The crease in her brow lightens just a bit when I step forward in her direction, then quickly deepens when she realizes I'm not coming to her. My foot steps into something warm and wet when I pass my father's chair, toes sticking to the floor as I walk to the candle on the shelf. Letting the hammer I was holding slip through my fingers to my feet, I reach for it. The hot glass burns against my palms as I cradle it to my chest, but I don’t mind, taking a deep breath to inhale its scent. It smells like sugared donuts, far too pleasant to be in a hell hole like this. I look back at my father, his silent face staring back at me. "No."
I don't know how long I was silent, but Rhys doesn't seem to mind, his legs stretched alongside me as his fingers pick at a tear in his denim. "My parents weren't very nice people, and I don't miss them." His face turns to meet mine, and I'm surprised to see nothing but subtle understanding on it. Most people get uncomfortable when I say things like that. They can't possibly understand how I could think that. But I should have already known that Rhys would get it. He's probably the only person who would.
"I don't believe in guardian angels." I watch his jaw work as he turns away from me, stare at the hard edges of his profile. "If they're somehow able to save people from fires and car accidents, then they should also be able to save them from abuse and neglect." He pauses, tongue running over his lips. "But they don't because they don't exist."
My lips part with a loud breath, head raising as I drop my legs to lay flat like Rhys's. My sneaker toe accidentally taps against his foot, and he kicks mine back much harder than necessary. "Or maybe, they do exist, and people like us just aren't good enough to get one."
He shakes his head, bright blond hair flopping over his frown. "Doesn't even matter. People like us don't need them." His hand raises, roughly pushing the hair from his face. "We're our own guardian angels. We don't need anyone's help. We'll save ourselves or die trying." Cornflower eyes find mine, scrunched at the edges. "You're strong, and your parents were weak; that's why you made it out, and they didn't."
His words feel oddly like a compliment, and I can't help the slight purse of my lips in reaction. People don't pay me compliments that don't hold a hidden agenda, but his feels genuine. And that makes me feel something.
He looks away from me, ending our silent moment. "How'd your Nana die?"
Now I'm frowning. The thought of her bringing that familiar gut-wrenching ache. "She fell and hit her head. I found her when I came home from classes one day." I feel Rhys shift beside me, but I don't look, instead my eyes fixed on the sun disappearing over the hill. "She was old. The coroner said she probably died instantly."
"Do you still live in her house? With all the wind chimes?" I shake my head at his question, listening to his lighter flick on as he lights another cigarette.
"No. The bank took it after she passed. She had a reverse mortgage or some shit." I left everything but a single wind chime when I moved out. The bank tried to contact me several times about getting the rest, but what would I have done with all that stuff? I didn't want it, so I let them deal with it. I'm not sure why I chose the wind chime that I did but at least hanging in my bay window, it doesn't make much noise.
Rhys stands abruptly, and I look up at him from the grass, watch the bobbing orange end of his cigarette as he talks around it. "You're a sad, weird girl, Hadley."
I can't help the small laugh that slips out, grabbing my backpack as I stand. Apparently, Rhys has had his fill of talking and emotions for the day. "But you like it."
His eyes narrow on my face as his lips close around his cigarette, fingers coming up to hold it as he takes a drag. Smoke blows from his nose as he holds my gaze. "I don't like anything about you." It's said as he pulls the cigarette from his lips.
I smile at his frown, shifting my backpack onto my back. "See you later, Butterfly." I turn away from him, being the first to walk away this time. I feel his gaze on my back but don't look, my fingers digging into my backpack straps as I walk. I heard what he didn't say, what he never says. Rhys Elliot likes me as much as I like him, whether he's willing to
admit it or not.
I wasn't expecting this. I came out tonight to see my butterfly, and what do I find? My Celastrina argiolus blushing behind her napkin over the piece of shit she's on a date with. I almost didn't notice her, all gussied up with her curled hair and red lips; surely, my butterfly wouldn't be out here with someone else. Not my butterfly. But it was her I was looking at through the restaurant window, smiling at some pathetic wall street looking trash no less.
My eyes have been narrowed on the pale blue of his button-up since I sat down at my own table to watch them. Every second that ticks by is gasoline thrown onto my inner rage. Every little giggle that slips past her nude lips, every flutter of her lashes, every little touch. They should all be mine, and I have to sit here and watch my butterfly be soiled by this filth. I'll admit that when I first sat down at my table, I was naïve enough to think this might be some kind of friendly exchange, not an actual date. How stupid of me.
"Has someone come to help you yet?"
I jerk my attention from the happy couple to the waitress standing by my table, pen at the ready like she already knows the answer to her question. Grabbing the menu from the table, I hand it out to her, eyes briefly landing on my butterfly as her fingers pinch around the laminated bi-fold. "Not yet. Can I get a rare steak and sweet tea?"
She smiles, tucking the menu under her arm as she writes. I might've found her pretty any other night with the dimple in her cheek, and the mess of coppery hair piled on top of her head. Unfortunately for her, I have my hands full with my naughty butterfly tonight. "Sure thing. Do you want any sides? Or just the steak tonight?"
"Just the steak."
She says something, but my attention is already across the room, so I don't hear it. I doubt my butterfly realizes that everyone can see her dates hand rubbing along her thigh beneath the table or that when she uncrosses her legs, her navy blue panties flash the entire fucking room. All of her attention is on the prick she's with. They seem far more familiar than I care to admit, like this isn't the first date they've been on. I hate it. I hate how happy my butterfly looks. I hate how she's oblivious to everything but him. She hasn't once looked my way, never even felt my presence. It's annoying and insulting.
I almost stand up, hands trembling with rage as they grip the edge of the table to stand, the table cloth wrinkling in my palms, but my waitress sneaks up on me to drop my glass of sweet tea in front of me. Forcing myself to sit back in my chair once more, I thank her retreating back. Despite how much it kills me to see my butterfly flap her wings for someone else, I can't do anything about it. Not yet. Not here. I wasn't planning on adding Celastrina argiolus to my collection just yet, I wanted to spend more time with her first, but she's made the decision for me with this little escapade of hers. She can pretend she's not mine all she wants, but she can't hide from the facts any longer.
My eyes barely leave them as my steak and utensils are placed in front of me, my lips twisting into a fake smile for my waitress. I nod in acknowledgment to whatever she says, hand closing around the napkin holding my silverware. Shaking it out, I peel my eyes from the disaster playing out before me and grab the steak knife. Shifting a wary glance around the room, I use the knife to tear my napkin, using my hands to rip it the rest of the way when it catches so that I have two separate pieces. Tucking one of the pieces into my jacket pocket, I tear the remaining piece in half again so that I have two squares. I shove one of the fabric squares into my pocket with the other, eyes finding my butterfly as I fold my remaining square into a butterfly.
It's an ugly pale cream with ripped, frayed edges; nothing but garbage compared to the one I would have made her if she hadn't decided to up our timeline. I hate it. But not nearly as much as I hate my butterfly's date. I watch as they both stand from their table, eyes burning when their fingers link while walking toward the exit. Standing up shortly after them, I reach into my denim pocket to toss cash onto my table, watching the back of my butterfly's head as they walk out of the door. I didn't touch my steak, but I didn't actually want it. I snatch the steak knife from the table before I leave, tucking it away inside of my jacket as I make my way out of the restaurant. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I pause, unsure where they are.
Lucky for me, they aren't too far ahead, my butterfly's laugh drifting over all the other noises what draws my eyes their way. Such a great time she's having. Such a wonderful night for them both. I can't fucking stand it. I feel like I've been cheated of my prize. I have a specific way I like to do things, a way that ensures I get my butterfly in perfect condition for my collection. This is not fucking it. Each step I take is slightly faster than the last, my heart thumping against my ribs an angry rhythm. All I can see is my butterfly, and the sight isn't nearly as sweet as it should be.
Just seeing the way her cheeks turn pink when her date leans to whisper in my ear has me fighting the urge to push my way through the crowd and yank her from him. The fact that she actually looks happy, that she sounds happy, grates on my nerves like nothing else. There's a nagging in the back of my skull that tells me it might not just because she's my fucking butterfly; that maybe the twisting in my gut might be closer to jealousy than rage. Shoving my hands in my pockets, my fingers wrap around the handle of the steak knife, effectively cooling my racing mind. No. I'm not jealous; that’s impossible. I don't care about frivolous nonsense like relationships. At least that's what I tell myself as the pit in my stomach grows, watching my butterfly flutter in front of me.
They're getting farther from the main foot traffic, making it harder for me to use the passing bodies as coverage. The more I take in our surroundings and off of my butterfly, I realize we are actually going in the direction of the college bars. Of course, this trash goes to the same school as my butterfly; it makes sense now why they're so familiar with each other. They probably have some of the same classes, maybe even share the same dorm. How cute of them, turning their pathetic little lives into some kind of romance novel. A rom-com, no doubt, because this fucker is nothing but a joke.
I look away from them, eyes dropping to the old brick road we're walking along. It circles the outskirts of the campus, red brick worn down by time that adds a certain charm to the place I've always liked. I'm lucky that it's the weekend, and this area gets busy; that and the cloak of the night hiding me are the only things preventing me from sticking out like a sore thumb. I have no fucking plan for this, and I always have a plan. I always know what I'm going to do weeks in advance. I should just let it go, force myself to go home, and stick to the plan. But I know I can't do that. I wouldn't be able to; the thought of her betrayal would plague my every waking thought just as it's doing now and poison our connection.
I look up just in time to see my butterfly hurry into an alleyway pulled by her frat boy in a giggling huff. I don't have to be a genius to know why they're sneaking off. That douche hasn't been able to keep his hands off of my butterfly all night, he probably couldn't wait a second longer to taste what's mine. I already know my butterfly tastes as sweet as honey, and her skin is softer than Egyptian silk. She's beautiful with her tanned skin and chocolate eyes. She's a ruby in a bin full of emeralds, rich and warm. Like all the rest before her, I knew she was meant to be mine the second I saw her. She was wearing a long dress, the softest, palest blue I'd ever seen. My beautiful Celastrina argiolus fluttering her wings, begging to be one of my treasures.