Butterfly Dreams (13 page)

Dear god, I was rambling. I needed to shut up. But my mouth. Just. Wouldn't. Stop.

“It's no big deal. We're friends. We hang out. And text a lot. And sometimes we talk on the phone. And we like to drink tea together. He likes coffee but can't drink it. So that's why we drink tea and not coffee. Because you know I hate coffee.”

I was still talking and Adam only stared at me. Maybe listening or maybe not. I couldn't tell. It's quite possible he had tuned me out three crazies ago.

“So. Yeah. He just wants to take a pottery class. That's it,” I concluded, my tirade finally over.

“Okay, whatever. I'll let you know when I'm leaving.” Adam got up and left the office.

I wasn't offended by his abrupt departure. That was Adam. For better or for worse.

My phone rang, startling me. I answered it without looking at the screen, thinking it was Beckett. Trying not to notice the flurry of excitement in the pit of my stomach.

“Hello?” I sounded eager. Too eager.

Dial it down a notch!

“Have you put any more thought into selling the house?”

Ugh. Not Beckett.

“Tam, just so you know every time you bitch a fairy dies,” I remarked tiredly, already exhausted by a conversation that hadn't even started yet. I was irritated that she wasn't the person I wanted her to be.

I was
really
annoyed that I hadn't checked the caller ID before answering.

When would I ever learn?

“I have about five minutes before my next meeting. I don't have time for your droll humor.”

“Oh, well, don't let me keep you,” I muttered.

Tamsin sighed. “Why do you have to make things so difficult? It's a simple question. Have you thought any more about selling the house?”

I instantly tensed. “If you only have five minutes to talk, clearly now isn't the time to discuss this.”

I could hear Tamsin talking to someone on the other end. There was a muffling and then a sound like she dropped her phone. Maybe the angels were smiling on me and the call would get disconnected.

“You still there?” my sister asked a few seconds later, and I cursed the cruel, cruel universe.

“Yeah, I'm here.” Having needles stuck under my nails would have been considerably more enjoyable than this conversation.

“I need you to start wrapping your head around the idea, Corin. Jared and I are planning to buy a house. I could use the money from the sale to help with the down payment. The upkeep of Mom and Dad's place is going to bleed us dry.”

I couldn't understand how cold and disconnected she was about the home where she grew up.

But then I had to wonder if she was right. Was I overly sentimental? Was I holding onto some sad relic of a past that I could never get back? That I couldn't move on from?

“We've talked about this—”

“Look, Jared and I will be at a conference in Richmond at the end of the month. We're staying in a hotel in Brecken Forest. I'm going to drive out to Southborough and plan to talk to a real estate agent while I'm there. I want to have the house appraised.”

“You can't sell it without my consent, Tamsin! That house is in
both
of our names, damn it!” I yelled into the phone. I felt my blood pressure rise and I was getting seriously pissed off.

“You need to calm down, Corin. We've talked about this for a while—”

“Twice! We've talked about this twice! And those conversations involved
you
telling
me
our childhood home needs to be sold. I never agreed to it. I never said, ‘Okay, that sounds super duper.' This is not going to fly, Tamsin. I have a say in what happens to Mom and Dad's house!”

I was getting extremely worked up. I hated how my sister had this effect on me. How angry she made me. Like a fuming, foaming-at-the-mouth rabid animal, I wanted to rip her to shreds.

We were definitely not the poster children for sisterly love.

“Okay, well, I'll call you when we're in the area and we can have a chat, or whatever. But think about how much money this will free up for you, Corin. I can't imagine that shop of yours being much of an earner. I'm sure you could use the extra cash,” Tamsin reasoned in her patented condescending way.

Given how I had just spent my morning poring over the business ledgers, her flippant comment hit a little too close to home.

“You know what they say about opinions. They're like ass—” I started to say.

“I don't have time for this. I'll text you when I'm in town. We need to sell the house, Corin. It's just logical. Stop letting your feelings get mixed up in all this. You have to think about this rationally and take emotions out of everything.”

“Like you do?” I muttered.

“Exactly. There's a reason I'm an attorney with a successful career and you…well, you're doing what you've always done. Feeling sorry for yourself.”

This time I did hang up.

It wasn't much but it made me feel a smidgen better.

“I have some ideas about things we can do in future workshops. I was watching this amazing documentary on the psychological benefits of doing art in the nude. My wife and I have been trying this for months now and the effect it has on our chi is unbelievable.”

Mr. and Mrs. Webber, aka
the pervs
, had been talking my ear off since they arrived ten minutes ago. I was trying to close up the shop and set up for the class but was having a hard time with the two of them chatting away about naked art and the sensual beauty of the plaster-molded penis.

“I don't think we'll be doing that kind of thing here, Mr. Webber,” I told him, trying not to gag at the thought of his naked, sweaty ass sitting on my chairs.

“I think it could make you more marketable to a whole new group of people. I have many friends that would come for the experience.”

I really didn't want to contemplate the
whole new group of people
that would open me up to. I was, for once, glad for my tiny bubble that kept me cut off from the rest of the world.

“I have a lot to do before we start. Why don't you go and grab an apron and have a seat by the pottery wheels. I'll be over there soon.”

Thankfully, the Webbers decided to continue their gross conversation between themselves.

“God, give me strength,” I muttered under my breath as I reached up on my tiptoes, trying to grab ahold of the unopened blocks of molding clay from the top shelf.

“God's pretty busy, but I'm sure I can help you out,” a deep voice said behind me. I startled and fell into the shelf, sending pots of paint and sculpting tools careening to the floor.

“Fucking hell!” I groaned, rubbing the elbow that I had bumped in the process.

“Shit, sorry, Corin. Here, let me get that.” Beckett leaned down and started gathering up the stuff that had fallen.

“I'm a klutz. It's not your fault.” I tried to laugh but I sounded like a hyena.

“Am I late?” Beckett asked after we cleaned up.

“No. Just in time, actually. Though I wasn't sure you were going to come.”

“Of course I'm here! I wouldn't miss it!” he enthused, and I couldn't help but smile. He made the whole being-happy thing so simple. So easy.

Beckett looked around. “Aren't there going to be any other people?”

“This is it. Just you, me, and the orgy twins over there,” I quipped.

“I guess that means I get lots of one-on-one instruction, huh?” Beckett grinned and I turned to mush. A big pile of barely functioning mush.

“Here,” Beckett said, pulling something out of his pocket, and handed it to me. I looked down at the fifty-dollar bill and frowned.

“What's this for?” I asked, trying to give it back to him.

Beckett pushed my hand away. “It's for the workshop.” He leaned in close to me, his eyebrows wiggling. “What did you think it was for?” His voice was so deep. So raspy. It did strange things to my insides.

Yep. It was nausea again.

“I didn't realize you were that hard up for friends that you feel you have to resort to paying for them, Beck,” I responded dryly, proud of myself for covering up my embarrassment with a superbly witty comeback.

“You called me Beck,” he said with a soft smile.

“Oh, I'm sorry, it just sort of slipped out—”

“No, it's what all my friends and family call me. I like hearing you call me that. That just means that we've made it official, you know. You can't get rid of me now. We've graduated to cutesy nicknames. Isn't that right, Corrie? Or should I call you the Corinator? Or maybe Cor-Cor?”

“How about we stick with Corin? Unless you don't mind losing a kneecap or two,” I retorted.

I checked the clock on the wall and realized it was time to start the workshop. I looked around the mostly empty room and sighed.

“I guess we should get started. Go and sit by a wheel.” I dropped my voice into a whisper, “Though I'd recommend keeping a healthy distance from the Webbers. They tend to get a little…
messy.
”

Beckett raised an eyebrow. “Uh. Okay.”

I started the workshop by handing out lumps of clay and filling up bowls of water for everyone. The Webbers, having been my faithful customers for several years, already knew what they were doing and turned on their pottery wheels.

Beckett picked up the lump of clay and slapped it down on the wheel, patting it with his hand.

“I'm supposed to make something out of this? Seriously?” he asked incredulously. I sat down beside him and turned on the wheel.

“Get your hands wet first,” I instructed, dunking my own in the bowl of water I had placed on the table.

“Okay, wet hands. Check.” He held up his dripping fingers proudly.

I rolled my eyes and pointed at the clay spinning in circles. “Now cup your hands around the clay and squeeze. Just a bit. Not too hard or it will flatten.”

Beckett did as I told him but obviously exerted too much pressure. The ball collapsed and flew off to the side of the wheel.

“Crap. Sorry,” he apologized.

“Here, let me show you,” I offered, pulling my chair in closer. I dipped my hands in the water again and curled them around the clay, squeezing gently, manipulating it until it became a cone. I pressed my thumb into the top, creating a slight divot.

“How did you do that?” Beckett asked, watching me the whole time.

“It's not that difficult. It just takes some practice. If you want to make a bowl, which is probably easiest for a beginner, you will need to anchor your arm like this and press down. Use a little pressure from the side. You want to keep the clay wet so it's easy to mold.”

There was a high-pitched moan from the other side of the room, and we both looked over to where Mr. and Mrs. Webber were rubbing each other with wet clay. Mrs. Webber put her head back and moaned again as Mr. Webber ran dirty, clay-covered fingers over the base of her neck.

“What the hell?” Beckett laughed in disbelief.

“They come every week. And every week I have to remind them this isn't a porn show.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Webber, please keep the clay on the wheel,” I called out, feeling like I was instructing kids rather than a couple in their sixties.

Neither of them looked at me but they thankfully returned to their project.

“And you said there wouldn't be any dirty
Ghost
stuff. You lied, Corin!” Beckett scolded.

“Do you want to know how to make a bowl or what?” I asked.

“Can I cover you with clay when I'm done?” he asked, his eyes strangely heated. Was Beckett flirting with me?

I swallowed thickly and kept my eyes trained on the spinning wheel.

My chest felt tight and my breathing became a little labored. But I knew it had nothing to do with a heart problem or a possible illness.

It had everything to do with the man who sat beside me.

“Okay, come on. I need you to pay attention,” I said after clearing my throat a couple of times.

I went through the steps slowly and when I was finished, I had a perfectly formed bowl. I turned off the wheel and carefully picked it up from the base.

“I'll never be able to do that. No way,” Beckett proclaimed after I set my piece aside. I grabbed him another lump of clay and dropped it on his wheel.

“Well, that's very defeatist of you, Mr. Positivity. Where's that so-perky-it-makes-me-want-to-throw-up personality I've come to expect from you?” I teased, slipping back into our banter effortlessly.

“Are you mocking me, Cor-Cor?” he demanded affably.

I flicked a piece of wet clay at him. “Don't call me that. It sounds like something you'd call your dog.”

Beckett grinned and wiped the clay from his arm. “Didn't you just tell the Webbers to keep the clay on the wheel? Are you having a hard time following your own rules?”

I flicked more clay at him. Who was this spontaneous, gleeful woman? I kind of liked her.

Beckett shook his head and there was something about his expression that made my heart flip over on itself. It wasn't an entirely pleasant sensation. It was actually pretty terrifying.

“Don't start something you can't finish,” he threatened, sinking his fingers into the wet clay and holding them out in front of my face.

I backed away and held my hands up in surrender. “I give up! I give up!”

He wiggled his fingers and inched closer, and I found that I was laughing so hard I had tears running down my cheeks.

I grabbed a handful of wet, mucky clay and pressed it to the side of his face. He let out a laugh that I felt in the pit of my stomach. It stomped on the butterflies. Pulverizing them into nonexistence.

“No!” I squealed, smacking Beckett's hands away as he tried to retaliate. He reached for me and I evaded.

His eyes sparkled and I let mine sparkle back.

Then he stopped, his hands dropping into his lap. He bent over and I could hear him start to wheeze.

“Beck?”

He held up a finger to indicate I should give him a minute but I wasn't about to listen.

I gripped him by the shoulders, trying to get him to look at me. “What's wrong?” I asked, hearing the panic in my voice. A panic I couldn't suppress.

His face was contorted into something that looked a lot like pain. He lifted his hand and clutched the front of his shirt, balling it up in his hand.

I was frozen, not sure what to do. My palms started to sweat and my hands began to shake.

Then I wasn't seeing Beckett. I was looking at someone else.

Somewhere else.

“I'm sorry, Cor. So sorry. I don't want to leave you all alone…”

All alone…

“Beck?” I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

Mr. and Mrs. Webber were looking in our direction. “Is everything okay?” Mr. Webber asked, getting to his feet.

Finally Beckett looked up, his face unnaturally pale.

“I'm fine,” he rasped, holding up his hand. “Seriously, just a little heartburn or something,” he told Mr. Webber, who nodded and returned to groping his wife with the clay.

“Heartburn?” I asked, weak and overcome.

“Don't leave me, Dad. Please!” I cried and I cried and I knew he couldn't hear me. He was past listening.

He was already gone.

“I'm sure that's all it was. I just had a doctor's appointment, Corin. I'm fine,” he said, trying to placate me.

But I wasn't having it. I felt an answering pain in the middle of my chest and I was pretty sure I was going to pass out.

“That didn't look like heartburn,” I whispered.

Beckett smoothed out his shirt and briefly touched his incision scar. The telling gesture did nothing to reassure me.

“Something's wrong, isn't it?” I asked, feeling the ever-present panic rearing its horrible head.

Beckett reached out and grabbed my hand. “Stop it. Right now, Corin,” he demanded harshly.

“You should go to the doctor. You should get checked out. What if there's something wrong—”

“It's
my
heart, Corin. I know when something's wrong. Just chill out.” He laughed but it sounded more like a bark. He wiped the drying clay from his face.

Before I could think better of it, I reached out and grabbed his hand, gripping it in mine. So tight I could crush bone.

“I saw your face. I saw it, Beck!” My words sounded like a plea. A desperate, naked plea.

“Corin, it's okay—”

I shook my head. “I've seen that look before! Don't brush me off!”

I was being ridiculous. Deep down I knew that I was overreacting but I couldn't help it. Beckett's episode had triggered me. And I couldn't rein myself in.

Beckett looked over at the Webbers and I realized I was making a scene. I quickly got to my feet and left the workshop without another word.

I walked out into the dark shop and tried to get myself together.

Beckett was a sick man. Very sick. What was I doing becoming invested in someone who could leave me at any moment?

I had been through that twice. I couldn't do it again.

“Corin.”

Of course he had followed me.

“Don't. Just don't,” I said, bracing myself against a table. “I just need a moment.”

Beckett took my shoulders in his hands and pulled me around to look at him. “What's wrong? Why are you freaking out like this? I told you it was nothing!” He was getting upset.

“I just can't—”

“Can't what? Be around me? Why? Because I could drop dead at any moment?” Beckett sounded so angry.

“I thought you were different, Corin. God, I thought you would be the one person who wouldn't look at me like I was always dying,” he agonized. His fingers dug into my arms and he held me tight. So tight.

“You don't understand.” He would never get it. I wasn't sure I could ever tell him.

“Understand what? That I'll always be the guy whose heart stopped? Yeah, I've gotten pretty used to that role. I had just hoped I didn't have to play it with you.”

“I can't lose you,” I whispered. I covered my mouth, horrified at what I had said.

“What?” Beckett asked, frowning.

“I've lost so many people, Beck. You scare me. You
scared
me. I don't look at you as the guy who could die. I look at you as the guy who could
devastate
me.”

Why in the hell had I said all that?

What was wrong with me?

Damn my lack of filter!

But what I had said was true.

Because things with Beckett were precarious and terrifying.

And real.

The realest thing I had experienced in a very long time.

“Corin,” Beckett murmured, and I could see his blue eyes, bright in the dark.

It was quiet but for the sound of our breathing, shallow and loud.

He leaned in, his thumb pressing against my lips. I didn't know what he was going to do. I didn't know what to think. What to feel.