I don't like to play favorites, but I think tonight's little butterfly might just be. Letting her arm slip back into the cold water, I stand and leave the room without another glance. My clothes are still wet, but I had left extra here in anticipation of needing them. I go and get them now, replacing their spot in my bag with the wet ones. Thankfully, my shoes aren't wet, because I didn't pack a spare pair of those. I pause outside the bathroom door, tempted to open it up and take another peek, but I force myself to move, to walk down the hall and put my sneakers back on. Backpack full of wet clothes, I open the front door and step out into the night.
I'm proud of myself for not letting this night get ruined. That wasn't exactly what I'd had planned, but it was even more beautiful. Nothing short of utter perfection.
It's hot today. Way hotter than the weather forecast called for. My eyes slide to Rhys, peeking at him out of the corner of my eye. If I'm hot in my tee and shorts, he has to be dying in his black jacket and denim. My fingers lightly trail over the late summer mums as I watch him frown down at his phone, the petals soft beneath my fingertips. "Are you hot?"
"No." He looks up, tucking his phone away to grab out a cigarette instead. Our eyes briefly meet as he lights it, my attention turning back to the flowers. There are a few butterflies fluttering along the blooms, their dusty yellow wings glinting in the waning sunlight. I hold my hand between the flowers, coaxing one onto my fingers. Smoke blows along my cheek as Rhys moves closer, "What're you doing?"
I can hear the amusement in his voice, but there's no smile on his lips when I give him a quick glance. It's such a bad habit, smoking, but what isn't these days? I actually like the smell of the smoke, the smell of freshly lit tobacco and alcohol on the breath. It reminds me of the better parts of my childhood, of the sweet neighbor who lived next door from my parents. He may have started drinking at the crack of dawn, but he was kind to me. His liquor made him uncaring and extremely trusting. I remember watching his niece cry at his funeral, big fat tears that slid off her chin to splat onto the top of his coffin. Beautifully heartbreaking. That’s what Rhys is too. He smells like cigarettes and coffee; spicy, rich, and earthy. He's like a walking, breathing, living version of my favorite scent. It’s strange but comforting.
Fluttering wings crawl along my fingers to the back of my hand, and I look at Rhys again. He's actually smirking at me now, lips wrapping around his cigarette as he watches me.
"Do you like bugs?" My eyes leave the cobalt of his to watch the butterfly walk across the back of my h
and.
"Bugs?" Like spiders and shit?" The smoke from his mouth puffs along my lips as he leans in to look at the flapping yellow wings still crawling across my skin. "No. I squish them."
"But you like butterflies." It's not a question. The small tilt of his lips created by the little insect tells me he does, or at least more than other bugs. I roll my hand over, encouraging the little butterfly to settle on my palm.
"Yea, I guess."
"I hate them." I find his face, eyes settling back on the twist of his lips. Is it normal to be jealous that his smile is for a bug and not me? "Butterflies are little liars. Master manipulators at making everyone think they're something they're not." I swallow as his tongue wets his lips, watch them close around his smoke before looking back at my hand and the bug stretching its wings there. "They're ugly little caterpillars that have learned to grow pretty wings of deceit." I slap my other hand down, smashing the little yellow butterfly in my palm. Brushing my hands together, I watch it fall to the dirt, yellow dust from its wings staining my fingers. "They're nothing but pretty bugs."
Rhys snorts, eyes on the butterfly at my feet as he drops his cigarette next to it. His sneakers rub both into the dirt. "You're so fucking weird."
"You're my butterfly." His eyes find mine, hands tucking into his jacket pockets as he watches me.
"Are you saying I'm a bug? Or that you hate me?"
"Neither." Turning to face him, my sneakers bump against his, my finger rising to trail along the open zipper of his jacket. He watches me as I press along the seam hard enough it scratches my skin. "You're a pretty liar." I press into his zipper even harder, using the pain to spur my confidence. "And just like the butterflies, you've somehow manipulated me to see past all of those secrets you keep. And I want to taste your lies, Butterfly." I can feel the blood welling up on the pad of my finger, hand pulling away from him to look at the small drops of ruby gathering along the tip.
Rhys snatches my hand, drawing my gaze to his as he presses his thumb into my cut, so that more blood drips down. "You should be more careful, Hadley. Saying shit like that makes me think you want to join my collection of broken hearts."
I pull our joined hands toward my mouth and lick the blood up the length of my finger, over the rough edge of his fingertips, and over my cut as he watches. The coppery ting brightens my senses as I look into his dark eyes. Despite the way the words dripped venom from his lips, I don't think he'd actually be so opposed to the idea. I'm not above letting his demons paint their runes of destruction over my skin, even if all it ever gets me is a night of fake bliss. He can stick me in his jar of hearts for all I care. Add me to his collection of sins.
He drops my hand when I'm silent for too long, and I look back at the mums. The butterflies have all left, I notice. "My Nana used to collect things." I hear his snort at my abrupt change of subject, feel his heat lick along my back as I tear a few petals from the bush, and let them slip through my fingers. "Stained glass and wind chimes." Her entire house was covered with her little treasures, stained glass pieces hanging around every window. She even had this special film she'd installed on her windows so that every morning her white and beige furniture and accents would glow with a rainbow of colors. I know she kept the lighter theme in her house for that reason, so there was always some kind of prism of light shining along the floors and walls. "I hated the wind chimes, her house was the noisiest one on the block. She had at least a dozen hanging from her porch, and there was this stray cat that would come around like clockwork to bang them around every evening. I swear it knew how much it annoyed me and did it on purpose."
Ignoring the yellow and white swirling in my ring, I pluck some more petals. Rhys's breath burns along my ear, "Why didn't you get rid of the cat?"
I shrug, turning my face to peek at him out of the corner of my eye. "My Nana liked it, and that was reason enough for me to just deal with it."
"Your parents are dead." It's not what I was expecting him to say, but I'm not surprised he brought it up. It wasn't a question either. I've never told him they were dead, but I guess it's not hard to figure out since I never talk about them and only my Nana.
"Yes." Dropping the straps on my backpack, I drop it to my feet. Turning around, I sit next to it, raising my knees to rest my cheek against as Rhys sinks next to me. His fingers brush along my thigh as he gets comfortable, eyes on my face, waiting for me to say more. "They died in a house fire when I was fifteen. The firefighters who found me said it was a miracle I survived. That I must have had a guardian angel watching over me."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Put that down and come here, Hadley." My mother's voice calls from the doorway, the silver butterfly clips holding back the hair at her temples, glinting in the light of a candle on the shelf. I ignore her, shaking my head in silent defiance. "Be a good girl and come here."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A good girl. I snort, lips twisting at my mother. That’s not possible; nothing I ever do is good enough for my parents. I am never good enough for them. My eyes land on my father's unblinking gaze from where I stand near his chair. It's a nice change to not hear him slinging around his insults and disappointment at my behavior. That's all he ever fucking does, all he ever has to say to me. I hear the floorboards creak as my mother takes a step into the room, and my attention turns back to her. Her hands are shaking despite the confident bite of her tone just moments ago. Is she scared? What the fuck could she possibly be scared for? I'm the one going to be punished, not her. "Why are you trembling?"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She ignores my question, eyes flickering between my hand and my face. "Knock this off right now, young lady!" One of her hands is clutching a pleat in her long skirt, the other gripping the doorframe like she needs the support to keep from toppling over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.