Butterfly Dreams (3 page)

Perhaps I wasn't being fair to Sierra. She'd been through a lot too, right? It couldn't be easy seeing your boyfriend laid up in a hospital room, not sure if he's going to make it. And I
had
been short tempered. And I
had
taken a lot of my shitty mood out on her.

But my mother's words continued to echo in my ears for weeks afterward.

Was Sierra worth it?

I wasn't so sure.

“All systems seem to be a go. You can put your shirt back on,” Dr. Callahan said a few minutes later, and I snapped out of my way-too-deep thoughts.

“So everything's okay?” I asked, buttoning up my shirt.

Dr. Callahan nodded, looking at the computer screen. “Your numbers are exactly where they need to be. How have you been feeling? Any discomfort? Light-headedness? Dizziness? Nausea?” she asked, listing off symptoms the way you rattle off a fast-food order.

Would you like a side with that cheeseburger? Fries? Onion rings? Mozzarella sticks?

“Nope. I've been feeling pretty great. And I was sort of wondering when I could get back to some level of physical activity,” I asked hesitantly.

Everyone had a vice. Some people had drugs. Some people had booze.

I had sports.

I played forward on my high school's soccer team. I went all state with the cross-country team. In college I took up jujitsu and skiing and since becoming a working stiff, I found a crazy love for the 5K.

And if I were feeling particularly wild, I'd go hang gliding.

My buddies Aaron and Bryan, whom I'd known since our freshman year of college, loved to give me shit about my running shorts and He-man calf muscles.

Dr. Callahan slipped her wire-frame glasses off her face and folded her hands in her lap. “I know you've always been active, Beckett, but part of the lifestyle change you have to adopt will involve a significant decrease in physical exertion. You're an athlete but you simply can't go back to how you were before. It won't be possible.”

I deflated. I already knew what to expect but it still sucked to hear. “So no more 5Ks or park league soccer, huh?” I said with a halfhearted smile.

Dr. Callahan's rigid expression softened and she shook her head. “I'm sorry, Beckett. You will be able to eventually resume some level of physical activity as it's important for your health, but you are still recovering.” She looked at her computer screen again. “I'll want to see you again in eight weeks to check your ICD. We'll schedule an X-ray at that appointment and a stress test. If you continue to take it easy until then, getting plenty of rest, following your diet, then we can discuss increasing your activity levels then. Okay?”

I sighed, trying not to feel defeated.

You're alive! That's what matters!
I repeated over and over again.

I plastered a smile on my face and pretended I wasn't sick and tired of being sick and tired.

“Okay,” I agreed, hopping down from the table.

“In the meantime, if you feel any pain or chronic light-headedness and nausea, you need to call the implant center immediately. If the ICD activates, you'll know it and it's important that we be notified. We'd need to test your heart rhythms to see if there are any issues that have to be addressed,” Dr. Callahan informed me. I had already been told this stuff a million times. I could recite it in my sleep. It had become a daily checklist.

Light-headedness? Nope. Nausea? Nope. Chest pain? Nope.

“Absolutely,” I told her, walking through the door she held open.

“I'll see you in eight weeks, Beckett,” Dr. Callahan said, finally smiling. I smiled back, standing up as straight as possible.

I'm alive, damn it! Because I'm not ready to kick it just yet! I've got shit to do and places to see!

My running inner dialogue did the trick and I felt better as I walked to my car.

“This is going to be great! This is going to be just what you need,” I murmured to myself, under my breath.

These pep talks had become as routine as everything else in my life.

I watched as people started going inside the church and continued to stand there with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, talking to myself like a lunatic.

“Smile, Corin.” I grinned at no one in particular, practicing being nonthreatening and likable.

I preferred to wait until everyone else was inside before making my entrance. The first group meeting was always difficult for me. I felt like an intruder. An imposter. Like I shouldn't be there. I didn't have a place.

It took me a bit to feel comfortable. Accepted.

But for now I would wait. Until just the right moment.

Eliminating the likelihood for small talk before the group actually started. I could slip in and take a seat without really having to talk to anyone.

“Are you here for the Mended Hearts group?”

I hadn't heard him approach. I had been too busy talking to myself and doing internal fist bumps.

His voice was deep. Soothing. Like perfectly smooth honey.

And familiar.

I knew that voice.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

“Uh…” my voice trailed off into nothing and I stood there—my hands in my pockets, my wool hat pulled down over my ears, frozen in place.

“Come on, I'll walk in with you,” he urged, a hand on my arm. Pressure I could feel through layers of clothing. Fire on my skin.

“Are you all right?”

Wet knees, shallow breaths. Sweet, tempered words meant to calm me down.

“No. I need a minute,” I snapped. I sounded rude. Cold.

I couldn't help it. Because I recognized that lovely, deep voice full of genuine sympathy and concern.

It was a voice I'd never forget.

My face flushed hot in the chilly air. Cheeks red with embarrassment.

He snatched his hand away and took a step back. I chanced a look up, finally. Seeing his face for the first time.

And then promptly wished I hadn't.

He was cute. Boyish even. With light brown hair on the longish side that looked as though he never bothered to brush it and blue eyes that probably sparkled when he smiled.

He wasn't smiling now. He was looking…
perturbed
.

“Okay then,” he snipped back and I couldn't help but smile at his attitude.

He frowned, clearly thinking I had lost my mind. I probably had.

Please don't recognize me…

“Do I know you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

My cheeks weren't just hot now. They had become a class-four forest fire.

My one-time Good Samaritan opened his mouth but I ducked my head, breaking eye contact.

Go away…

“Okay, well, I guess I'll see you in there,” he said after a beat and I sagged in relief. He didn't remember me.

I didn't want him to. That day on the sidewalk in the snow had been bad. But unfortunately since then the days had gotten so much worse. The panic attacks. The anxiety.

But he didn't remember me.

That was good. Anonymity was important for me.

So why did I feel disappointment ring hollow in my gut?

After another ten minutes of silent and not-so-silent debating, I finally mustered up the courage to go inside.

Walking into the crowded room, I didn't spend a lot of time looking at anyone in particular. Not letting myself look for
him.

I took off my coat and hat and hung them on the hooks lining the wall. I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them, and beelined to the snack table.

With slightly shaky hands I quickly poured myself a cup of tea into a Styrofoam cup and drank it in one gulp.

I hated coffee so I was glad for the weird herbal tea and honey instead. I promptly filled up my cup again. I then started to load up a plate with delicious-looking pastries. Whoever was in charge of the Mended Hearts group sure knew how to do refreshments.

Usually, at these sorts of shindigs, it was crappy Folgers blend and Walmart-brand chocolate chip cookies. I was in sucrose heaven. Even though I didn't have much of a sweet tooth, I liked to indulge on occasion.

Though I probably should be careful about the amount of sugar I ingest. Just the other day I had read an article about the hereditary predisposition to Type 2 diabetes. My hand froze in mid-reach.

I remembered my maternal grandmother being diagnosed in her later years and having to take insulin. She eventually suffered from a stroke as a result of complications from her illness.

I looked down at my junk-food-laden plate and lost my appetite. I quickly put the pastries back on the tray.

“I'm glad you finally made it inside.”

The uncomfortably close deep voice startled me. I looked up into pretty blue eyes I had been avoiding only fifteen minutes earlier.

I nodded, gripping my now-empty plate in my hands, my tongue suddenly thick and uncooperative in my mouth.

I could feel him staring at me. His eyes burrowing into my brain, looking for secrets.

“Not a Danish fan?” he asked after an increasingly awkward silence. Why was he still talking to me? My winning personality should have scared him off already.

“Uh, no. Diabetes,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. Ugh!

“Diabetes?” he asked, looking confused.

“Oh, you know, lots of sugar and genetic predispositions and all that,” I went on, figuring there was no way of saving this conversation, might as well just go with it.

The guy reached around me, grabbed a Danish, and dropped it on his own plate. He licked a glob of apple filling off his thumb as he looked at me in that same intense way he had outside.

Please oh please don't remember me…

“Well, no genetic predispositions here. So I better enjoy it.” Was he teasing? Then he smiled, answering my unspoken question. He was most definitely teasing.

I gave him a weak one in return and turned away, angling my body so that I was shielded from his penetrating eyes.

The room was full and the murmur of voices became louder. I stirred my tea and wondered if I should go find a seat. If the cute guy thought I would engage in conversation, he was going to be disappointed. I was the murderer of chitchat. My mouth was where small talk went to die. I typically ended up sharing uncomfortably personal details about my chronic night sweats and irregular hair grown in unmentionable places.

And then the moment came that I had been dreading.

The moment of recognition. The moment when I perished from extreme and excruciating humiliation.

“I know you,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in his throat. It was husky and soft at the same time.

“No, you don't,” I squeaked. Why couldn't my voice be all suave and sexy-like instead of sounding like a mouse sucking down helium?

Run, Corin! Run! Drop the delicious tea and get the hell out of there!

Maybe if that didn't work I could start flailing around like I was having a seizure.

“Yes, I do. You're the woman from the sidewalk. The one I helped out a few weeks ago,” he said, keeping his voice thankfully low.

The woman from the sidewalk?

Really?

Why not just call me the chick who had freaked out and ran away like an idiot? It had a nicer ring to it.

“I think you may have me confused—”

Then the well-intentioned bastard cut me off.

“You were having a panic attack. It was just outside Walker's Pharmacy,” he continued, and I started laughing uncontrollably.

“That wasn't me!” I wheezed, trying to stop snickering. Ill-timed giggling was a serious problem of mine. It was probably another symptom of my fading health. I was pretty sure inappropriate emotional responses were a sign of tumors…somewhere.

Mr. cute guy stared at me like I had lost my mind.

I have, oh hot one. Trust me.

“What's funny? Am I missing something here?” he asked, and I tried really hard to get myself under control. I covered my mouth and shook my head, scared to let myself speak.

I really shouldn't be allowed out in public.

“You scared me that day,” he kept on saying, and I wished he would just shut up. I darted a look around and was thankful no one was listening to this painfully uncomfortable discussion.

“Uh, look, I don't think—”

“I'm Beckett Kingsley. I guess we should be on a first-name basis by this point,” he interrupted me once again. Was this guy incapable of letting me finish a sentence? It was more than a little annoying.

“Oh, well, hey,” I replied lamely. What else was I supposed to say?
Thanks for helping me through just one of many embarrassing situations I find myself in on a regular basis? Thank you for now bringing up said embarrassing situation in a room full of complete strangers. You're a real peach, dude.

“What's your name?” he asked. His eyes were too bright. Too deep. It was hard to look at him. It was impossible to look away.

“Corin,” I said, fumbling with my name like a simpleton.

Beckett smiled. And when he smiled, it lit up his entire face. Damn. Those straight, white teeth were lethal.

Thank goodness I was currently immune to pretty faces and perfect smiles.

I gulped down the still scalding tea and dropped both the empty cup and plate on the table before backing away, palms out, as though to ward him off.

Stay back, evil fiend!

His smile faded and then vanished and was replaced with a frown.

“I really need to get to my seat,” I told him in a rush and all but ran to the circle of chairs in the middle of the room. Beckett stood beside the snack table, still frowning, and I felt like a total moron. I really should learn some social skills.

“Everyone take your seat. Grab a coffee and some refreshments and make your way to the circle,” a woman with abnormally large calf muscles and the shadow of facial hair called out from the front of the room.

I found myself seated between an older man wearing a flat cap and a Mickey Mouse watch and a girl not much younger than me who was furiously gnawing on her fingernails and smelled faintly of fried food. Great. Now I was hungry. I wished I had eaten some of the pastries.

But the diabetes, Corin!
I reminded myself.

“Mint?” Mickey Mouse–watch man asked, holding out a bag of pink candy. I shook my head.

“No thank you,” I croaked.

“They're really good. You should take a couple. Put them in your pocket for later.”

What?

To be polite, I dug my hand into the bag and took a few and then shoved them in my pants pocket.

I hoped I would remember they were there before I did the wash.

“I'm Geoffery,” Mickey Mouse man said.

“Corin. I'm Corin,” I muttered. Crap, this was small talk!

“Glad to meet you, Corin.” Geoffery gave me a smile, revealing several gold-capped teeth and a mouthful of chewed pink mints. He must really like them.

“Yeah,” was all I could say. Have I mentioned that I suck at get-to-know-you conversation?

Thankfully Geoffery started talking to someone else, leaving me to try to disappear into my chair.

I made a point to
not
watch Beckett join the rest of the group.

I sure as hell didn't notice that he took a seat beside an elderly woman wearing a flowered moo-moo.

And I most definitely didn't notice Beckett Kingsley most definitely noticing me.

Stop looking at him already and he'll stop looking at you!
I silently chided.

My chest felt tight and I found that I was having trouble breathing. I rubbed at a sore spot just above my left boob. It would be just my luck to drop dead of a heart attack in the middle of a support group for heart patients.

I rubbed a little harder as the pain became more pronounced. A small bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I really hoped to hear from Dr. Harrison today. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was something wrong with my heart. As I looked around at the room full of individuals with their own health problems, I felt sure that I was in the right place.

I glanced at Beckett again and our eyes met.

I looked quickly away.

“Hi, everyone! I see a lot of familiar faces, but a few new ones as well. For those who don't know me, my name is Candace Ramey and I have been a cardiac care nurse for twenty-two years over at Saint Luke's Health Center. I started this group five years ago hoping to provide community response and support for those who have experienced cardiac failure or have chronic cardiac conditions. This is meant to be a safe and compassionate place to discuss your experiences and your fears.”

I barely listened to Candace. I was staring a little too intently at her incredibly large hands. They were beefy and I thought I could see a sprouting of coarse, black hair below the knuckles.
Crap! She could crush a watermelon with those suckers.

I looked up and found that Beckett was once again watching me. What was up with this guy? Did I have food on my face or toothpaste at the corner of my mouth? I tried to discreetly wipe my lips. Subtlety was not my strong suit. He smirked and I dropped my hand back in my lap.

I didn't like his scrutiny. It made me nervous. I wasn't used to being the center of anyone's attention.

Finally Beckett shifted his eyes to Candace, who was still talking animatedly with her muscular man hands.

I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. The sore spot in my chest became more evident, and I could hear a rattle in my chest when I breathed.

“Are you okay?” Geoffery whispered. I gave him a pained smile and nodded. He patted my arm in a paternal way that I appreciated.

These groups had a way of instilling instant camaraderie. We were all bound by conditions we had no control over. And for that day…that week…however long I was able to stay until a diagnosis was invariably ruled out, it gave me a sense of belonging I didn't have anywhere else.