Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  “Stepmother already,” he observed coolly, then lowered his voice. “How convenient for Heavenly Homo.”

  “Shut up,” I snapped, feeling unusually irritable with him.

  “Just be careful, all right?” he cautioned. “Michael’s a nice lad, I’ll grant you that, but there’s a reason his type’s dangerous.”

  He was standing inside my office, so I plopped my skyscraper of scripts onto the chair and closed my office door. I really do need to get a Kindle. “Trevor, I appreciate you looking after me, really I do, but he’s a good, decent guy.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, the muscles flexing beneath his cotton T-shirt. “Always the most dangerous type, aren’t they?” he said. “Those decent-seeming ones.”

  “More dangerous than the naughty celebrity types?” I was referring to both our romantic histories, but he clearly mistook my remark as a personal jab.

  “Touché, my dear,” he said in a soft voice, and opened my door without another word.

  “Trevor?” I called out, following him to his desk. “I was talking about both of us, silly. I’m the one who’s spent the past two weeks avoiding Jake calls.”

  “I’m aware of that,” he said, grabbing the phone as it rang from Ed Bardock’s office. “Go. Have fun.” Making a shooing motion with his hand, he urged me reluctantly out the door, and that’s when I noticed his latest screensaver brilliance: Don’t mind me, I just flirt here.

  Maybe that’s a sign he’s ready to move on past Julian, I thought fleetingly, leaving the bungalow. Or maybe it’s a sign that he’s ready to move on from this job as my creative sidekick.

  ***

  Andrea sits on the edge of the pool by the steps, dangling her feet in the chilly water. It’s still cool this early in the summer, with the ancient palms that line the backyard shading the water year-round, and Mona doesn’t like to spend the money to heat her pool, either, especially since she never uses it herself.

  So Andrea doesn’t look entirely out of place wearing her spring suit, a short-sleeved, short-legged version of a wetsuit, which Michael whispered to me was the only way he’d gotten her to agree to come swimming today. Otherwise, she was too self-conscious about her scar—ironically enough. Sitting beside me now, splashing her toes around in the water, she looks the part of a true surfer girl in her sleek black suit, auburn hair pulled into a loose ponytail.

  Noticing the O’Neill logo on her sleeve, I remark, “How long have you been surfing?” It’s important to her, I know, as much because she loves the sport as because she loved surfing with her dead father. Michael’s clued me in to that much.

  At first I think she might not answer me as she stares at her feet, bobbing them up and down in the water like a pair of buoys. Then she says, “My daddy was a great surfer.”

  “I know, I heard.”

  “He won contests and stuff. His whole life.” She looks up at me, intent. “Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, and he taught me how. He even let me ride on his long board with him sometimes. Except that always scared Michael a lot, when we did that.” She pauses, revisiting some private memory, then adds with a dimpled smile, “But Daddy just told him not to worry so much.”

  “Was it dangerous?” It perplexes me that Alex would have done anything to intentionally place Andrea in harm’s way.

  “No, just fun,” she says, serious again. “We only did it in the shallow waves.”

  “Then why did it scare Michael?”

  She shrugs matter-of-factly. “’Cause Daddy’s always worrying about stuff like that.” I thought she’d just said Alex was the one who took her out on his board—not Michael—and am about to remark on that, but before I do, she catches her misstep. “Michael,” she amends firmly. “Michael’s always worrying about all kinds of stuff.”

  “About you,” I add, and after a moment she nods, staring at the lapping waves of pool water.

  “Yeah, especially since…” She wraps her pale arms around herself in a hug, shivering, not finishing her thought.

  “Especially since the accident,” I supply, knowing I may be pushing too hard. She doesn’t answer, but leans forward, trailing her fingers through the water in a raking motion, leaving my question unanswered.

  “Daddy liked to touch the waves when he rode. He’d just reach out and touch. Kinda like this.” She combs her fingertips across the chlorinated surface, looking back over her shoulder to make sure I see, adding, “I always thought that’d be really cool. To touch my wave.”

  “You haven’t?”

  She chews on a fingernail. “I can’t ride the really big ones yet.”

  “Maybe you will. One day.”

  She shrugs, utterly indifferent all of a sudden. “Yeah, whatever.” She slides off the concrete lip of the pool, dropping into three feet of water, spring suit still on. Slowly, I begin unbuttoning my Polo men’s shirt, the one I’m using as a poolside cover-up. I’m deliberate and slow, slipping each button through the hole, hoping she’ll turn and see. See what I look like in a one-piece; that even this much material can’t hide all my scars. It’s why I invited her—without really explaining my plan to Michael, without telling him how it was I thought I might get through to her today.

  The starched men’s shirt falls open, slipping off my shoulders, and at that instant Andrea turns in the water to stare up at me.

  And she sees. She definitely sees, and I see the way she nearly gawks at the long scar peeking out of the top of my suit. I know that it looks like I had open-heart surgery or something dramatic like that. Then, aware that she’s staring, she drops her head.

  “You can look,” I encourage, popping into the pool like a heavy stone beside her. The water splashes a bit, circling us both in radiating waves, and she bends low until her ponytail floats on the surface.

  She blows bubbles, then stops. “Rebecca, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.” I bend my knees until I’m looking right at her, eye-level, meeting those clear blue eyes with all the reassurance I can muster. “Fire away.”

  Her auburn eyebrows draw together tight, freckled nose wrinkling. “What happened to you? How come you have all those scars?”

  I can only wonder how to translate such a raw act of irrational violence into terms that an eight-year-old can process. I’m wrestling with that when what has to be my mother’s euphemistic gene kicks in, and I hear myself say, “I had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” Andrea’s small mouth purses into a hard, desperate line, and sudden blotches of color stain her face.

  “Sweetie, it wasn’t like what happened to you.”

  Her face falls. “Oh.”

  “But I do understand,” I hasten to explain, brushing a damp lock of red hair off her cheek. She jerks away, swimming toward the steps fast, and I nearly beg, “Andrea, please listen. You can talk to me, sweetheart.”

  She shakes her head, climbing the steps. “You just said. It wasn’t the same kind of accident.”

  “Andrea, I almost died.” Now this gets her complete, earnest attention, and slowly she pirouettes on the steps until she’s facing me. “I spent an entire month in the hospital. Getting better.”

  She runs her tongue over her upper lip, just watching me, and I can tell she’s making quick mental calculations. Deciding if she can trust me with her own secrets or not. “How?” she asks, clutching the metal railing as if her life depends on it.

  “How did I almost die?”

  “No, no,” she says hurriedly. “How come you didn’t?”

  And this is the answer I’ve contemplated for three years running. All I know is to give the best one I’ve come up with in all that time. “Because I wasn’t supposed to die yet.”

  She nods knowingly, and I understand that she’s considered these same thoughts on her own time. “But what if somebody else died, and they weren’t supposed to either?”

  “Like your daddy?” I supply tentatively, afraid I’ll
send her scurrying away for good just when we’re making serious progress. I swim closer, until I’m at the foot of the steps.

  “Did Michael make you do this? You know, talk to me and all,” she explains with a tired sigh. “’Cause you don’t have to.”

  “Andrea, sweetheart, I’m not doing this because of Michael. All I’m trying to say is that I understand.”

  Tears brim within her eyes, and she whispers, “Nobody else does.”

  “Well, I do.”

  She nods, saying in a small voice, “I think maybe I’m the one who should’ve died.”

  “Oh, sweetie, no. No, that’s not true.” She plops onto the top step, planting her chin in the palm of her hand thoughtfully, avoiding me, but I press her. “What even makes you think that?”

  “Want to see my scar?” she murmurs, looking up at me with doleful eyes. From Michael, I know this is the touchstone, the scar that she won’t show anyone; what I say next is critical to her knowing she can confide in me.

  It’s as if God whispers right in my ear, offering a thought. “How about I show you my scars,” I offer resolutely, “and then you show me yours? That sound like a plan?”

  She stares at my chest, at what she can see, blinking, considering, then finally nods in acquiescence. I step closer, holding the railing until I stand just in front of her. Cautiously, I gaze up at Mona’s windows, but they’re dark, and I don’t care what she sees anyway. Peeling down the top of my suit, until only my breasts remain concealed by fabric, I reveal the longest scar of all, like a giant arrow leading right to my heart, then the second one that resides beside it. A visible reminder of my punctured left lung, the wound that caused my asthma and left me with a host of other problems, even if it’s the smaller of the two.

  Andrea tilts her head sideways, just looking, then reaches out a gentle, cautious finger to touch the big one, and asks what she did on that very first day: “Do they hurt?”

  “Sometimes, yes. And they itch,” I confess with a laugh. “A lot. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “Yeah, kinda,” she agrees, dropping her hand away, but I catch it in my own, so that she sees the long scar through the middle of my palm. She stares at it with a mix of wonder and surprise, and asks in her breathy voice, “Does that one itch, too?”

  “It hurts sometimes. And it itches, too,” I say. “They all do. They’re still healing,” I explain. “Doesn’t yours itch?”

  “Nope. Mine just feels like…” She hesitates, examining my palm seriously. “Like nothing. Mine feels like nothing.”

  I’m about to ask her what she means when there’s the rumbling sound of Michael’s Chevy on the driveway. She glances toward his advancing truck, almost panicked, and then back at me as if she’s reaching some critical decision.

  “It’s your dad,” I explain, although she can certainly see his silver truck herself.

  She nods, standing to her feet. And then with all the gracefulness of a girl raised in water, she dives off the steps, arcing into the placid surface in one fluid line.

  Gone, into the depths, completely away from me.

  Chapter Fourteen: Michael

  I’ve got to figure out a way to broach the Laurel topic with Rebecca, and I’ll admit that it scares the crap out of me. Not sure why, except my relationship with Laurel’s so strange and complex, she often feels like a quasi-lover to me. So telling Rebecca about her, well it’s like I’m revealing that there’s another woman in my life, one I’ve kept secret up until now. Feels like I’m sharing private things that belong to just Alex and me, too. I’m not sure I’m ready to let anyone else in on all that just yet, not even Rebecca.

  But with one week left until the visit, I’ve got to come clean, and tonight’s as good a time as any. Andie’s asleep in Rebecca’s room, on her bed, and I’m pacing around her small garage apartment trying to gather my nerve, feeling edgy and weird. She already knows me, though, and while she’s cooking in the kitchen, she keeps looking my way, ’cause she realizes something’s off. I’m fiddling with some of her acting awards and her pile of scripts perched on the counter. Allie always said I’m the world’s worst fiddler when I’m nervous, and that’s what I’m doing tonight.

  “So what’s going on, Michael?” she asks, leaning over a vegetable dish and tasting it. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say, shoving both hands into my jean pockets.

  “Humph.” She goes back to cooking, reaching for a sip of her white wine.

  “What?” It comes out sounding more indignant and loud than I mean, and she looks a little shocked, so I explain, “Look, yeah, I’m in a crap mood, okay?”

  But I don’t know her well enough yet for this kind of display, and she doesn’t deserve it either. I step close saying, “I’m sorry, Rebecca.” I slip my hands around her waist, drawing her back against me. She smells like suntan lotion and chlorine as I bend to kiss the top of her head. God, I want her; that hasn’t stopped for a single minute in the past weeks. In fact, it’s getting outrageous how much I’m thinking about making love to her. That is, when I’m not thinking guilty thoughts toward Alex about that fact.

  “It really is okay,” she assures me, that sexy southern accent shading her words, as she leans back into me. “I’m just wondering what’s going on.”

  “I want to make love to you,” I blurt, even though it’s the smallest part of what’s got me so anxious tonight. I feel her tense within my arms; hear her suck in a sudden breath. “I mean, I don’t want to rush things, Becca, but I’m going crazy here.”

  “Crazy, huh?” She laughs nervously, slipping away from me, and I’m left standing there in her kitchen, feeling pretty damned stupid, as she works on our meal without ever looking back at me.

  Never had this problem with Alex. Guys just move on a much faster timetable—straight to bed, that’s the guy way. Hell, the one time in my life when things felt crystal-clear in the sex department was with Alex, ironically enough. No secret codes, no hidden messages, just two guys dying to do it.

  “Is that all you have to say?” I demand of her. “About me wanting to make love to you?”

  “Is that the real problem?” she asks, turning to face me. I close my eyes, and ache to tell her everything. About Laurel and how much she holds over me. How scared I am to see her again, after all this time.

  I blow out a breath, and instead ask, “How’d it go with Andrea?” Funny, but she smiles up at me, that quirky half-smile of hers that I love so much, and doesn’t look angry in the least.

  “Michael Warner, what am I going to do with you?” she reflects tenderly, shaking her head.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “So was mine,” she observes, stepping close, and I notice that she’s barefoot with her toenails painted a sexy hot pink. That one simple detail is enough to arouse me. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she urges, slipping her hand into mine, ignoring my cranky mood. “Other than being horny, that is.” Even I have to laugh at that.

  I shrug apologetically. “It’s the male dilemma.”

  “The female, too.”

  “Yeah? Well, we ever gonna do it, Rebecca? Or just think about it all the time?” Heat sparks in her green eyes, but then she drops her head, self-conscious, wavy blonde hair falling across her face. “’Cause right now, I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.”

  “It will happen.” She stares at her toes, away from me, voice all quiet and unreadable.

  “Rebecca, you’re sexy as hell, I can’t help that.” She touches her face, brushing her hand over her scars. “Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?”

  She looks up again, green eyes shining. “Michael, I’ve slept with exactly two people in my life. That’s it, okay? It’s not that there’s a problem with you, it’s just—” She shakes her head, walking away from me, toward the sink.

  I follow after her. “Just what, Rebecca?”

  She spins to face me, clutching a hand over her heart. “You don’t know what you’re dealing w
ith here, okay? That’s all.”

  “What I’m dealing with? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I have no idea where all this blustery anger’s coming from, but I don’t know how to stop it, either.

  “I can’t talk about this right now,” she says, tension visible in her features, her blonde eyebrows lifting defiantly. “I just can’t.”

  “You asked me what was wrong.”

  “And it’s sex?” she cries, placing a palm over her chest. “That’s what you’re telling me is wrong with you tonight? That it’s because we aren’t having sex yet?”

  “Can you keep your voice down?” I nod toward her bedroom irritably. “I don’t want Andrea to hear this.”

  “Fine,” she says, placing her back to me again.

  I wander toward her fridge and open it, searching for a beer. She’s stocked it with Heineken just for me. Oh, I’m a first-class prick all right.

  “So it is about sex,” she asserts, much more quietly.

  “That’s an issue, but not the real one.”

  “Okay, then tell me.”

  I hesitate a moment, pacing the length of her kitchen. “It’s Laurel Richardson,” I say, feeling like I’ve just dropped a heavy pack to the floor. “Al’s sister. His twin sister.”

  “Okay,” she encourages, gentle with me, far more gentle than I deserve. “What about her?” I turn back to face her, and she’s patiently waiting, nodding her head in support.

  “She’s coming to stay with us. Next week.” I stare past her, out the window over her sink, because I just can’t deal with looking into her kind green eyes. “There’s a whole lot of history there, that’s all. Bad shit, and I’m not sure I can deal with it, but I don’t have much choice.”

  “Well, Michael.” She pauses, biting her lip, considering. “The good thing is that at least you don’t have to deal with it all alone. You’ve got me.”

  ***

  We’re back on the sofa again, hers this time. Mine, hers, it doesn’t matter; all I want to know is when we’ll finally get down to it. When I’ll be deep inside her, making love like that for the first time in years—and to her for the first time in my life. Yeah, Queer Boy is undeniably gung-ho about his return to the straight and narrow.