Butterfly

by Ashley Antoinette

  “Yeah, love?”

  “I think this might be something.” She paused. She was afraid to say it. A bit ashamed to admit it because it was way too soon to be feeling like this … it was way too wrong to feel it at all … it had to be the dick. Morgan was still reeling from the way he’d handled her. Had to be. It couldn’t be emotional. “Something good.”

  “You think right,” he said.

  Morgan hung up the phone before she told him she loved him. She could feel the words bubbling inside her chest. He made her feel like a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush … like she wanted to write his name next to hers and plan their wedding during third period. Morgan stood and hurried back to her seat. She sighed and leaned her head back onto the headrest, closing her eyes in appreciation. Two hands over her heart to stop it from beating out of her chest.

  She shook her head in disbelief. She didn’t care that Bash was sitting right next to her. It made her no never mind that Christiana was across from her staring with inquisitive eyes. Morgan was covered in the remnants of Ahmeek’s love, and she couldn’t hide it. She was glowing. She felt it. For too long, she had thought she’d die without ever feeling something so potent again. She had seen Ahmeek a hundred times, but she was seeing him through new eyes, and she was smitten. She never wanted to come down from this high. Morgan didn’t care how risky it was, she was willing to jeopardize her entire world to keep Ahmeek in her life. Fuck a friend. She wanted him as her own, and now that he’d given her a sample, she wanted the whole thing.

  19

  Messiah rode through the derelict city blocks with his neck on a swivel. One hand wrapped around the leather steering wheel of his BMW while the other wrapped tightly around the .45-caliber chrome pistol in his lap. It was his first time in the city in over two years, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think things had changed. It was still the Wild, Wild West, and he would never be caught slipping. He nodded to Jeezy as he took the streets by memory. There was something about being home, in the hood, that made Messiah come alive. He had run through these blocks like a renegade as a kid. They were his. They used to be his, at least, but he could see at first sight that the empire he had built with Isa and Ahmeek was still standing. The graffiti that marked the abandoned houses he passed on the way signified that niggas still saluted his crew. He was an urban legend in the city, and it was nostalgic to cruise through the hood. He knew what people believed. He was dead. He was supposed to be, at least. For a long time, he hadn’t thought he would survive. For two years, he couldn’t see past the pain to even fathom the notion of living, but he had been convinced to try. He had nothing to lose, so why not? He had walked away from the love of his life, from the kingdom he’d built, to die, but he hadn’t, and now that he had years in front of him, he couldn’t see himself enjoying them without her.

  Messiah pulled up to the elementary school and hopped out of his car. He didn’t have much to his name, but the house he’d left with Bleu and the car he’d taken with him were paid in full. He didn’t worry about the rest. Messiah was a man of means. He would make the rest back in no time, but none of it was worth anything if he didn’t have Morgan. He had to get to her. Had to talk to her. To lay eyes on her in person would be a blessing. The school bell rang, and Messiah posted up on the hood of his car as he watched the kids filter outside. When he spotted the one he was looking, for he shouted, “Ayo, homie!”

  Time away had matured little Saviour. His locks were shoulder length and bleached blond at the bottom, he had gotten tall, and he had two big front teeth that were larger than the others.

  “Uncle Messiah!”

  Saviour took off, running full speed into him, never slowing and throwing his arms around Messiah.

  “Ma said you were gone! She said you were in a better place!” Saviour exclaimed.

  Messiah pulled back, feeling tender as he pinched his nose. Bleu Montgomery, his best friend and Saviour’s mother, was one of few people he cared for. Saviour had a special place in his heart. He could only imagine the confusion he felt.

  “Nah, nephew. Nothing’s better than home. I had to go away for a while. I was real sick, homie. Your mom didn’t think I would get better, but I’m feeling real good now. I’m doing good.”

  “So you can stay this time?” Saviour asked, excitement playing in his tone.

  “Yeah, nephew. I’m staying,” Messiah said. He gripped the top of Saviour’s head and ruffled his locks. “Come on. Let’s get you home so your mama can kill me.”

  Saviour snickered and hopped in Messiah’s passenger side.

  The five-minute drive to Bleu’s house filled Messiah with tension. He was anxious to see her. Besides Morgan, Bleu had been the only other woman Messiah had ever loved, but their bond was different. Mo drove him mad, his emotions for her were so intense that he had a hard time staying sane when in her presence. He lived in a heightened reality with Morgan. Their love made him feel so raw that he hated it at the same time. The vulnerability. With Bleu, he was different. Bleu kept him sane … balanced … she grounded him, and he couldn’t wait to see her. If anyone could help piece together fragments of his old life, she could.

  He pulled in front of the white house, and his gut tightened. The last time he had been there had been catastrophic. He could almost see the scene playing back in his mind. He and Mo on the front lawn, screaming at each other. He had hurt her that day. Everyone saw it. He saw it. Hanging off her shoulders, leaking from her eyes, vibrating in her voice. Only her pain was acknowledged that day, but his hurt had been present too. His had been overwhelming because it was the day he learned that her love for him had no limits. She had been willing to forgive the unforgiveable, and it had angered him … enraged him … that she would be so selfless for him, that she would be so loyal to him, that she could love him so, that love didn’t flee when in the face of adversity because everyone before her abandoned him. Not Morgan, not even Ethic. The disappointment he had seen in their eyes that fated day could only be an offspring of one emotion … of love, and it angered him. He hated them that day because although no one else knew, he knew that he couldn’t stay. Because his fate was already decided. He had been sick, and he was dying, and they didn’t know. They had no idea the resentments they caused in Messiah, because before Morgan, he had been okay with dying. He had been cool with having his life snatched from him. Before her, he was getting money, fucking bitches, living fast, and taking risks, going hard to make sure his name lived after he was gone—but after her, after drowning in her depths, after exploring her soul, after hearing his name on her lips, and standing on the pedestal she placed him on, Messiah had wanted to live. He thought for sure she would leave like everyone else when she found out he was Mizan’s brother, but he had witnessed her love double after finding out. She had run to him, and he had turned her away because he was pissed that he was dying, and he could never, would never let her watch him fade to black.

  He exited the car and placed a hand on top of Saviour’s head as he guided him to the front door. He heard Bleu’s voice through the open screen door before he even knocked.

  “What do you mean he didn’t get on the bus? Where the hell is my son?” she shouted.

  “I’m right here, Ma,” Saviour said.

  Bleu turned, and when she saw Messiah, the phone slipped from her grasp, hitting the floor.

  “Uncle Messiah picked me up,” Saviour said.

  “What up, Shorty Doo Wop?” Messiah greeted with a mischievous grin.

  Bleu’s lip trembled, and her eyes misted. She choked a bit on her own damn breath as she reached for the kitchen counter to steady herself because her legs had gone weak. A ghost had snatched the strength right out of her.

  “Messiah?” Bleu rushed him. “I don’t even know how you’re in front of me right now. If I wasn’t so happy to see you, I would kill you!” she cried, her tears falling with ease as her heartbeat threatened to tear through her chest. He squeezed her tight, strong arms trapping her. He kissed the side of h
er head, getting emotional himself but fighting the burning of his eyes by closing them. This woman was his best damn friend. He owed her everything. She had let him use her in ways that he knew had stained her soul. She had stuck by him, giving him everything, setting no limits in ways that would have eased his transition. She had loved him, and in return, he would always love her. He would never love her the most, but on a list where only one other had ever gotten to his heart, Bleu had been added. Their friendship was potent, and he could never give her back all that she had given him.

  “I missed your shit-talking, B,” Messiah said, chuckling before letting her go. Bleu pulled back to look at him and couldn’t help but to throw her arms around him again.

  Bleu placed both hands on his shoulders and looked at him in disbelief. She touched him, moving her hands to his face. She couldn’t believe he was in front of her, alive, breathing. She struggled to control her emotions as her face twitched, lip quivering, eyes prickling with tears. She shook her head.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about. You have some explaining to do, boy. Have a seat. I’m almost done with dinner. You’re staying. Iman’s in Cali, so it’s just me and Saviour. We just got you back. No way is this going to be a quick visit, so I hope you didn’t make plans.”

  “No plans, just you,” he replied. “I hope you making Flint tacos. I need ’bout five of those ASAP.”

  “Taco Tuesday ain’t changed, boy, you already know,” she replied, laughing through tears. “Now, start at the beginning and leave nothing out. It’s been two years, Messiah. Where the hell have you been?”

  After four hours, twelve tacos, and a game of Monopoly with Saviour, Bleu and Messiah sat at her kitchen table. She was crying and holding his hand so tightly that her knuckles lightened.

  “Why would you let everyone think you were dead? Messiah! I would have been there for you! You went through chemo and surgeries and rehab alone!” Bleu cried. She was distraught.

  “I thought I was dead, B. They gave a nigga a five percent chance of surviving. The shit was everywhere. Cancer was everywhere, they cut me into so many pieces just to try to get it all out. I never thought I would live through that. I still question how I did. The pain. B…” Messiah shook his head and lowered it, clearing his throat. “It was worse than death. It was like the devil had me and I was in hell. I was just waiting to die. No need for everybody to go through that. A nigga know how to die. I didn’t require company for that.”

  “I called the hospital. I came to the hospital. They told me your file had been archived. That it was with the patients that had been terminated. I threw a fit at that hospital when they refused to show me a body. They just kept saying I wasn’t family, so they wouldn’t divulge any information, and this whole time you’re alive! What about Morgan? Messiah! What about her? I tried to call her after I found out. Even went to her place, but she was gone. She moved to London. I heard she has kids now.”

  “Shorty Doo Wop got shorties.” Messiah snickered. He already knew, but hearing it again was mind-numbing. There was no masking his somberness. He tried to be lighthearted about it, but he was heartbroken. He had imagined her with babies before, but they had been his babies, children they would share. Ones that looked like him and loved like her. It injured him something serious to know she had received that gift from another man. “Shit’s wild.”

  “Messiah…,” Bleu whispered. He never was good at concealing his emotions from her.

  “She did what she was supposed to do, B. She moved on. She lived, but I got to see her. I got to put eyes on her because that’s my baby. That’s my baby girl. She said my name first, Bleu, and she said it like nobody had ever said it before, like she loved saying it. Like she loved me and I just got to see her. I got to see her, so I can ask her to let me come home, B. Shorty got to let me come home, and I know she changed the locks and all’at, but it’s still my house. I built it. She’s still mine,” Messiah ranted, moving his hands in front of him like he was trying to grasp the notion of someone else taking his spot. “What I’ma do without Mo? How a nigga supposed to appreciate this new air without her? I know I should stay away. I should just watch Shorty from across the street and let her grow and be beautiful, but a nigga like to pick his flowers and put ’em in my pocket. I got to have her with me. I just got to. I can’t fucking breathe when she’s not around. For two years, doctors been saving me, but living without her has been killing me.”

  “Ethic told you to stay away. If you want Morgan, you’ll have to get past him first, and I’m not talking about the way you’re used to handling things. He isn’t an enemy. He’s your family. He’s like her father, so getting rid of him hurts her. The only way to her is through love. You have to tap into the love he has for you and get his forgiveness before you can even get to her. A lot of people never get a second chance. This is yours. You handled their entire family wrong the first time. This is your chance to fix it.”

  “Ain’t no talking to Ethic after what I did. He see my face, he busting first,” Messiah said. “Won’t be no questions asked.”

  Bleu shrugged. “You better make him listen, Messiah, or watch Morgan love someone else from afar.”

  20

  Morgan sat at the dining room table. Twelve seats and formal place settings separated her from Christiana. The six-thousand-square foot home was a mile from Michigan State and was the residence the Fredricks family owned in Michigan.

  “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay here, Morgan. Clear your head a bit and focus on what’s important,” Christiana said. “You don’t have time to waste.”

  “I didn’t say I was staying, Christiana. I’m going to my place,” Morgan said as she picked at the plate of food before her. Kale salad, balsamic vinaigrette. “What is this? This isn’t what I ordered from the chef.” Mo’s face turned in irritation as she lifted eyes to Bash’s mom.

  “Pre-wedding food. We’ve got to get that waistline down if Vera Wang is going to work with you,” Christiana said.

  Morgan set her fork down, and it took everything in her to trap her thoughts inside her head.

  Her phone buzzed against the table.

  “Not during meal service, Morgan,” Christiana said. Morgan’s fingertips were on the edge of her phone. Her heart fluttered because the notification let her know it was Ahmeek. It had been four days since she’d landed in Michigan. He had FaceTimed, not called, because they needed the eye-to-eye contact, but Morgan hadn’t answered. Once call for each day that had passed. Mo hadn’t answered once. Morgan didn’t even know what to say or how to feel. It all felt like it was happening so fast, and her heart was so exposed that she was afraid. She didn’t want to talk on the phone. She needed FaceTime. She needed to see his deep-set eyes and dark skin. She needed to rest her head on his chest to hear the way his heart beat because when it beat too slow, it meant he was trying to maintain his composure. It meant he was lying. Whenever he was calm around her, it meant he was fighting his emotions, trying not to love her. It was when his pulse raced that he was telling the truth. Morgan knew that a phone call or text wouldn’t suffice, but Christiana had her under lock and key. Escorted everywhere, days planned out like she were the Queen of England. Wedding planners, preschool appointment for the twins even though they were only two years old, looking at venues, and homes for after the wedding because Bash would be buying her one as a gift. Not even a piece of time over the past four days had been left unaccounted for. Morgan had been put on a schedule so that she couldn’t make any more decisions that would tarnish the formal announcement of their engagement.

  “Where are the twins?” she asked.

  “They’re out back with Bash,” Christiana answered. “They’ll be spending the day with him while we try on dresses.”

  “Who decided that?” Morgan asked. “I’d prefer if they were with me. And why are we trying on dresses already? How do you know I don’t have plans today, Christiana?”

  “Whatever’s planned can wait. I have someone from The Detr
oit Free Press coming to cover you for the society and style section of their website,” Christiana said.

  “What?” Morgan called out.

  “Relax, Morgan. Your dress will be custom. Off rack is mostly size twos and fours. We both know you aren’t either of those. It’ll just let people know that a new Fredricks woman is on the horizon. It’s good for you. Your brand as a woman, emerging on London’s elite … Michigan’s elite. A young medical student marrying into our family. If we make the right moves and establish a strong social circle, when you finally finish medical school, your practice will flourish! The money is in private practice.”

  “Christiana, I haven’t even told my family yet—”

  “And why not?” Christiana’s tone was intolerant. Like she couldn’t fathom why Morgan wouldn’t have bragged about the news. “Morgan, the ways you have benefited with this family holds value. The same way I pulled strings for you at Cambridge, I can tie them back. I can knot them. No one likes knots, dear. It’s best for you to stay on board.”

  “That sounds like a threat,” Morgan said.

  “Come on, dear, you can’t think you’ve gotten this far at Cambridge on your own merit. Every class, every grade, every milestone was paid for, Morgan. How devastating would a public scandal be if that news came out? You would be back at square one. Your career would be over before it even began,” Christiana said. “Now eat the kale and like it.”

  * * *

  Morgan stood in front of the mirror. Here she was, not even twenty-one years old, and she was about to get married. She had promised herself to a man for forever, and she was sick to her stomach. This felt like a trap. Like she was a butterfly trapped in a jar, and no matter how hard she flapped her wings, the glass she was encompassed in stopped her from freedom. The white wedding gown was beautiful. She felt just like the princesses in the stories she’d read coming up. Like the one stuck in the tower. The bitch with the long hair that let people pull on it hurt her just to climb to the top. Yup. Morgan felt just like that.