The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

  His turn to laugh.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ I say.

  ‘You’re weird.’

  ‘Finally, we agree.’

  I’ve deleted everything. Photos. Texts. Emails. All I can get back are the songs. I download Nina Simone, Gorillaz and everything else I’ve deleted. I lie on my bed listening to sounds and letting myself remember. Our first kiss, stolen by him, behind flapping sails . . . hearing that he’d always liked me . . . the hospital trip with Bobby and how gentle he was with him . . . the freckle on his eyelid . . . another on the sole of his foot . . . his touch on my skin . . . the curl of the hair at the base of his neck, his smile, his laugh . . . Mr Zog’s Sex Wax . . .

  I sit up. Remembering. I still have the presents I got him for Christmas – Mr Zog’s Christmas stocking and Mr Zog’s hoodie. I get up. Go to the wardrobe and take them out. I strip off the wrapping, put on the hoodie and roll up the sleeves. I look at myself in the mirror and let myself miss him. Then I go back to the wardrobe and take out all the other gift-wrapped presents. And put them on the bed. One by one, I go through them. The gift I got the man formerly known as The Rockstar: a personal organiser. It was a hint. The gift I got the person I thought was a friend: a pretty cool belt, actually. The gifts I got Rachel (a medical encyclopedia she didn’t already have – harder than you’d imagine) and Sarah (a year’s subscription to Kiss magazine). I take the last two out and put them in my bag. I throw the belt in the bin. And decide to shop for a new present for Dad.

  Then I take out the gifts I never opened. A day with a personal shopper, from The Stylist. I know who’d like that. I put it aside for Sarah, then go to the bin and fish out the belt for her too. Rachel won’t mind. It’s an unwritten rule. All unwanted presents go to Sarah who hasn’t half the stuff we have and really does appreciate them. From The Rockstar, I get a bunch of clothes, individually wrapped, probably selected by The Stylist. The last present has different wrapping. I read the note attached and my heart starts to pound. All I can think is: How? I try to work it out. That day he called and I wouldn’t see him . . . He must have left it with Marsha. But why didn’t she just give it to me straight away rather than include it with all the other gifts? Probably knew what I’d do with it.

  When I open it up and see what it is, I can’t believe it. It is the exact necklace Pat gave to me because she saw me admiring it. I imagine him going into the shop. Did he ask for help? Or did he know, automatically, what I’d like? And as my eyes fill, I know the answer.

  Next day, the weirdest thing. Sarah gets me on her own in school. She looks awkward, which is so not like her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘About David.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Right. Thanks.’

  She looks down at her Dubes. ‘I mean, I know you’re not into deep conversations and that. But I just wanted to say, like, shame. You know?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you yesterday when you got back after Christmas, but there was always someone around.’

  I nod.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  And then she starts to speak so quickly, not even stopping for a breath, like this is something she’s been holding in for a long time. ‘I’m so sorry for flirting with David that time in Bray. I let on it was no big deal. Because I didn’t want it to be. But I did flirt with him. I don’t know why. I know he’s caliente but I don’t fancy him. And the last thing I’d ever want is to upset you. I just think I was so down about that guy not showing up . . . But I swear to God I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, if I’d thought about it for just one second, I’d never have done it. I swear.’

  ‘It’s OK, Sarah. Forget it.’

  ‘Are you sure because I’ve just been, like, totally hating myself about it, you know? You’re my best friend, well you and Rache, both of you, and you’re like, so important to me, and I’d never want to upset you. And I want to say sorry for every time I’ve, like, put my foot in it about your mum. I don’t know how I do it but I keep doing it, and the more I try not to, the more I do it. And I’m, like, so sorry –’

  I smile. ‘It’s OK. Seriously. Don’t worry about it. OK?’

  She nods. Then asks one more time if I’m sure.

  ‘Come here,’ I say. And we hug.

  THIRTY-TWO | THE NAKED GUN

  Being grounded is not supposed to be a picnic. But, for me, it is. I like that there’s someone who wants me back by a certain time. Who actually cares that I’m walking in the door. Who is in the kitchen when I come in. And asks how my day went. He walks the dog with me, now. I help him with dinner. We watch movies together. I never see him work. For the first time in ages, I like being home. I also like having an excuse to stay there when someone calls, asking me out. Which is why I decided to stay grounded. I don’t say anything, just carry on living my new routine.

  One day, Dad stops wearing the shades. Soon, the beard goes. Then, on the eve of my mum’s anniversary, comes the third surprise: he suggests we do something to mark it.

  I feel my whole face brighten. ‘Really?’

  ‘Maybe we could watch a movie she liked – or something?’

  ‘The Naked Gun!’ I say, straight out. She always loved it.

  He looks at me. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was our movie.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘We saw it on our first date.’

  ‘Really? I never knew that.’

  ‘And our next.’ I look at him.

  ‘And our next.’

  I laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘We just kept going back. I thought she was only after me for the movie.’

  I try to imagine them young.

  ‘She used to call me her knight in shining armour.’

  I think of David. ‘What did you rescue her from?’

  He waves a hand. ‘Oh, some boring old accountant who was sniffing around.’

  ‘Sniffing around? Seriously, Dad.’ But I want to hear all about them then, in love, happy. ‘So why did she pick you over the accountant?’ I say it like it was a really dumb move. But it’s OK. He knows I’m joking.

  He shakes his head like it’s still a mystery. ‘She was way out of my league.’

  I think of David stealing that kiss. ‘Maybe she thought you were cheeky? Maybe she liked that you wouldn’t be put off?’ He looks surprised that I would know this.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says.

  ‘Were you in a band then?’

  ‘Ah, some garage band, totally hopeless and going nowhere.’

  ‘I’d love to see some really old pictures of when you started going out.’

  He smiles. ‘You make it sound like it was BC!’

  I plan it out. Do it right. The way Mum would have. I make popcorn from kernels. Pour tall glasses of Kombucha and ice. Turn off all phones. Close the blinds. Dad has to sit on a hard chair for his back. So I put it next to the couch and place the popcorn between us. We clink our glasses. Because this is a tribute.

  ‘To Mum.’

  ‘To Mum.’

  I laugh in all the right places. So does Dad. Leslie Nielsen’s face helps. I can’t help missing her, though, especially at her favourite bits. The opening credits. Lieutenant Frank Drebin’s car taking off without him and catching fire. (‘Did anyone get a look at the driver?’) And, of course, the driving lesson that turned into a car chase. It’s weird how the funniest parts of a movie can make you saddest. I do a good job of pretending, though. Dad’s laughter turns to tears when Frank Drebin starts to frisk the baseball players. He disappears for a while.

  When he returns, he’s not hiding behind glasses any more and he’s carrying a box of old photos.

  I turn off the DVD, open the blinds and land on the box like a hawk. They were so young and skinny. With flared jeans. And long hair. Their teeth were so white. God, they smiled a lot. And did a huge amount of gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Then, I’m wondering. Did we look that good toge
ther? Were we always smiling?

  Later, we bring Homer to Killiney Beach.

  ‘You go on ahead,’ I say to Dad.

  I sit on the sand and pick up pebbles. I don’t set them out on the back of my hand, but I remember the time I did, when I placed him at the centre of my universe. After all that’s happened, I still don’t regret that.

  ‘How about a game of chess?’ Dad suggests, after dinner.

  ‘Chess?’

  ‘I saw the board in your room.’

  How could he? I always hide it. ‘What were you doing in my room?’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘The night you went missing, I was desperate, searching for some clue of where you might have gone.’ I feel guilty, then. ‘When I saw the chessboard, I remembered how it used to be between us.’ His eyes are sad – until he catches me looking and makes his face bright. ‘I’m surprised you kept it.’

  ‘It’s just a chessboard,’ I say, defensively.

  ‘So, want to beat the pants off me?’

  ‘Since you put it like that, yeah.’ But I’m smiling.

  We set up in the library and light the fire. He gives me the white pieces, like he used to. But I twist the board around.

  ‘You’ll need the head start.’

  He laughs, looks at the board for a few seconds, then advances one of his pawns two paces. My fingers close around one of my knights. He looks up, surprised, because that used to be his strategy, starting with the knights. I keep my eyes on the board. He moves another pawn. I try to work out his plan of attack and unfold my own at the same time. I start by taking his bishop. Three moves later, I’m lifting his queen, surprised at how easy it is.

  ‘I’d forgotten how good you were,’ he says.

  I was never good then. It’s years of imaginary games, years of using knights, thinking like he does, that’s what has me so ‘good’.

  ‘Best of three,’ he says when he loses.

  He improves with play, as if it’s coming back to him. I remember how much I used to enjoy these battles.

  And then, out of the blue, I’m asking, ‘So, The Stylist? What was that about?’ I’ve no idea where this has come from. And I wish it would go back. I don’t look up.

  He stops moving, his castle suspended in the air. I feel his eyes on me, and, finally, I lift mine.

  ‘It was about missing your mother. And not admitting it.’

  I think of Louis. And David. And how weird it is that my life keeps overlapping with my father’s. Maybe Gran was right.

  ‘I wasn’t unfaithful,’ he says. ‘But I feel like I was.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, knowing what he means.

  But he misunderstands. ‘Alex, no one will ever replace your mother.’

  ‘I know.’ Just as certainly as I know that no one will ever replace David. You can’t block out a person as important as that, no matter how hard you try.

  Monday, on the DART, I ask Rachel how Bobby’s settling in.

  ‘Who?’

  I blush. ‘David’s brother.’

  She looks at me a little too long. ‘I don’t know.’

  Suddenly, I need an excuse to be talking about him. ‘I was just thinking they should get him a dog, you know, to help him settle in.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bringing David up.’

  ‘I’m not. It was just an idea, for Bobby.’

  ‘Who you wouldn’t be thinking about if you weren’t thinking about David.’

  Trust Rachel to suss me out. ‘OK. I admit, he’s on my mind a bit. But only because I’m hoping he’s OK.’

  ‘He’s OK.’

  ‘Is he, though? I mean, how’s he getting on over there? Is he OK?’

  She looks at me as if maybe this isn’t a good idea. ‘Yeah, he’s OK.’

  Suddenly, it’s not enough. ‘How OK, though? I mean, has he friends? What’s the school like?’

  She holds my eyes with hers. ‘Do you really want to do this?’

  I close my eyes. Breathe in. ‘No.’ A moment passes. ‘I just sometimes wish I could say sorry. That’s all.’

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘I know. I’d just like him to know. Without it coming from me. You know?’ I look at her. ‘D’you think that if you explained to Mark how genuinely sorry I am, it might get passed on?’

  She eyeballs me. ‘Alex. It’s not an apology unless you make it.’

  I sigh. ‘I know.’ I look out the window, at the sea – choppy, grey and cold. It’s not the one that separates us but it feels like it is.

  ‘Why don’t you write to him? At least if you write you can say what you want to say without getting into a conversation.’

  My stomach tightens. ‘No.’ Because I can’t open things up between us again. And he won’t want me to.

  ‘I’ll text you his address anyway.’

  I sigh. Look out the window.

  ‘Don’t look now,’ Rachel whispers, ‘but there’s a woman over there who keeps staring at you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Across the aisle, two seats back, by the window. Pink tracksuit.’

  Pink tracksuit?

  ‘I said don’t look.’

  ‘Oh my God! She was in the shop when I was working there.’

  The woman looks startled that we’ve sprung her.But gives me a little wave, like she knows me.

  ‘Do you think she fancies you?’ Rachel jokes.

  ‘Rachel! Stop! God! She was buying an engagement ring.’ Thankfully.

  ‘Weird tracksuit.’

  ‘Weird woman.’

  I’m in the screening room with Dad. We’ve just watched The Naked Gun 2½. Dad’s staring at the screen, watching the credits roll. I know he’s missing her. I know there’s nothing I can say.

  ‘I wish I could just say sorry,’ he says. It’s like he’s wished so hard, he’s said it out loud and doesn’t even notice. But then he turns to me. ‘If I could just have her back for a day, there’s so much I’d tell her.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I loved her so much,’ he says, and his voice breaks.

  ‘She knew that, Dad.’

  He looks at me. ‘Yeah – until I walked out on her.’

  I get up, grab the zapper and turn off the DVD. ‘No,’ I say firmly, standing in front of him. ‘She knew, even then. It was me who doubted you. Never her. She stood up for you, every time, told me you loved her, that this was your way. I didn’t believe her. But she was right. She loved you, Dad, right to the end.’ I tell him this to make him feel better. But he starts to cry.

  ‘I didn’t deserve her.’

  I go to him. Sit on the arm of the couch beside his chair.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ I say, so strongly. ‘I know why you ran, why you turned away. I did the same to someone I loved. I couldn’t face him leaving, so I cut him off, pretended he never existed. I totally messed up.’

  He’s looking at me, very still, like he’s afraid to say anything in case I stop talking.

  ‘That’s how I ended up with Louis.’

  ‘Louis?’

  ‘That guy you didn’t want me to see.’

  ‘Tell me about the other guy, the one you loved.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘David.’

  And soon he knows everything. How we got together . . . how annoying he was at first . . . how he taught me to be happy without feeling guilty about Mum . . . how I ended it . . . and how sorry I am for the way I did.

  ‘Tell him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’re sorry. He deserves that much.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘That’s the point! You can! Some of us never get a second chance.’

  And even though I do see that, so clearly, I say, ‘He hates me.’

  ‘And how would an apology make that worse?’

  ‘He might think I want to get back with him.’

  ‘Alex, you’re running ahead of yourself here. I’m just talking about sorry, a
bout being fair to the guy. I think you owe him that.’

  I drop my head. And I know he’s right.

  ‘Good,’ he says, like I’ve agreed. ‘At least something good can come from my mistakes.’

  And I hug him because – whatever about me – he’ll never get to say sorry to Mum.

  I don’t decide to write to David. But I decide to try. Upstairs, I open my laptop. For a long time, I just sit staring at it. Talking myself down. But then I think of Dad not having a choice. I take a deep breath. And type our address. At least I don’t have to think about that. Then I close my eyes, take another deep breath and start to type. I don’t look at the keys. I don’t look at the screen because if I think about what I’m saying, that’ll be it.

  Dear David,

  I’m so sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did, how I treated you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I said what I said so you’d leave – so I wouldn’t give in. I thought it would be easier – for both of us – to end it quickly. I know you said you’d come back and I know you really believed you would. But nothing ever pans out in life, does it? This way, you can get on with your life, not be held back by me. You probably totally get that now. But what I said, what I did, was unforgivable. I don’t want you to forgive me though. I just want you to know that I’m sorry. With all my heart. I owe you so much, David, and I really hope everything’s working out for you in San Diego. I hope it feels like home again. David, I wish you so much luck. In everything you do. Always.

  Love Alex

  I delete the ‘Dear’ and the ‘Love’ before I read over it again. Then I go over it. And over it. Finally, I decide I’m only making it worse so I print it off and sign it before I change my mind. I bring it downstairs. My father has an envelope and stamp ready. I handwrite the address from Rachel’s text.

  ‘I’ll post it,’ he says, like he knows I’ll change my mind. And, faced with a postbox, I probably would.

  ‘I wrote to David,’ I tell Rachel when she gets on the DART.

  She looks cautious. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to.’

  ‘I know, but I needed to say sorry. I owed him that.’