Butterfly Ginger

by Stephanie Fournet

  The sniffling across the table let Blythe know that Rae wept with her, that she understood all too well what Blythe meant.

  Their server suddenly hovered over the table.

  “And how’s everything, ladies—” But he choked at the sight of them both in tears and backpedaled with almost comic speed. Rae was able to laugh at his discomfort.

  “Poor guy,” she muttered, making Blythe laugh in spite of herself. In spite of the fact that she knew that she would lose Nate Bradley again. And it wouldn’t hurt any less the second time.

  “You have to tell him,” Rae said.

  “I know,” she admitted. He deserved the truth. And she couldn’t keep seeing him with this secret between them. She couldn’t fool herself about that anymore. It was just the price of telling him that she didn’t want to face. “I can’t bear the thought of him hating me.”

  Rae shook her head.

  “He won’t hate you,” she insisted, frowning. But even Blythe could see that she wasn’t completely convinced.

  “It’ll change everything. He won’t see me the same after he knows,” she said with certainty. “I mean, how do you think Mitch would take news like that?”

  Rae dipped her head and looked away. And suddenly, Blythe’s senses went on alert.

  “Rae?”

  Rae took a huge bite of burger and chewed slowly. Blythe sat back in her chair. Typical Rae. She’d stall before ever choosing to impart an uncomfortable truth. Once in high school, Rae had waited to tell her that she had a piece of spinach between her teeth until after Blythe had given a presentation in AP Euro on how World War I shaped art in the 20th century. Blythe could have killed her.

  Instead of getting impatient, she braced herself for what she guessed was coming.

  “Well?” she prompted after Rae sucked down the last of her iced tea with a straw-rattling slurp. “I gather by your obvious discomfort that you and Mitch have talked about this very subject.”

  Rae threw her a guilty look.

  “He is my husband,” she defended with shrug. “We talk about everything.”

  Even if Blythe didn’t know what it meant to be married, she knew what it was to be able to tell someone everything. She and Nate had shared that kind of bond once. But that didn’t mean she was ready to go easy on her friend.

  “Even things you swore you’d never tell another soul? Even things that aren’t yours to tell?”

  Pain crossed Rae’s face, and Blythe knew she’d laid it on a bit thick.

  “It’s not like that, Blythe. I was worried about telling you about the baby. I told you that,” she said, pleading clear in her eyes. “And Mitch kept asking me why I hadn’t shared our news. It got to the point where he thought I might not be excited about it if I hadn’t told you.”

  Blythe felt her eyes go wide. She’d never wanted her issues to come between Rae and her husband.

  “So, I finally had to explain why I was stalling.”

  Blythe cringed. She understood the situation, but what must Mitch think of her? Rae made a sympathetic face.

  “Don’t look like that, Blythe. He’d never judge you. He actually felt really bad for you.”

  Blythe believed her, but she knew there was more to the story.

  “But…?”

  Rae sighed and worked her mouth back and forth, unwilling to tell Blythe the rest.

  “Say it, Rae.”

  “Okay, fine. He said he felt worse for Nate because he never had the chance to do the right thing.”

  Blythe closed her eyes at the words. It was what she should have expected, but it still hurt to hear it out loud. She made herself open her eyes, and she could tell by looking at Rae’s anxious face that there was still more.

  “What else did he say?” She might as well hear it all. It wasn’t like there was anything anyone else could say about it that she hadn’t already thought herself.

  Rae’s eyes winced a little before she spoke.

  “He said that if it would have been him, he’d be furious.”

  Blythe could only nod. She inhaled and exhaled a long breath through her nose. Blythe couldn’t expect anything less from Nate. He’d be furious with her because what she’d done was unforgivable. He would see her for who she was, and that would be the end of it.

  And it would hurt. And it may never stop hurting. And maybe that was okay. Maybe she hadn’t suffered enough for the life she’d taken. And maybe that was why she was so afraid. Because she knew that she hadn’t suffered enough, and the only way to ensure that she did would be to tell Nate.

  But Blythe took solace in one truth. If she could face her greatest fear and tell Nate what she’d done, she wouldn’t be able to have happiness, but she might be able to have peace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IT TOOK A COUPLE OF DAYS for Nate to realize that Blythe was avoiding him.

  After the incredible night she’d spent at his house — in his bed — he’d driven Blythe and her brother to the Barnes’s house, stayed on guard to make certain that nobody hassled her about Calvin, and then brought her home.

  He wanted to spend the day with her, but she had lunch plans with Rae. When he’d kissed her goodbye at her front door, Blythe had kissed back, holding onto him so tight that he smiled about it all afternoon. Nate called hours later to see if he could come by with dinner, but she’d sounded exhausted, and she asked for a rain check.

  He wanted to argue that if she was tired, he would be happy to fix her dinner and simply hold her all night, but Nate managed to cling to a scrap of dignity and promised to call her later.

  On Monday, she told him she’d be working late. When he offered to pick her up at the office, she declined, saying she could get a ride with someone named Gretchen.

  It had only been a day and a half since he’d been with her, and for half of that time, he was so drugged on the euphoria of Saturday night he couldn’t think straight — much less worry. But by Monday night, worry began creeping into his thoughts.

  His off-season had officially started. He and his crews had finished winterizing all of their lawns and grounds. They would pass over them throughout the winter to take care of the leaf-fall and feed any new trees they’d planted, but from November to February, Nate spent most of his time meeting with clients about upcoming projects and drawing up plans.

  Working on plans was something he loved, but it was easier to get distracted with just a pencil in his hand instead of a shovel. All Tuesday morning, he continuously stopped sketching the berm that Dr. Hidalgo wanted just to check his phone.

  Nothing.

  After lunch, Nate found himself rereading their text messages. To his chagrin, they all consisted of him texting her first and then Blythe responding — if she responded at all — before he texted again.

  Nate sighed. He didn’t want to be that guy.

  He recalled, years ago, listening to a segment on NPR’s Fresh Air one evening after a job. Terry Gross interviewed a psychologist about the nature of romantic love, and Nate remembered the guy saying that in the love bond, one person is always the “container” and the other is the “contained.” Like wine in a bottle. The container is, naturally, filled up by the relationship with the contained — satisfied and content. But the experience of the contained is something else entirely. All the contained can see is the container.

  The truth, he’d said, was that in every relationship, one person is always more in love.

  Nate had no problem being the contained if Blythe was the container. He wasn’t ashamed to be the one more in love. He knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter anyway, but if he did, that’s the way he’d have it. To fill her up and be the one who could never get enough.

  But only if he filled her up. He didn’t want to be the wine begging for admission into a cask that didn’t want him.

  He stared at his phone a good five minutes, debating with himself. And then he pushed it across his desk.

  ****

  BY SOME DIVINE GRACE, his self-restrai
nt was rewarded at a quarter to five when his phone pinged, and her name flashed across the screen.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:46 p.m.

  Are you free tonight?

  Nate gave a wry laugh. Even if he wasn’t, he’d move heaven and earth to be able to say he was.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:47 p.m.

  Yeah, what did you have in mind?

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:48 p.m.

  Can you come over? Around 7:00? I owe you dinner.

  The tension that Nate didn’t even realize he carried across his shoulders suddenly eased. Maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe she wasn’t avoiding him; maybe she was just busy. He might be a lovesick loser, but at least he hadn’t acted like one — yet.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:48 p.m.

  I’ll be there. Can I bring anything?

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:49 p.m.

  Nope. But out of the two of us, you are the better cook. Know that going in.

  Nate grinned at her praise.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:50 p.m.

  Say the word, and I cook for you anytime.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:51 p.m.

  You may wish you’d insisted on cooking, but tonight you’re getting pesto pasta.

  He laughed. She could always make him laugh.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:51 p.m.

  Good thing I love pesto pasta.

  Tuesday, Nov. 11 4:52 p.m.

  See you then.

  Nate checked on Lila, showered, and shaved before heading over to Blythe’s apartment. When he knocked, she yanked open the door with wet hair and a panicked look.

  “Come in! Running late!” She turned back to the kitchen — the sound of a timer buzzing — and that’s when Nate realized that she wore only a short, purple robe dotted with black flowers. He watched her bare legs scamper across the apartment, and, feeling something close to glee, Nate shut the door behind him.

  He stepped into the small kitchen in time to see Blythe rise up on her toes to shut off the timer. A pot of boiling water fogged the room. It was either that or the sight of Blythe’s delicious legs that made everything go a little hazy.

  “Sorry!” Blythe stammered as she grabbed a pair of oven mitts and proceeded to hoist the pot to the sink. “I got held up at work, but I thought I could still get dressed before you got here.”

  “You should be sorry because answering the door like that is so unpleasant,” Nate teased.

  She gave him an eye roll as she poured steaming pasta into a colander, but he could see that her cheeks colored. This part of her certainly had not changed in six years. Blythe Barnes still had no idea how beautiful she was, and any mention of it made her blush scarlet.

  If Nate had his way, he’d make her blush every day for the rest of his life. He walked up behind her and settled his hands at her waist, feeling the cool silk of her robe tie beneath his fingers.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Nate thought he felt a shiver run down Blythe’s body before she pulled away to set the empty pot aside. For a moment, it made him dizzy.

  “Can you drizzle some olive oil over that while I go change?” she asked, drawing off her oven mitts, her expression tight and downcast. She backed away as she spoke, as though she were afraid he’d grab her again, and Nate’s head cleared at once.

  “Sure…” He wanted to apologize, to erase whatever offense he’d given with his teasing or his touch, but she left for her room before he could utter another word.

  Slow down, Bradley. Don’t fuck this up.

  Blindly, he found the olive oil in one of the cabinets, and he poured a little over the penne. In his mind, he rewound the moments since his arrival, searching the images of Blythe’s face.

  She had yet to smile.

  He had interpreted her abrupt greeting at the door to the fluster of running late and the demands of preparing the meal. And he’d attributed her blushing to her natural shyness about her looks. He thought his touch had made her shiver. But could it have been a shudder?

  Why would she ask you to dinner if she didn’t want to see you?

  Nate let himself breathe with that rational thought, but he aimed to pay better attention once Blythe returned. And she did, a moment later, wearing jeans, a soft blue sweater that seemed to reflect the light of her eyes, and shoes that looked like gray ballet slippers. She came in twisting her hair into a bun and biting a hair tie between her teeth.

  “No time to blow dry,” she muttered, securing her still damp-darkened locks.

  “You look great,” he said, unable to help himself. Finally, Blythe smiled at him, but Nate thought it looked touched with sadness.

  “I’m really sorry for running late,” she said again. “I wanted to be as good a host as you were… to try to repay some of your kindnesses… but I guess fate had other plans.”

  Something in her tone felt off, and Nate wanted to reassure her.

  “I’m really just glad to be here,” he said honestly. “Thanks for asking me.”

  Again, she gave him the sad smile.

  “Would you help me finish up?” she asked, moving back to the sink.

  “Sure. Put me to work.”

  “Great. Can you chop those tomatoes?” Blythe pointed to the three Romas that waited on the cutting board on her little kitchen table. “I’ll pour us a glass of Riesling and then dress the pasta.”

  She filled a glass for each of them, and despite his concern over her mood, they settled into an easy rhythm. Nate washed and chopped the tomatoes while Blythe returned the penne to the pot. Seconds later, the crisp aroma of fresh basil filled the kitchen, and Nate looked up to see her spooning pesto from her small food processor.

  “You made your own pesto?” he asked, impressed. She smiled — this time with dimples — all trace of sadness gone.

  “I always do. Most store-bought pesto’s have parmesan,” she said with a shrug.

  “What do you use instead of parmesan?” Nate’s interest piqued. If he was going to cook for her every day, he’d have to learn her tricks.

  “Nutritional yeast.” Blythe’s smile grew, as though she knew what was coming. And just like that, he remembered. Graham crackers. Mrs. Ester’s kitchen. Blythe’s incredible laugh. He wanted to hear it now, so Nate made a face.

  “Nutritional yeast?!” What the hell is that?”

  To his delight, her laughter spilled over.

  “Trust me, it’s good… Here,” she said, lifting the spoon toward his mouth. “Try it.”

  Nate tipped forward until the spoon met his lips, and he tasted the sauce. Fresh. Sharp. Savory. It was awesome pesto.

  “Mmm… When do we eat?”

  Blythe laughed again, clearly pleased. Whatever had troubled her moments before seemed to have been forgotten, and Nate’s relief helped to deepen his breathing.

  “Let’s toss in those tomatoes and let them soften just a little,” she said, moving back to the stove and stirring as she spoke. “I have a salad in the fridge and garlic bread warming in the oven.”

  “I’ll get the salad,” Nate offered. He found himself grinning. A sense of peace came from the simple act of fixing a meal with her. They could be so easy together. It was impossible not to picture a lifetime of such nights. Standing side-by-side, sipping wine and laughing while they cooked. He didn’t need more than that.

  Even if she’d only been back in his life for a couple of weeks, Nate didn’t need more time to be sure. All he needed was for Blythe to be sure. Less, even. All he needed was for her just to have a little faith.

  ****

  NATE DREDGED HIS LAST piece of bread through the sauce on his plate. The thought occurred to him that if every meal was that good, he could live without meat — quite happily.

  “Delicious,” he muttered before draining his wine glass.

  “There’s more,” Blythe offered. “I could fix you another plate.”

  Nate shook his head. “Two’s probably enough.”

  “What about a little more wine?” Blythe held up the bottle, and when he didn’t pro
test, she poured. She filled her own glass — past the halfway point — before picking it up and taking a gulp.

  “Can I help you clean up?” Nate reached for her plate and saw Blythe hadn’t eaten much. “Weren’t you hungry?”

  She gave a shrug, and although her mouth held a smile, it didn’t quite meet her eyes.

  “Not really,” she said, dropping her gaze. “I just wanted to enjoy the company.”

  Her words should have flattered him, but the tone was all wrong. It sounded like regret.

  “You don’t really seem to be enjoying yourself,” he noted, frowning. “Why not?”

  He watched her press her lips together and glance down, as though she were weighing her words. When she looked back, she stared at him before she spoke — a thousand secret thoughts passing behind those blue eyes.

  “I’m trying…” Her words trailed off, and she twirled the stem of her wine glass before drinking half of it.

  Nate’s body sagged.

  “You’re trying? Trying to enjoy yourself?” If he was the only one who felt this way, it was hopeless. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to try at all. I’m just happy.”

  Alarm filled her eyes, and she shook her head.

  “That’s not what I meant… I mean….” She grasped for words again, looking stricken now. “I mean, I’m trying to memorize everything about you… about being with you. So I can hold onto it.”

  The doom in her voice and the cast of her eyes all signaled defeat, and Nate found himself reaching across the table for her hand. He pulled it free of her wine glass and folded it in his.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” Her hand felt cold, and he rubbed it with his own. “Isn’t it like that for you? Isn’t it easy and comfortable and pretty damn good?” He gave a rueful laugh at how amazing it could be if she just felt the same.

  Her eyes softened then. Not with warmth, but with sorrow, leaving Nate at a loss.

  “It is like that for me,” she said, her voice dropping. “It’s exactly like that… I love being with you.”

  Again, her words echoed his thoughts, but everything was wrong. The sadness in her eyes. The regret in her voice.