Butterfly Dreams

by A. Meredith Walters

“Good, because as much as I love ya, man, I was not putting my mouth on yours to give you CPR,” Aaron stated, gagging.

  I tried to smile but it wasn’t much of one.

  “I think I’ll go return to my trusty bench,” I said, feeling like an idiot.

  The last few minutes had put the nail in the old Beckett Kingsley’s coffin. It was official. I would never be him again.

  I sat down heavily, struggling not to let depression take over.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and read the text that came in from Corin.

  So can I send you dick pics now that we’re dating?

  I chuckled out loud. How did she know I needed to laugh right now? How did she know I needed to remember my life wasn’t over just because I couldn’t do the things I used to?

  I tapped out a response.

  If you’re sending me dick pics, then we need to have a very serious conversation.

  The guys were yelling on the pitch and I looked up to see Bryan run into the goal, tearing a hole straight through the netting. I shook my head. What a dumbass.

  My phone chimed in my hand and I looked down at a picture of a nerdy-looking guy wearing a nametag that read, you guessed it—Dick. It was followed by another text.

  Get your mind out of the gutter, Beck.

  And just like that I wasn’t thinking about my body that had failed me. I wasn’t thinking about how I couldn’t play soccer or go jogging.

  I was laughing my ass off because of a girl who made me forget about all the bad stuff.

  She made living easy.

  —

  “You’re late,” Zoe said, letting me into my parents’ house.

  “Nice to see you too,” I replied blandly.

  “Mom’s complaining that the sauce is ruined. Ruined, I tell you!” Zoe shook her fist in the air.

  I ruffled Zoe’s hair because I knew she hated it. “She can’t stay mad at me. I’m the kid that almost died.” I batted my eyelashes.

  Zoe dug her finger into my chest. “You can’t use the whole cardiac-arrest thing forever, Beck.”

  “Oh yes I can.” I grinned and she rolled her eyes.

  I walked into the kitchen to find my mom fussing over a saucepan, clicking her tongue.

  “It smells great, Mom,” I said, handing her a bottle of her favorite Chardonnay. Even if I couldn’t drink it, I knew it would go a long way to appeasing my mother for my being late.

  I dropped a kiss on her cheek and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “We were supposed to eat fifteen minutes ago. The cream sauce broke and I’m having to reheat it and hope it doesn’t ruin everything.” My mother was a perfectionist. It could be a little overbearing at times but she always meant well.

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful. Have you ever prepared a bad meal, Mom? I don’t think so.”

  “Oh hush you and pour me a glass of wine.” She shooed me away, trying not to smile. I had always been able to charm my mother. Even growing up and going through my bratty phases, I only needed to hug her and give her my patented Beckett Kingsley smile, and I got out of trouble each and every time. It drove Zoe nuts.

  I went to the cabinet and got out a wine glass, filling it up and handing it to her. “I was at the park with the guys watching their game. Then I had to run by the office to grab some stuff that I need to work on tonight.”

  “You work too hard, Beck. You should take it easy. If you need to take more time off, I’m sure your boss would understand.”

  If my mother had her way, I’d move back home so she could tuck me into bed every night.

  “Yeah, it doesn’t work like that, Mom. Besides I can’t sit around the house watching TV all day. I’d lose my mind.”

  Mom took a long gulp of her wine, her cheeks already flushed. She was a one-glass drunk. It didn’t take her much to get tipsy.

  “I just worry you’re doing too much too soon. It’s only been a little over four months since your heart attack—”

  “Yeah, I know, Mom,” I interrupted her. I didn’t want to talk about my heart. And definitely not with my mother. She became too emotional about it. I couldn’t handle the tears tonight.

  “Beck, I didn’t know you were here,” my dad said, coming into the room. He tried to taste the cream sauce simmering on the stove but Mom pushed him away.

  “It’ll be ready in ten minutes. You’ll just have to wait,” Mom scolded him. When her back was turned, I saw him sneak a cookie from the pantry.

  “So how are things at work? You say they’re crazy. Why is that?” Mom asked. Dad discreetly wiped his mouth with his hand and I gave him a thumbs-up to let him know he was in the clear.

  “Things busy over there, then?” Dad asked, joining in the conversation. Dad was used to corporate life, having worked as a VP of marketing in the city for almost thirty years before retiring last year.

  “That’s an understatement. The company is trying to break into the European market so that means longer hours for us schleps,” I said tiredly.

  “Sounds boring,” Zoe piped up, grabbing a soda from the fridge and popping it open.

  “Your brother has a good job. I hope you are so lucky when you graduate from college,” Mom said primly.

  “Beck seems just thrilled to have such a good job. Aren’t you, bro?” My troublemaker sister raised her eyebrows, putting me on the spot.

  “It is what it is, I guess.”

  “It’s money in your pocket, son. It pays your bills and keeps a roof over your head,” my dad lectured.

  I glared at Zoe for setting him off. He’d be on a tangent about being responsible for hours if we left him to it.

  “I don’t know. I was thinking about getting back into photography,” I said offhandedly.

  “Photography? I didn’t know you still did that,” Mom said, still stirring her sauce.

  “I don’t. Not really. But I really enjoyed it before sports took over my life. I took some pictures the other day. It was fun. It was just something I was thinking about.”

  My dad nodded. “Sounds like a worthwhile hobby. It’s important to have things that keep you busy.”

  “Maybe I could make some money as a freelance photographer. I know the newspaper is always advertising for freelance positions.”

  “Now that sounds awesome,” Zoe enthused.

  “Well, you have other things to consider now. Like health insurance. Freelance work doesn’t provide you the coverage you need for your condition, Beckett,” Dad said. He used my full name. That meant he wanted me to listen and do as I was told.

  “It’s just an idea, Dad. I’m not saying that I’m quitting my job or anything. But I think I need to do something more rewarding than slinging software.”

  “I think it’s a kick-ass idea,” Zoe said.

  “Language, Zoe,” Mom reprimanded. “And Beck, I think you should do something that makes you happy. I used to love your photographs. I remember that one you took of the Ash Street bridge. Didn’t you enter that in a contest?”

  “The young photographers’ showcase,” I told her.

  “That’s right! I remember now! That was your freshman year. You were so proud.”

  “I placed second out of over a hundred entries. It was a pretty big deal at the time.”

  “How did I not know any of this?” Zoe asked indignantly.

  “You were too busy taking the heads off your Barbie dolls.” I ruffled her hair again.

  She thwacked my arm and I winced. My sister had a hell of an arm.

  “So what brought on this brain fart?” Zoe prodded. She took the pile of plates and handed them to me and the two of us went into the dining room to set the table.

  “Well, I was talking about it with someone and it got me thinking—”

  “Someone? What someone got you thinking about an old hobby that your favorite sister didn’t know about?”

  I groaned, “God, Zoe, you pick up on the most insignificant details.”

  Sh
e grinned. “Call it a gift. Now spill. Who’s the someone?”

  “Her name’s Corin, all right. Now fucking drop it,” I warned.

  “Ohh, it’s a girl someone!” she squealed.

  “I’ve never met a dude named Corin,” I pointed out.

  “Is she a friend? How do you know her? Why were you talking about photography? How did she even know about it?”

  I finished laying out the silverware and moved the floral centerpiece from the table. “Are you going to keep asking me questions or can I answer a few?”

  “Please, answer.”

  “What are you answering?” Mom asked, coming in with a dish of pasta. My dad followed her with a plate of fresh bread and a bowl of broccoli.

  “Beck’s been hanging out with a girl named Corin.”

  “Oh really? Who’s she?” my dad asked, setting the dishes in the center of the table and taking his seat.

  The rest of us followed suit and started serving ourselves.

  “She’s just someone I know. We’ve gone out a couple of times,” I said nonchalantly. I had planned to tell my parents about Corin. I wanted them to know about her. I just didn’t want Zoe grilling me with a thousand intrusive questions.

  “That seems pretty soon after breaking up with Sierra, don’t you think?” my mother asked.

  “Oh, is she a rebound?” Zoe jumped in.

  “No, she is definitely not a rebound. Things had been over with Sierra for a long time.”

  “That’s no reason to dive into something with someone new, Beck. You should be concentrating on you and your health. Not starting a relationship,” Mom scolded gently, and I sighed.

  “I’m not diving into anything. She was a friend. Now we’re sort of dating—”

  “How do you sort of date? Is that like being sort of pregnant?” Zoe asked, shoving a forkful of pasta into her mouth.

  “Is it serious?” Mom pried, and I regretted letting Zoe bring up the subject at all.

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” I admitted.

  It was definitely serious. In my heart it couldn’t be more serious. But I didn’t want to share that with my nosy family.

  “How long have you been dating?” Mom asked, putting her inquisitor hat on. No one could dig out information like my mother. She was relentless.

  “Not long. A week or so,” I mumbled, eating quickly, hoping that if I kept my mouth full, I wouldn’t have to answer their questions.

  “A little over a week and you’re already serious about her? Damn, she must have a golden hooha!” Zoe exclaimed.

  “Zoe, seriously, stop talking like you’re with your friends. That’s not the sort of thing you should say in front of your parents,” Mom said tiredly.

  Zoe ignored her completely. “Well, if you’re so into this chick, that means we have to meet her, of course. I have to make sure she’s not another Sierra. Because I won’t let you go down that road of crazy again,” she announced, waving her fork in the air.

  “She’s nothing like Sierra, no worries there.” I was getting a headache.

  “Your sister’s right though, you should bring her over for dinner. We’d like to meet her. What did you say her name was again?” Dad asked.

  “Corin. Corin Thompson.”

  “And what does Corin do?” Mom sniffed. She could be very judgmental. She had never warmed to Sierra, particularly after my ex’s less-than-supportive behavior after my cardiac arrest. And she had been less than pleased with Sierra’s lack of career aspirations.

  “She runs her own business. She owns Razzle Dazzle, the pottery studio downtown.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s nice,” Mom said, looking grudgingly impressed.

  “Bring her over next week, Beck. I’ll come home from school. Play the protective sister bit. I’ll get the skinny on your new woman.”

  “You don’t need to be protective where Corin’s concerned. She’s…well…she’s sort of amazing.”

  Zoe blinked a few times, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Damn, you’ve got it bad. I have to meet her.”

  I let out a long, tortured breath, knowing there was no point in making an excuse. They’d wear me down eventually.

  “Fine. We’ll come next Wednesday after work. Nothing special. Corin’s a meat and potatoes kind of girl. You don’t need to go all out. She’ll be happy with whatever you make,” I told my mom.

  “What about a pot roast. Will she eat that?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah. A pot roast would be great, Mom.”

  Mom and her pot roasts…

  Dad had lost interest in the conversation and was reading the news on his phone. Zoe was texting.

  Maybe I should have asked Corin before I had agreed to a meet and greet with the family.

  But it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.

  Right?

  Chapter 16

  Corin

  Things with Beckett were getting pretty serious.

  More serious than I had ever intended for them to get.

  He had infiltrated my life and dug in deep.

  I tried not to care about him.

  It was like trying to stop a nuclear bomb from melting your face off.

  Impossible.

  It worried me. This closeness between us. The connection. While I had always craved it, it was overwhelming. It scared me.

  To care so much so fast.

  Because I wasn’t in a position to connect, to care about anyone.

  Not when I knew that I wouldn’t be around long enough to experience it fully.

  That was reinforced when I woke up the morning of Geoffery’s service in pain. I rolled into a fetal position, not wanting to get out of bed.

  Mr. Bingley’s furry body was pressed against my face and I started sneezing, making the aching worse.

  “Get away, Mr. Bingley,” I moaned, pushing him off the bed.

  With a twitch of his tail—his version of fuck you—he sauntered off, not caring in the least about my health crisis.

  My lymph nodes felt swollen. I pushed and prodded my armpits and the sides of my neck. Yep, they were definitely swollen.

  That could be all manner of illnesses.

  My body was most likely fighting off something very serious. It all made sense. Just when I was finding some modicum of happiness, it would be snatched away.

  Shakespeare could have written my life. I was a walking, talking tragedy.

  Geoffery’s memorial service was today. I didn’t want to go. I knew it would be bad for me. The last funeral I had attended had been my father’s.

  I had sat in the front row with my sister, staring at his casket, wishing I could crawl into it with him.

  Tamsin had cried but I couldn’t. My tears were stuck behind dry, burning eyes. They wouldn’t fall. No matter how much I wanted them to.

  I had stopped crying weeks before. When I realized they didn’t solve anything. When I figured out shedding them was useless.

  My father looked so small in the hospital bed. Shrunken. Like he was disappearing into the bedsheets. His skin appeared stretched over his bones, and I could see the sharp outline of his rib bones underneath his shirt.

  The steady drone of the machines monitoring his heart, his vital signs, was driving me crazy.

  Dad wasn’t conscious much anymore. He slept most of the time. His doctors said he had only days left. That I needed to start preparing myself.

  I didn’t want to prepare myself.

  I didn’t want to live in a world that my father wasn’t a part of.

  He had been fighting for so long that I had convinced myself he’d defeat the disease that was eating him from the inside out.

  It had become so much a part of our every day that it had become normal. Natural.

  Disease. Death. Those were my constants.

  I gripped my dad’s hand. It was so cold.

  So, so cold.

  I was crying. Silent tears that fell nowhere.

  I didn’t cry for my dad who was dying.

  I didn’t cry f
or my mother who was already dead.

  I cried for me.

  Because I was the one who would be left behind.

  I cried because I hated my selfishness. That in these final hours of my father’s life, all I could think was what if that happened to me?

  And I knew, without a doubt, I couldn’t go through this again. I couldn’t stand to lose someone I loved ever again.

  Even worse, I never wanted someone to watch me fade away.

  There were some things worse than death.

  This slow deterioration was it. This limbo.

  It was a living death.

  My phone rang from the bedside table but I didn’t bother to look to see who it was. I knew it was Beckett.

  He had called twice already.

  I should answer it.

  But I couldn’t. I was locked in this sick paranoia of death and dying. It was never ending.

  I wanted it to stop but all I could do was shake.

  My throat was dry and I wanted something to drink. But it hurt to move.

  My chest felt tight and the fluttering in my belly was making me sick.

  What was wrong with me?

  I just wanted to know!

  “I hope you live a long, happy life, Cor.” My mother’s words were meant to be reassuring. But sitting with her in the dismal hospital room, it sounded more like the desperate wish of a dying woman.

  “What if I don’t?” I asked, watching as a nurse came in to take some blood from my mother’s arm.

  “Don’t say that,” she chided, her voice so weak I could barely hear her.

  “You’re dying. You won’t ever know what I do.” I was fourteen and really pissed off. I hated my mother for waxing on and on about this great, beautiful life she was convinced I’d have.

  I didn’t want her passing on mother wisdom in frantic clumps because she knew this was the only chance she’d have.

  I didn’t want her to look at me sadly, seeing in her mind the thousands of moments she’d miss.

  I wanted her to stop crying when she thought no one was listening.

  My heart hurt and I just wanted it to be over.

  What kind of horrible monster did that make me?

  The worst kind.

  The most selfish kind.

  “You’re right, Corin, I’m dying. I won’t get to see the woman you will become, but I know that you will make the most of your life. That you will live it to the fullest. Because you won’t just be doing it for you. You’ll be doing it for me.”