Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  “They call it a gathering,” I explain, rubbing my scarred palm, which aches some today for no apparent reason. “For About The House fans. There’s an auction, a dinner, a bunch of socializing. I’ll have to sign pictures and mix. That kind of thing.”

  “Jake’ll be there?” The golden brown eyes seem not threatened, but rather intensely possessive.

  “He doesn’t miss a moment to grandstand.” I almost tell him about the phone call, but something makes me keep quiet about that fact.

  “I might have to beat his face in,” he grouses, that jealous streak flashing hot. “Good chance for me to do that. At this event.” He folds his arms over his chest resolutely, tipping his chin upward with a defiant slant. I’m glad my name isn’t Jake Slater right at the moment.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t.”

  “You’re right, I wouldn’t.” He grins, shifting his weight. “But I could definitely protect you from him. So count me in.”

  Relief washes over me, knowing I’ll have Michael with me, because although I didn’t realize it, I’d felt on edge about the gathering until this moment. Not just about Jake, but all those potential Bens that could be there, waiting, without me knowing it.

  “Good,” I sigh aloud, “because I definitely need you with me.” As soon as the word “need” passes my lips, I regret it—regret seeming clingy. Regret trying to put too much onto our relationship. Regret defining him into the role of my protector, which seems too serious a step, despite how intense we’re becoming. “Not need, exactly,” I stammer, trying to retract my verbal misfire, “but you know. It would be cool, to have you there. I mean, Jake’s such a jerk, and he’s short, too. Did you know that? Well, he’s not exactly short, but he’s way shorter than you, so no, I don’t need—”

  A slow, sexy smile spreads across Michael’s face, as he says, “Baby.”

  “I’d love to have you come, that’s all,” I continue chattering, looking toward his friends again.

  Michael just keeps smiling. “Of course.”

  “Cat will probably go, so that will be fun,” I continue. “We can laugh together, I mean—”

  He takes me by the shoulders, staring hard into my eyes. “Becca, I love it,” he insists warmly. “I’ll go. I can’t wait.”

  I’m doing it again, the neurotic rambling thing that only seems to emerge around Michael Warner. For whatever reason, he gets me so worked up that the superfluous word problem simply unleashes upon him. “Just tell me to shut up next time,” I caution him, laughing. He touches my hand, reassuring me in a brief, explosive moment of his skin brushing against mine that makes all my nervousness wash away.

  “I wanted to thank you,” he says, voice becoming quiet. “For the other night.” The walkie-talkie holstered on his hip erupts in a crackle of communication. He listens, and with a flick of his wrist, silences the noise, then continues, “You really helped me about…well, everything.”

  Looking up into his eyes, I say, “I’m glad I could help.”

  “Laurel really liked you. I could tell,” he says. “She’s a little shy, you know. Real shy, actually, but she warmed right up to you.”

  “How’s it been going? With her?”

  “Better since you worked your magic,” he replies. “I took yesterday off, we went out together, all three of us, biking and stuff. She goes home tomorrow.”

  “You’re feeling better.”

  “I’ve been angry a long time, Rebecca,” he answers, leading me out the doorway onto the sunny sidewalk. Away from his co-workers, so he can talk openly. Once we’re in the bright sunlight, standing in the walkway that runs the length of the soundstage front, he continues, “Been carrying all that crap around inside of me. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling bitter toward her. Toward—” he pauses, adjusting his tool belt, “—a lot of people.” Alex. He means Alex, and I understand that it’s hard to talk about that.

  “It was really easy to see how much she loves you, Michael,” I tell him, thinking of the look on her face the other night when she realized he’d left the house. Her realization that she’d overstepped, trying to help with the doll.

  “But it’s still hard to trust,” he admits. “I can’t help that. It’s just true.”

  “Of course it is.”

  His demeanor brightens. “So, hey, Casey’s stoked that you want to learn to surf,” he announces, his dark eyebrows hitching upward in excitement. “He’s told me to pick out a board for you.”

  “Casey,” I repeat, wondering how Casey got involved in our big surfing plan.

  “Yeah, he teaches loads of people,” he explains. “Me included, way more than Al ever did.” My stomach knots nervously, thinking of Casey and his disapproval of me, imagining having to learn anything from him, especially anything scary. “So, I’m bringing a long board for you, next weekend,” Michael continues. “Okay?”

  Even though I don’t feel it inside, I smile and tell him, “That sounds fine.” I’m thinking of everything that we have planned for next weekend in Malibu, and my anxiety intensifies when Michael adds softly, “We’re still on, right? For next weekend?” He searches my face, and I know he sure as heck doesn’t mean about the surfing. He means Malibu; our first time together, like I promised the other night.

  “Still on,” I assure him, with a thin smile.

  “Good, because I’ve kinda been thinking about that a lot,” he says, squeezing my hand tight.

  I’m smiling on the outside, but thoroughly freaking out on the inside. There’s no positive spin for this, the truth about my naked body, all those hideous scars. Right now, hunky Michael Warner is grinning at me, a shy blush creeping into his face, and he’s clueless. He has absolutely no idea that his girlfriend’s body doesn’t look sexy or appealing once her clothes are stripped away. He has no idea that my naked body is just plain dreadful, with the searing scars across my chest and abdomen.

  My only hope is that we can make love in the pitch-black dark. Or that someone can rush in a body double at that critical moment. I mean, where’s Hollywood when you really need it?

  Chapter Twenty: Michael

  Rebecca stands on the curb in front of my house, laughing with Marti, the setting sun catching highlights of honey gold in her hair. She’s worn it loose this last night of Laurel’s visit, and it seems richer than usual, wavier and thicker, as it cascades across her shoulders. In fact, everything about her appearance seems more dramatic tonight. Then again, maybe that’s only my feelings for her that I’m keying in on.

  “I’m thinking that dress was designed by a straight guy,” Casey observes, studying her thoughtfully as he takes a swig of his beer. She’s just arrived and hasn’t spotted us yet, sitting here on the front steps tucked back behind two tall flowering planters.

  “What makes you say that?” Although I know exactly what that aquamarine sundress is doing to me. All vintage and Melrose-looking, it’s a damned sexy wisp of a thing. Barely a dress at all, I’m telling you.

  “Well,” he answers, pushing his mirrored sunglasses low down the bridge of his nose so he can see better, “’cause if I had a straight bone in my body, then that wouldn’t be the only bone in my body. That’s all I’m saying.”

  I elbow him in the ribs and tell him to shut up, though my eyes never leave Rebecca.

  “I’m serious,” he says, still studying her appreciatively in that strappy dress, cut well above her knees, “she’s hot, Mike.”

  Planting my chin in my hand, I sigh. “Welcome to my world.”

  “What was she wearing that night at the ballgame?” he asks, considering. I could easily answer: khaki pants, with a clingy little T-shirt that emphasized her well-developed biceps. I’m lost in that thought, rubbing my chin, when Casey bursts into laughter beside me. I turn to him, surprised. “Ah, man,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head in apparent amazement.

  “Something funny, Case?” I’m thinking he’s going to make a disparaging comment, something cutting about me turning into Straight Guy.

&nb
sp; “You’ve got the look, that’s all,” he explains, studying my face closely. “I don’t believe it, but you do.” He gives me an affectionate slap on the knee. “Gotta hand it to the girl. She obviously does quick work.”

  “I have no idea what in hell you even mean.” I feel my face flame hot at his remark.

  “Just that last time around,” he says, “it took about a year for you to get The Look. The one you had when you and Alex got together.” He shakes his head again, chuckling in appreciation, as Rebecca turns our way. He lifts his hand, greeting her with friendly vigor. “Hell yeah she’s hot,” he concedes in a low voice. “If she’s given you that look.”

  Hot, he thinks? And he doesn’t even know the half of what she does to me.

  But maybe Casey does get what Rebecca’s all about. He coaxed her into joining him there on the front step and proceeded to be a nice guy for a while; unbelievably, considering what a grump he can be, he’s actually capable of charming the pants off anyone when he tries. And I do know he’s trying with her, if only because of me.

  Right now, he’s actually cornered her back in Al’s surfboard room, offering to help fix her up with the right board for next weekend, talking rocker and tail kick, and a bunch of crap she doesn’t understand. Poor Rebecca, she looks anxious as he leads the way to the back of the house, but when you get Casey Porter on surfboards, it’s hard to shut him up. I trail behind them, trying to give an appropriate amount of space, and I spy Laurel in the guest room, packing her suitcase.

  I lean in through the doorway, holding onto the frame. “Packing up?”

  She gives me a quiet smile. “Almost done.”

  I’m going to miss the familiarity in those blue eyes, the chance to stare into them like I’ve done for the past four days. I walk into the bedroom, and she digs inside her suitcase, retrieving something.

  “I’m wondering what to do about this.” She extends a flat stone toward me, the one Andrea found on our bike ride. “We were going to paint it,” she reminds me, “but maybe you’ll help her?” The stone rests in her open palm, an invitation to me—an opportunity for us to parent our child together, for once.

  “Yeah, Laurel,” I agree, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’d like to paint that with her. What kind of stuff you think we need?”

  “Oh, you have it,” she replies. “It’s there, in the living room. I brought her some paints, you know. A whole set.”

  I can’t help smiling, thinking of how talented our daughter is. “She really loves art.”

  “I know,” she agrees, “and she’s really gifted already.”

  “I’m not so good with that stuff, you know,” I admit reluctantly. “Alex could sit with her for hours and create all these intricate things, but mine always come out like big globs.”

  Laurel takes my hand, and delicately slides the rock from her palm to my own, closing my fingers around it. “Michael, you are very exceptional. In many ways.”

  “I know enough to appreciate your work, Laurel,” I say, and from the surfboard room I hear Casey laughing with Rebecca. Sounds like Marti’s in there, too. That’s got to be a good sign that they’re all yukking it up together.

  I know it’s now or never—the things I want to tell Laurel, just us. We won’t be alone like this again before she goes; first thing tomorrow, Andie will attach to her like a barnacle until we’ve deposited her curbside at the airport. So I close the bedroom door, turning to face her.

  “Let’s talk a minute,” I say, and she nods, sitting down on the bed. Her bare feet dangle over the edge, and unlike Rebecca, I notice that she doesn’t paint her toenails. She’s all natural, including the shell ankle bracelet she’s wearing, something woven and handmade.

  “I wanted to thank you, again,” I begin, tentative as I close the distance separating us, “for that painting of Alex.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “But what you said about it speaking to me?” Her clear eyes narrow, though she says nothing. “I don’t think I get what you mean.”

  “Maybe it’s something you need to think about,” she suggests softly. “Some more. Maybe?”

  “No, Laurel see, I want to know what you meant by that. How can a painting sing?” Despite myself, I feel my anger rising. “Got enough shit I’m always thinking about.” All the mysteries; all the thoughts about where Alex went, where he might not be.

  Laurel stares at her hands, toying with her charm bracelet. She rubs the cross between her thumb and forefinger, quiet.

  I think of Andrea and her dreams. “Why’d you paint him on the beach?” I press, and she only smiles. One of those inside-out kind of Laurel smiles that begin somewhere deep inside of her.

  “Michael, art comes from the soul of the creator,” she explains quietly, “and reaches out to touch your soul. That’s what art does.”

  I’m still perplexed by her mystery. “You telling me that Allie will talk to me?” I demand, stepping closer. “Is that it?”

  She only continues smiling, a warm, tender expression—not closed off to me, like a few days ago.

  “Michael, I’m going to pray that you hear what you’re supposed to hear.”

  “Pray.” I snort at that one. God seems to have me trapped by a posse of believers. “Sure, Laurel, you pray about that. Knock your socks off.” My words come out bitter, and that’s not really what I wanted, so I add, “I appreciate all the help I can get, you know.”

  “We all need help, Michael,” she agrees, swinging her bare feet as they dangle off the side of the bed. Her eyes never leave me, serious and intense, the thick black lashes opening wide around the quiet blue. Alex had a way of watching me like that when he was trying to talk to me about important stuff. It always made me squirm, and I feel pegged in the exact same way now by her; just change those lashes to a dusty red, and it could be my lover looking right through me.

  So I wrestle the conversation in a different direction, a more comfortable one. “Hard to believe it’s already time for you to go.” I turn away from her, walk toward the closet and thumb through his clothes. My hand lingers on his suede jacket.

  “It’s been a quick few days,” she agrees, a melancholy sound that she can’t hide filling her voice.

  “So maybe we’ll do this again, huh?” I suggest, turning toward her hesitantly. “Not wait so long.”

  A glorious smile spreads across her face: relief, joy, it’s all there. “I’d love that, Michael,” she agrees, giving her long hair a casual toss.

  “Maybe next time you could bring Bruce?” Bruce is her live-in boyfriend of about ten years.

  She laughs. “Well, now that I’m not so sure about.”

  “Is Bruce still struggling with commitment, Laurel?” I tease.

  “No, not really. I just like…spending time with you.” That old feeling falls over me—the familiar one where she’s like my secret lover or something. Just ’cause we share Andie between us. “Laurel,” I stare down at the floor, “I’m still not over what you did.”

  “I know that.”

  “I think it’s going to take some time,” I say, turning back to the closet again. The clothes seem like an accusation, hanging there, a disembodied part of Alex’s life still left on planet Earth.

  “I understand,” she answers quietly from behind me.

  Reaching for his faded suede duster, I gather it within my hands and pull it off the hanger to hold it against my chest. One last time, I inhale the scent, try and find him in there, lost somewhere in the clouds of memory.

  Then I turn, and extend it toward his sister. “Here, Laurel,” I say, not quite meeting her surprised gaze. “You should have this.”

  “Michael?” She shakes her head, adamant. “No, it’s yours.” His shirts I can wear, his watch. His ring. Even his damned boxers. But not this suede jacket that he wore so often and long.

  “I know it’s big, but you’d use it, wouldn’t you?” I ask, still extending it toward her like an ungainly appendage. “In the winter? Maybe you c
ould even have it resized?”

  “Of course.” She tries to blink back the tears that well in her eyes.

  “Then you should definitely have it,” I insist, dropping it on the bed beside her. “Your brother would want it that way.”

  “Thank you.” She pulls it close, like she’s not sure what to do. I’m not sure what to do either, standing there in the middle of the room—there’s a sudden awkwardness between us that I don’t fully understand.

  “Yeah, so…” I blow out a breath, stepping closer to her. “Maybe I’ll come see you some time. With Andie. Maybe we’ll drive out later this summer.” It’s been growing in my mind over the past day, this plan, but I haven’t been sure how to broach it until now.

  When she looks up, her tears begin to fall in earnest, tracking silently down her cheeks. I see her swallow hard, wrestling to find her voice, but she says nothing, simply nods at me with a fragile smile.

  I speak for her, understanding that her emotions are too strong. “So okay,” I say, “maybe we will.” Then bending low, I press a fleeting kiss against the top of her head, the kind I reserve for Andie most of the time. Then I turn and walk fast out the door.

  ***

  At the airport, I pull up curbside to let Laurel out, parking temporarily. The police keep blowing whistles to keep traffic flowing, but we won’t be here long. It’s better for Andrea—for all three of us—to keep this farewell pretty quick.

  “I wish you weren’t going,” my daughter says, gazing up at her aunt with doleful eyes. Laurel strokes her auburn hair away from her cheek.

  “I know, but you’ll see me again soon.”

  “Are you sure?” Glancing in my direction, Andrea seems worried that I might get in the way of that promise.

  I’ve been giving them room, but I step a little closer. “Yeah, we’ll see Aunt Laurel real soon,” I reassure her. “We might even drive out in a few weeks.” Her blue eyes grow wide, her mouth forming a delicate, hopeful smile. “That would be so cool!”

  “I would love that,” Laurel agrees. “We could even do some art. In my studio.”