Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  “Hey, Michael,” Alex calls out, pointing at something on his tall surfboard, clutched within his hands. “Check this out.” I hadn’t thought his voice would sound so deep. The warmth I had anticipated, but not the deep fullness of its resonance.

  Michael enters the frame and their voices grow quieter; he frowns about something, touching the board as they discuss it. The camera cuts away to a group of surfers down the beach, and I see that there’s some kind of amateur surf contest going on. Camera cuts back to Alex; for the first time I notice a number on his forearm, grease-penciled onto it. He must have been competing.

  Alex touches Michael on the arm, and I shiver in reaction, as if he’d just touched me. It isn’t a sexual or provocative touch. His hand has simply brushed unselfconsciously against Michael’s arm as they were talking. It’s the relaxed familiarity of longtime lovers. As they step apart, Alex gives him a warm smile, a smile that speaks endless volumes about what they shared.

  My chest tightens painfully, the familiar swell of anxiety rushing through my body. What a fool I’ve been. I can’t possibly compete with that, I think, retreating into the dark hallway. Obscured in the darkness, I listen to the voices on the tape, to the laughter and camaraderie they all shared back then. I hear Michael’s voice. Alex, baby, you’re gonna win out there today.

  Michael’s voice echoes down the hallway. Knock ‘em dead, baby!

  Baby. The word burns my mind like an after-image from gazing at the sun, blotting out everything else.

  Quietly, I vanish into the bedroom without a sound. Michael hasn’t seen me hidden here in the shadows, and yet I’ve seen so much.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Michael

  Sitting in a ramshackle seafood restaurant overlooking the Pacific, it’s just Rebecca, Andrea, and me. Everyone else shoved off for home late this Sunday afternoon. I’m excited we’ve got a few days to ourselves, a few days when we can keep forming this tentative family we’re making together.

  Packing up his Explorer, blond hair askew with wind and sun block, Casey seemed sad to go. He lingered a long time, particularly with Rebecca, which made me smile. I think they’re becoming regular buddies; I could tell he was proud of her for nearly making it up on that surfboard.

  “Next time, I’ll get you onto your feet,” he told her with an awkward hug.

  “I can’t wait,” she said, smiling at me. Marti and Dave were easy, but winning over crusty Casey Porter is a true accomplishment. She should feel good about it.

  Marti hugged her too, kissing her cheek and promising to phone her this week about a “girl’s day out”. Rebecca is weaving easily into the fabric of my world, which both pleases and ultimately unsettles me, for reasons I don’t entirely understand.

  Drumming my fingers on the tabletop, I stare out at the beach. I’ve been to this same restaurant with Alex dozens of times. We came here even before we were together, when we were just friends hanging out down at Casey’s place. Alex whispered, “Gay friendly,” in my ear that first time, and I stared at him, kind of surprised. He explained, “Owner’s a gay guy. Lots of gay staff.” I got from his explanation that it wasn’t like a gay bar or restaurant, just a place where he and his crew could feel comfortable. Later I understood it was a place where the two of us could feel comfortable too.

  So it’s unsettling to sit here now with this woman who I’m beginning to imagine as my wife. Been a long damn time since I thought of spending my life with anyone other than Allie, and glancing around at the familiar surroundings, I feel a little guilty. Like I’m stepping out on Alex or something. If the owner—a guy named Vince Peters who was always friends with us—spots me, I’ll feel busted for sure.

  “You okay?” Rebecca studies me closely from the other side of the table. Maybe my expression was more transparent than I realized. Andrea inserts pegs in an IQ test game, lost in concentration.

  I give her a weak smile. “Yeah, baby. Fine. Totally fine.” I don’t feel fine inside: I feel guilty, coming here with her. Without him.

  That emotion is already gaining life within me, when our waiter appears—and spooks me completely. A redheaded young kid, he looks a hell of a lot like Alex. Glancing at Andrea, I wonder if she notices too, but she’s caught up in the game she’s playing. She looks up with marginal interest, the same level of curiosity she’d grant a seashell discovered on the sand.

  I wonder why she can’t see it, this eerie resemblance the waiter bears to Allie? Am I the only one feeling spelled here?

  He can’t be thirty yet, maybe only twenty-seven or so. Roughly the age Alex was when we first met, with the same coppery hair cropped close along the nape of his neck, like wiregrass to the touch. Of course, Alex’s style was more disheveled and rowdy despite the close cut—never completely a doctor’s look. And of course Allie certainly never had a twangy Texas accent, all range and open prairie, not like this wild-eyed cowboy kid does when he greets us.

  Still, it’s irrelevant what he’s wearing or how old or how tall he is—or even what he sounds like. From the moment he grins at me, a broad winsome expression filling his thoroughly freckled face, my heart leaps right out of my chest.

  I bump into Alex all the time: in shopping malls, at the grocery store, on the studio lot. He’s in a thousand crowds of people, in a thousand different faces, no matter which way I look. But this time is different. This fresh-faced kid reminds me more of Alex Richardson than any single man I’ve encountered since the day he died. Only when he asks again if we want to hear the dinner specials do I realize I’m gawking—not listening—and stare down at my hands to hide my intense emotions.

  “Sure,” Rebecca interjects, helping. I look to her, lost, wondering if she realizes, and there’s an unexpected, sad expression on her face even as there’s something tender there. God, please don’t let all my careful little pieces come undone, not here in front of them all.

  I mumble something incoherent without looking up, placing my order for fried shrimp by memory.

  “Sir?” the stranger prompts me, and I gaze up into his clear blue eyes again, shaken completely. That wholesome smile, the sun-drenched freckles; I know I’m staring hard when he asks gently, “Your menu, sir?”

  Under my breath I mutter an apology, relinquishing it into those freckled hands, dusted with auburn hair. Allie’s hands were freckled like that, I think, as our fingers brush, ever so slightly, and I nearly burn with the physical connection. And then he turns. He turns and he’s gone, back to the kitchen, and my sense of loss at that moment is so acute I almost forget that my girlfriend is there, at the table, watching me fall for Alex all over again.

  Noticing Rebecca, I find all the color washed right out of her face. She saw it too, exactly what I saw. And if she hadn’t seen it in the waiter’s face, she saw it all reflected right on mine.

  Back at the house, Andrea goes straight to her room to take a bath and get ready for bed. It’s my first real chance to talk to Rebecca after the dinner fiasco.

  But I don’t talk. Instead, I sink onto the sofa, flipping on the television. Rebecca stands in the kitchen, distant from me. She’s barely said a word since the restaurant.

  “I figure we might drive up the coast some tomorrow morning,” I say, avoiding her probing gaze. “I know Andie’d love that. We can be back on the beach by afternoon.”

  Rebecca doesn’t answer me, only walks across the room, staring out the window. I can’t see her face, can’t gauge her emotions, though I have a pretty good idea what she’s feeling. Through the glass, she watches the dark ocean, silent, her face inscrutable.

  “I got up last night,” she says, staring out the windows. “While you were watching videos.”

  “Oh.” Oh shit. I couldn’t sleep, felt on edge thinking about how we’d made love. I guess I needed a connection with Alex after that—and after riding all those waves without him. I just missed him: nothing terribly complex.

  She eyes me warily. “You seemed fine on your own, so I went back to bed.”

 
“I wish you’d told me you were up.”

  She shrugs, turning her back to me again. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”

  “You could’ve said you were awake,” I try gently. “Just like me. I’d like to show you tapes of Al some time. If you want to see ‘em.”

  She sighs, a heavy, defeated sound. “Did you have to flirt with him, Michael?” For a moment, I blink in confusion, thinking she means Alex. But then I understand who she means.

  She finally turns to look at me. “I mean, staring I understand. Pretending he was Alex, I get that too. But did you really have to flirt so much?”

  I don’t answer right away, truly considering her comment. I’ve fucked up big time; I know it. I just don’t know how to rescue the situation. “Didn’t think I actually flirted,” I finally say, trying to smile. “I do draw the line at some point.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” She folds her arms over her chest. “About you hitting on a guy right in front of me?”

  “I wasn’t hitting on anybody.” And I wasn’t—I would never do that in front of Rebecca or Andrea, but I don’t add that lame argument. “I was just chatting with the guy.”

  “You flirted.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I haven’t spent ten years in the entertainment business without learning to recognize some major flirtation when I see it.”

  I drop the denials, feeling a little like Bill Clinton in his Lewinsky days. “It didn’t mean anything, Rebecca.” And it didn’t. I guess I did flirt a little, even though I knew I shouldn’t, but some dark part of myself couldn’t seem to hold back. Not because I wanted Nick the Waiter—but rather because I wanted him to be Alex. “Becca, I’m never gonna see that guy again. It didn’t mean anything.”

  She pushes past me, toward the bedroom she’s sharing with Andrea. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Michael,” she says, voice quivering. “Because it meant everything to me.”

  ***

  I wake to an empty bed with ruthless morning sunlight forcing its way through the billowing curtains. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I hear the television and Katie Couric’s overly optimistic voice from down the hall.

  I spent the night unable to sleep, restless and aching for Rebecca—wishing she were in my bed, not sleeping in my daughter’s room. I wanted to make love last night, but she worried about Andrea waking up. Deep down, I know her hesitation was far more complex.

  Passing through the living room, I hear the shower running. It must be Andie in the bathroom because through the crack in the door, I glimpse Rebecca, blonde hair drawn into a neat braid down her back. She’s cradling her cell phone against her ear, zipping her suitcase. In blue jeans and a white T-shirt, she’s dressed for the road. I’m a peeping Tom, staring in at her, listening to what she’s planning.

  She glances at her watch. “I can be there by two. Set the meeting for three.” There’s a pause, and she gives her suitcase zipper a purposeful tug. “Trevor, look, I’m positive about this. I’m coming home.” With that, she snaps the phone shut and stands still as a statue. That’s when I make my move.

  “You leaving?” I ask, aware that we may have approximately five minutes to do this alone before Andrea emerges from the shower.

  Rebecca tucks her phone into her purse, heaving the large suitcase onto the floor. “Ed wants me to produce Julian’s movie.” She tosses her braid back confidently, exposing the scars on her face without hesitation. “It’s a really wonderful opportunity for me.”

  I gesture around the room. “But we’ve got this place for two more days.”

  “Michael, look—” she begins with a weary sigh, but then says nothing else, staring past me toward the hallway.

  “You could wait,” I suggest. “Drive back with Andie and me still.”

  “It can’t wait and we both know I’m finished here. That we’re finished, Michael.”

  “No, that’s not true,” I disagree, stepping toward her. As I reach for her arm, she jerks it from my grasp, like she’s been scalded.

  “Michael, please. You haven’t been honest with anyone else, but at least be honest with me.”

  “I’ve never been dishonest with you,” I answer evenly. “You know exactly how I feel.” Green eyes search my face, my heart, and I ache to put eloquent words to my feelings, to make her understand that the waiter meant nothing to me. That the videotapes meant nothing to us.

  “Yes, well…” She tips her chin upward in proud defiance. “I know a lot more than I did a few months ago.”

  “You should know that I love you,” I answer forcefully, determined that she understand the truth.

  Her demeanor becomes resigned. “What I know is that this isn’t working, Michael. I guess it never was.”

  “Last night doesn’t mean we can’t make this work, Becca. Please,” I beg, desperate, stepping toward her, but she turns away in the face of my pitiful excuses.

  “What about the fact that you’re still wearing his ring?” she asks in a soft voice. In shock, I stare down at my hand, though of course she’s right. I hadn’t thought about it, had meant to remove it before we made love. But somehow, I just didn’t.

  While I wish I had an explanation, there’s nothing I can say. She turns to me, bright tears shining in her eyes, the careful façade crumbling. “A cab is waiting outside,” she says, rolling her suitcase toward the door. “I’ve already told Andrea goodbye.”

  She hesitates, turning back one last time, and I can’t believe the melancholy in her expression. “Michael, the thing I’ve finally realized is that I’m not who you’re looking for.” Her tears begin to flow in earnest. “And if you’re going to keep searching for him, you might as well look in the right place.”

  I reach for her, and this time she doesn’t fight me. “Rebecca, God, I love you,” I insist, desperate to keep her from going.

  I stroke her cheek tenderly, tracing the outline of her jaw. She doesn’t flinch, but drops her gaze to the floor. “Please tell me you’re okay,” I say, voice catching. “Because I love you, baby.”

  “I love you too, Michael,” she whispers. “But it’s not enough.” She sucks in a gasping breath, resting her cheek against my shoulder with a shattered sigh. “I finally understand that I’m not enough. I won’t ever be enough to make you forget.”

  ***

  I’m not even sure how long I’ve been here in Casey’s room, just lolling in the bed, unable to get up. Andrea thinks I’m sick. Food poisoning, that’s what I told her, and she’s been watching videos and reading books all day. Bored out of her mind, I can tell, but I’m stuck here, at the bottom of my ocean, struggling to find my way back to the air. Where’s Alex when I need him to help me sort out all this emotional shit?

  I’m not good at being straight, I’m not good at being gay: I was only ever good at being with Alex Richardson. And for a little while—the most pristine perfect moment—I sure as hell was good at being with Rebecca O’Neill.

  Lucky me, as early evening falls I find a marathon of About the House reruns on TNT. This minister’s son might even say that kind of “luck” has an air of the divine to it. Never did watch the show before, not with Rebecca begging me not to. But since she’s dumped me on my queer ass here in Malibu, I think it’s only fair that I view her past as openly as she’s always gazed at mine. God, she was breathtaking then, with a ballsy confidence like she had the whole world by the tail—Alex’s style of confidence, not the fractured eggshell kind I’ve always seen in her.

  Sipping my sixth beer of the evening, I lean back in bed and study my girl, all sassy and funny and shoving Jake Slater right in his place—my girl, just a different version of her, back once upon a time before life played havoc with her. Closing my eyes, I imagine kissing that Rebecca, her lips meeting mine, her delicate hands threading through my hair, her cheek soft and porcelain beneath my fingertips.

  And I blow out a grief-stricken sigh of remorse, because whether we’re talking that Rebecca or my Rebecca, there’s not one io
ta of difference for me. They’re both like shooting for the moon because I’m nothing but a common electrician sitting in a rich friend’s beach home aching for an unattainable celebrity actress.

  Andrea appears in the doorway, watching me. Sharp light from the living room makes me squint.

  “What, doll?” I slur at her and she looks worried, her auburn eyebrows furrowing. Entering my room cautiously, she stares at the television, then glances at me sprawled gracelessly on the bed. “You’re watching Rebecca’s show.”

  “There’s a marathon.”

  “Cool,” she answers, settling on the end of the bed, spreading her hands neatly in her lap. The more outrageous and stupid I’ve become, the more adult she seems. “Can I watch, too?” It’s less a question and more a statement of her intentions as she sits by my feet, back ramrod straight.

  “Guess it’s ’cause of the holiday weekend,” I explain thickly. “This marathon.”

  Jake is chasing Rebecca around the living room; she’s swatting at him, then Cat opens the front door. Laugh track. Rebecca gives Jake a saucy stare and she has never looked more gorgeous to me. Except the night we made love in this same bed. Except the night we kissed the first time. Except this morning, walking out of that damn bedroom without me…

  “Michael, are you okay?” Andrea stares at me over her shoulder, translucent blue eyes wide and worried.

  “Yeah, Andie, sick. That’s all, just sick.” She looks at the bottle of Heineken clutched in my hand, then back at my face. “It’ll get better,” I promise, the soundtrack of About the House overlaying our conversation.

  Turning back to the television, she responds quietly, “You miss Daddy, don’t you?” The room spins, and I close my eyes, murmuring, “Yeah, I sure do miss Daddy.”