Butterfly Dreams (6 page)

“Well, I'd better get going. See you on Tuesday,” she said abruptly, attempting to put an end to any further conversation.

“I'll be sure to work on my tea preparation skills before then,” I said lamely. Corin gave me a strange look and arched an eyebrow.

“And I'll work on ways to blow smoke up your ass in order to appease your need for validation,” she quipped, and I laughed. Corin looked startled. Maybe she wasn't trying to be funny. But I couldn't help it. After a strained moment she was smiling again and then quickly covered her mouth as though embarrassed to be found enjoying herself.

“You do that,” I snorted, grinning at her like a fool.

Corin gave me a thumbs-up with an exaggerated wink. And then I was laughing even harder. She stopped trying to cover her mouth and laughed with me unabashedly.

We were laughing together.

Laughing over nothing and everything.

It felt fantastic.

I ran my hand over the sore spot on my chest and noticed Corin watching me with questions in her eyes, our mirth fading until it disappeared. The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

“Why do you touch your chest like that?” she asked bluntly after a time.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to mind her own business. But she wasn't asking to be nosy. She simply had a question she wanted an answer for.

So I pulled down the collar of my shirt to reveal the bandage. “It's my ICD incision,” I explained.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, her eyes glued to something she couldn't see. The thing that was meant to keep me alive.

“It's sore from the surgery but it's not too bad. But I've heard it hurts when—” I stopped abruptly. I'm not sure why.

“When it shocks your heart?” Corin filled in, and I was surprised she knew what it did.

I nodded, smoothing my shirt back over the bandage.

Corin was gnawing on her lip again, which was starting to look raw. Her brows were furrowed and she looked deep in thought. She started rubbing at her chest again, something I had noticed her doing during the group. Her dark eyes were clouded and worried. Her breathing was shallow and she looked pale.

“Are you okay?” I asked, wondering if she was having another panic attack. I took her by the arm and pulled her toward a bench and had to forcibly make her sit. She resisted my help and tried to pull away from me, but I kept my fingers locked around her upper arm, worried that if I let go she'd fall over.

“I'm fine,” Corin wheezed, and I didn't believe her for a minute. She was still rubbing at her chest.

“Take a deep breath. Tell me what hurts.” I knew firsthand the danger of ignoring the signs your body was trying to give you. If she was in this support group, then she had something seriously wrong with her.

She waved away my questions. “I'm fine. Just give me a minute,” she told me tersely, and I was reminded of that first time I had tried to help her. She had responded in much the same way. I was sensing a pattern here.

I was getting ready to suggest that she go to the hospital to get checked out when she stood up suddenly, all signs of her earlier discomfort gone.

“I have to go. Bye,” Corin said too loudly.

“Wait—”

She was gone before I could say anything else.

The apartment smelled like burned cheese and garlic.

“You're home late,” Sierra said as I walked in and dropped my keys in the dish on the table just inside the door.

“There was a lot going on at the office,” I told her, which was a total lie. Lately I had been making more and more excuses to stay late at the office. Even if it was one of the last places I wanted to be, it was better than being home. With Sierra and her cold hostility.

I had been trying to make an effort to be more patient and understanding with Sierra. When I found myself getting annoyed with her, I'd remind myself that she was adjusting to a changed life as well. That we were in a transition period.

But the constant mental pep talk didn't hold up very well when my girlfriend insisted on having her friends over to drink tequila late into the night when I had to get up early for work the next morning. Or insisting we eat Indian food for dinner when I had told her, more than once, that I had to cut a lot of overly spicy foods from my diet.

We fought all the time. Over small things. Unimportant things. Things that suddenly seemed to matter a lot.

So sitting in my tiny cubicle and staring at my computer screen was a hell of a lot more appealing than listening to Sierra complain about how I never go out anymore and how pissed she was that we couldn't go hiking like she wanted to.

“I made myself some lasagna. I wasn't sure when you were getting home so I didn't make enough for two. But you can check,” Sierra remarked offhandedly, loading her plate with food.

“That's nice of you,” I said blandly, going to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water, watching her as she cut into the very burned lasagna and feeling a little like gagging.

I hated lasagna.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sierra demanded, picking up on my tone. She whirled around to face me.

She was still dressed in her work clothes. And I could admit that I still found her attractive. Too bad her looks no longer overshadowed the less appealing parts of her.

“Nothing,” I muttered, not wanting an argument. I was tired. I had a headache. I just wanted to eat something and go to bed. Alone.

“Obviously it's something or you wouldn't have said it.” If I was trying to avoid a fight, it was obvious Sierra was gunning for one.

I stared at her long and hard and tried to remember what it felt like to love her.

And I came up empty.

There was nothing there. Not anymore. We were strangers. This was not a relationship that either of us wanted or deserved.

Sierra ripped open the cabinet, pulled down a plate, and slopped a pile of lasagna onto the plate, shoving it in my direction.

“Here. Eat it. Though I'm sure you won't like it. After all, nothing compares to your mother's cooking,” she spat out. The venom in her voice drew me aback.

What was her problem with my mom?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked, confused.

Sierra rolled her eyes. “Does it even matter?”

“Do you have a problem with my mother's cooking?” I really didn't understand what the hell Mom had to do with anything.

“No, I don't have a problem with your mother's
cooking.
Just how what I make is never good enough.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. Before tonight Sierra had never bothered to cook unless it involved a microwave. I wasn't sure when I would have had the chance to critique or compare her food-prepping skills.

“I hate lasagna.”

“Since when?” she scoffed, her eyes narrowed.

“Since always.”

The whole world knew I hated lasagna. But Sierra didn't. Or if she did, it hadn't mattered.

And right then, that stupid fucking lasagna said everything I couldn't about our relationship. That after almost two years, she had no idea what foods I hated. That she had never bothered to know.

Or even worse, she totally disregarded it.

I thought I had loved her once.

But I knew now that what I had once felt had nothing to do with love. It was attraction, sure. A sexual chemistry that had made it easy to overlook the less palatable sides of her personality.

But never love.

That was something I realized that I had yet to experience.

She took my plate with the lasagna I hated and walked it purposefully across the kitchen. She lifted the trashcan lid and dumped the contents inside.

“You don't have to do that—”

“It's not like you're going to eat it, Beckett. So what's the fucking point?” she yelled, slamming the dish in the sink with a loud clang.

“This isn't working, Sierra,” I said without preamble. I hadn't been expecting to say that. Not like this. But the words sort of tumbled out.

We've wasted so much time being miserable.

Sierra stood at the sink, her face flushed, her chest heaving. When she looked at me, her eyes were on fire. “You've changed, Beck,” Sierra said, sounding so, so angry. And she was right. I wasn't the same guy she met in the park all those years ago.

“I know,” I responded a little defensively. This was the crux of our problem.

I had changed. And she hadn't. And we just couldn't sync back up. Not that either of us was really trying to.

“You expect me to still be the Beckett who plays basketball with his friends and plans backpacking trips for the summer. I'm not that guy anymore, Sierra. And I know you can't be happy with the person I am
now.
”

Sierra snorted and rolled her eyes, which pissed me off. But since I was going through with this, I might as well attempt to do it civilly. Even if Sierra seemed incapable of doing the same.

“You're not happy, Sierra. I know that—”

“Don't put this on me, Beck. Don't you dare! This is all about you. You had that heart attack and you changed.”

“Damn right I changed, Sierra! I almost died! I don't think you get that!” I yelled back. I felt a brief stab of pain in my chest and knew I should calm down. I couldn't afford to get worked up.

Sierra threw her hands in the air. “You think I don't know that? You won't let me forget it! It's there, all the time! Your heart attack. Your poor, pitiful heart. Woe is me. Wah, wah, wah. Cry me a fucking river! Well, screw you, Beckett!”

I pressed my palm over my chest and took a deep breath, willing myself not to fly off the handle. I felt light-headed again and closed my eyes briefly.

Think about pink bunnies and pretty beaches,
I thought.

Sierra continued to scream at me and I just breathed through all of it, hoping I wouldn't keel over at her feet because I was damn sure at this point she'd leave me there to die.

“Look, I'm not going to argue about it. If you could stop yelling for two minutes and think about it rationally, you'd see I'm right. You don't want to be here with me. You don't want to be shackled to a guy who can't do the things you want him to do.”

Sierra narrowed her eyes. “I would have been happy to be
shackled
to a guy who couldn't play basketball on weekends or go backpacking in the mountains. It wouldn't have bothered me one bit, Beck.”

She dropped her plate in the sink where it cracked into pieces. If that wasn't symbolic, I didn't know what was.

“I just don't want to be shackled to
you,
” she spat out.

“Okay then,” I muttered, not even hurt by the truth I had already known.

“And to think I was feeling a little guilty about Caleb!”

Wait. What? Who the hell was Caleb?

“Guess I shouldn't have bothered hiding the fact that I've been screwing him for the past three months!” she shouted and then stormed from the room.

There was a lot of banging and slamming from the other side of the apartment. I didn't follow her. I didn't want to escalate the fight further. Maybe I should have demanded to know who the hell Caleb was. But honestly, I just didn't give a fuck. The fact that she had been sleeping with another dude didn't really matter. Sure, my pride was hurt a little, but my heart was fine. Not even a scar.

It was sad that after being together for so long, after sharing a home and a life, I couldn't care less that she had been getting spread-eagle for the mysterious Caleb. I was just relieved that she was leaving.

The pain in my chest subsided. I sat down in a chair and listened as Sierra tore apart our bedroom.

I covered my mouth to try to stop myself from laughing. And failed.

Because this whole thing was pretty damn funny.

Sierra was in the other room, throwing things around, yelling at the top of her lungs as though I had just told her I was leaving her for her best friend. She was doing her best to play the part of the spurned girlfriend when she had, in fact, been cheating on me for months.

The irony was hysterical.

I was still laughing when Sierra came back to the kitchen, two bulging duffle bags in her hands. She scowled at me as I tried to stop snickering. “What's so funny?” she demanded.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“I may have broken the stereo in the bedroom. Oops,” she told me, glaring.

I started laughing again. She was that ridiculous.

She threw her hands in the air in frustration. “I don't think this is funny, Beck! I'm leaving! Don't you get that?” she shrieked.

I schooled my face into a more neutral expression even as my lips continued to twitch. “Yeah. I get that.”

“I'm going to Caleb's,” Sierra announced with a sneer, wanting to hurt me. “He's my boss, just so you know.”

Of course he was.

“He has a house by the river and a summer home on the beach. He wants to take me hang gliding next weekend.” Why was she still here?

“Well, have a good time,” I said.

“Ugh! You're such an asshole, Beckett! Good luck finding another woman to put up with your bullshit,” she huffed. “And don't bother to call me ever again. I'll come get my stuff when I know you're at work. And don't think you're keeping the TV! It's mine!” Sierra yelled a few minutes later.

Like I cared about the TV. I just wanted her to get the hell out already. This had been a long time coming, and all I could feel was relief that the moment was finally here.

“I deserve so much more than you,” Sierra seethed.

“I hope you found it with Caleb,” I replied, trying to sound sincere. I don't think I succeeded.

Sierra glowered and then stomped out of the apartment.

And when the door closed, I felt better than I had in a long time.