can't pull yourself together enough to do it on your own. What's disappointing is growing up with a father who cared more about himself than his own Goddamn son.”

  He looks at me as if my words have physically slapped him across his face. “Cared more about myself? Why in the hell would you ever think that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You were so wrapped up in your own misery you didn't give a damn what happened to me. You still are. Yet, here I sit, the fucking fool that I am, trying to keep your shit in order. So, don't tell me how to live my life when you don't even know how to begin to live your own.”

  Body nearly shaking from the rush of adrenaline my sudden anger has caused, I sigh in frustration. I try to return my attention back to the check I was in the middle of writing, and deciding that I’ve had enough of being here, I collect the pile of bills and rise to my feet; I’ll finish them at home. As I turn my head to take one more glance at my sorry excuse for a father, my gaze falls on the white envelope tucked under a pile of junk mail beside his arm. Reaching over and picking it up, my blood now boiling, I slap the envelope containing the mortgage check down in front of my father.

  “You mailed it, huh?”

  His eyes flicker shut, shame clear across his face, and for a mere second, I almost feel guilty, guilty for the way I spoke to him, but then reality hits, reminding me how I hate this: his inability to pull his shit together.

  “And to think she actually wanted to meet you…” Shaking my head and looking at him in sheer disappointment, I spit out the words in a clipped tone and head for the door. “...what an embarrassment that would be.”

  SHOWERED AND DRESSED in a pair of black, silk shorts and a matching camisole—her wet, brown hair piled messily on top of her head and face clean of any makeup—Cassi stands just beyond the door, her eyes alight with surprise. “Sam.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “You’re back.”

  “Yeah. I, um…” I lift a hand, running my fingers up the back of my neck and through my hair. “I know I left early this morning, I sort of had somewhere to be, but I wanted to swing back and check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

  A hint of red tints her cheeks, and she drops her head a little, watching her toes as they wiggle themselves into the soft threads of the rug beneath her feet. “I’m okay, thank you.” Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, she lifts her gaze back to mine, those big brown eyes of hers pinning me and putting a chink in my resolve. “Did you want to come in? I have a pot of coffee going.”

  I oblige. After everything we’ve been through, doing this here in her doorway seems like the cowardly way out. Then again, I’m not sure how she’s going to react. Following behind her, we head straight for the kitchen where I take a seat at the island and Cassi moves to grab two clean mugs from the cabinet. Although I haven’t said anything, and have made every effort at keeping my expression void of any readable emotion, the tension in Cassi’s movements tells me she senses something is wrong.

  Placing a mug down in front of me, she fills it to the brim, returning the pot to the machine, and then sitting on the stool beside me. She’s close. Close enough that I can smell her vanilla perfume mixing with the faint smell of her body wash. Taking a sip of my coffee, I turn on my seat to face her, and as I do, she does the same, her legs stopping between mine.

  Concerned eyes stare at me, and the wary look on her face has me rethinking this entire plan. Not that it was well thought out to begin with, because nothing I do ever really is, but coming here with the intention of it being the last time I ever do was a spur of the moment decision. My father’s words, while said with the deliberate intention of affecting me, were right. I don’t know what Cassi and I are, and I’m not sure I ever will, but continuing whatever relationship we have is like being on a train that you know is going to wreck. And I need to get off—need to save us both before we crash and burn in the flames.

  “Sam?” Gentle fingers stroke down my cheek, cutting through my internal conflict, and as I raise my chin to look at Cassi, my decision falters. “Is everything okay?”

  “I don't…” Closing my eyes and sighing, I curl my fingers around her tiny wrist and pull it away from my face. I smooth my thumb over the back of her hand, my gaze now glued on the imaginary circles I’m creating on her skin. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  She stiffens beneath my grasp and there is silence. Uncomfortable silence. I lift my chin, risking a glance at her.

  She stares at me, unblinking, her eyes open wide like windows providing a clear view straight into her mind. I can see the questions forming before they even leave her lips. “Did I do something wrong?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “No, you didn’t do anything. I just… my life's a mess right now. I don’t know what it is I'm doing, and I don't know what to do to get it back on track. Seventeen months ago, I wasn’t even sure I was going to have a future, but I do now. And I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with it.”

  “And we can’t be friends while you do?”

  I look at her, not sure how to get my thoughts out. How do I tell her that we can't be friends because I want to be more than that?

  “The point of meeting you, Cass, was to express my condolences… to meet the person who had the honor of knowing and loving someone as selfless as Adam.” I pause, swallowing down the thickness in my throat. “And I've done that. I’ve met this incredible woman, who has unknowingly already started to change my life, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in finding out what other amazing things she's capable of achieving.”

  “But?”

  “But I think we both know that right now isn't exactly the perfect—”

  “Time.”

  I pinch my lips shut and nod my head, knowing that she's heard every one of my words, even those left unspoken. “Yeah.”

  The room slips back into silence, and everything in me is begging her to say something. Anything. I want her to tell me that I’m being ridiculous. I want her to ask me not to go.
r />   She doesn’t.

  “I should, um… I should really get out of here. Get a start on figuring out this life, huh?”

  She smiles tightly and rises to her feet, leaving her coffee mug on the counter. “I'll walk you out.” And then she brushes past me, not bothering to look over her shoulder to see if I’m following, but instead, dropping her gaze to the floor and folding her arms over her chest.

  I cross the space that is her kitchen and living room, my feet feeling as though they are weighted with lead, and I join her at the door. We stand still in the same threshold we’ve been caught in before. Neither of us speaking. Neither of us moving. Both of us, clearly hesitating. I turn to look at her, a frown on my brow and my hands shoved in my pockets. I breathe out, my heart pounding at an unprecedented pace. “Cass...”

  Chest rising on a steep inhale, she flashes me another sad smile. “Goodbye, Sam.”

  The door closes not even a moment later, and as I let my head fall back between my shoulders, I stare up at the cumulus clouds in the sky. I force my feet to move, and as I start in the direction of my car, my heart silently whispers, “what the hell are you doing?”

  I PRESS MY back to the door— my palms flat—as I lean against it for support, trying to make sense of the last fifteen minutes. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I intended to speak those same words to him—to let him know that I didn’t think seeing each other anymore was a good idea. So why does my world suddenly feel like it’s been spun off its axis?

  Chest tight and uncomfortable, I straighten myself on wobbly legs, resisting the urge to run to the window and peek out of it. I don’t want to see him walking away; not when I’m struggling with the idea of letting him. I close my eyes and inhale deeply through my nose, reassuring myself this is for the best. No matter how right it felt to be in his arms or the wave of disappointment that hit me this morning as I woke up without him, this—whatever this is that we have—is better to be left as a ‘what could have been.’