Butterfly Dreams (8 page)

There was only so much positivity I could stomach.

I rubbed at my chest that for the moment didn't hurt. “I have a heart problem, Dr. Harrison. I know that's the issue,” I argued, feeling my face grow hot.

Dr. Harrison didn't say anything. But he stared at me for a long, long time. Long enough that I started to feel extremely uncomfortable.

“I am not ruling out a heart issue, Corin,” he placated, pulling out a pad and writing on it. He ripped the top sheet off and handed it to me. I looked down at his messy script and saw that it was a prescription.

“What is this for?” I asked suspiciously.

Dr. Harrison tucked his pen back into his shirt pocket and took off the glasses that had slid down his nose and laid them on the desk. “I'm prescribing you a very mild antianxiety medication. If these panic attacks are occurring frequently, then this could help. You only need to take half a pill when you feel the first symptoms of a panic attack.”

“I don't think I need these,” I said, trying to hand back the prescription.

Dr. Harrison shook his head. “Corin, we have to examine all possible causes for your heart problems. Severe anxiety can often mimic heart issues. Have you ever spoken to a counselor about your anxiety? I can provide you with a referral, make a phone call—”

“No!” I shouted and felt embarrassed by my outburst. But I didn't apologize. Fuck that.

Dr. Harrison did the staring thing again that was starting to seriously get on my nerves. “Let's make another appointment for next week and we can talk about some more tests,” he said finally.

I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. That sounds good.”

“Make an appointment on the way out. And Corin, just have the prescription filled and hang onto the medication. There's no shame in admitting that you need help in managing your anxiety. I really think it's important that you address the root of what's causing it.”

I didn't want to argue about it and I certainly didn't want to talk about it any longer. I simply nodded and got to my feet. “I'll make that appointment. See you next week, Dr. Harrison,” I responded quickly, wanting to leave before he started trying to shrink me.

I hurried out to the lobby, my head bowed, eyes trained on the floor. I still felt shaky. My heart was thumping wildly and I felt bruised and battered from the inside out.

Another anxiety attack.

Just great.

I felt sick to my stomach and I debated whether I should just go home and spend the rest of the day in bed with hours of
Grey's Anatomy
on the DVR.

I really didn't want to deal with anyone.

“Corin, hey!”

Because the universe didn't already hate me enough…

I looked up and almost groaned out loud. Beckett stood at the reception desk, leaning casually on the counter, a bright smile on his pretty, pretty face. He must have gone to the same school of perky as Dr. Harrison's nurse. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Taking Pilates,” I muttered.

Beckett chuckled and moved aside as I pulled out my wallet. “I need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Harrison for next week,” I said a little sharply to the receptionist who seemed unfazed by my rudeness.

“You see Dr. Harrison? He's pretty good. I go to Dr. Callahan,” Beckett announced as though I had asked. I tried to ignore him. Even though standing so close to him had my stomach doing the nausea dance again. Fluttery wings tortured my insides and I fought the urge to smile at him. Stupid, traitorous mouth.

Beckett waved his hand in front of my face. “Hello! Anyone there? Cat got your tongue?” he asked, and I swatted his hand away.

“Personal space, dude. Seriously,” I snapped even as my lips quirked and attempted to curve upward. There was no way I was going to let on that his charm worked on me.

“I'm here dropping off some insurance information to Lynn, my all-time favorite receptionist. Just in case you wanted to know,” Beckett went on.

“Yeah, I didn't. But thanks for the update,” I deadpanned. I wouldn't look at him. If I did, it would all be over. My poor stomach couldn't deal with any more flipping and rolling.

I purposefully gave Lynn my full attention.

“I'd like something in the morning if possible,” I told her. Lynn seemed amused by the scene between Beckett and me.

“I'm getting the impression that you're trying to ignore me,” Beckett observed when I still wouldn't talk to him.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I snarked as I handed the receptionist some cash to cover my co-pay. “Thursday would be great,” I told her, angling my body away from Beckett and his overeagerness.

“You don't like me, do you,” Beckett stated and then shoved his way into my space again. His lack of personal boundaries was starting to become a problem. He jerked his thumb in my direction and widened his eyes dramatically at Lynn. “She doesn't like me, Lynn. Can you believe it? Me! Everyone loves me.”

Lynn, who was an older lady with frizzy red hair and lipstick on her teeth and looked like someone's granny after a three-day bender, gave Beckett an indulgent smile. She patted the back of his hand. “Not everyone is as susceptible to your honeyed tongue as I am, sweetheart.”

I rolled my eyes and feigned annoyance. I certainly wouldn't tell the irritating man in front of me that my problem with him had absolutely
nothing
to do with not liking him.

Lynn leaned in toward me and dropped her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I don't think he's going away until you talk to him. He's relentless.”

Beckett grinned at her and leaned over the counter to give her a loud kiss on the cheek. “You know me too well, Lynn.”

The cooing receptionist pulled out a small bowl of wrapped sweets and held it out. Beckett grabbed two and offered one to me. I shook my head. Beckett shrugged, unwrapped both, and popped them in his mouth.

“Did you have a good appointment?” he asked, his words muffled by the candy.

“My god, is this question and answer hour?” I asked, sounding cranky. Lynn snorted and I smiled at her. I was enjoying the banter between Beckett and me. Though I'd never admit that out loud.

“It's official, Beckett, here's a woman who won't swoon over your witty personality,” Lynn teased, taking my money and printing off a receipt.

Beckett laughed again and this time I let myself look at him. He seemed so happy. So content. I couldn't understand how someone with such a serious ailment could afford that sort of emotion.

But here he was, joking and goofing around, and it was hard to not be pulled in by his mood.

“Are you waiting to see your doctor or are you leaving?” I asked abruptly.

“So you can't answer my questions but I'm supposed to answer yours?” he joked, his blue eyes sparkling. I should probably have been embarrassed at my lack of manners, but my foot had made a home in my mouth and seemed to be comfortable there.

“Answer it or don't. Whatever,” I muttered, turning away from him and back to Lynn who was clicking away at her computer.

“So is there anything open next Thursday morning?” I asked, tapping my fingers on the counter in an anxious, uneven rhythm.

Lynn looked at the computer screen. “How's 9:30?” she asked.

Beckett was watching me and not even trying to hide it. I felt twitchy under his intense gaze and wondered what it was about me that interested him so much. But I didn't dare ask.

“That's fine. Thank you,” I said to Lynn, trying to be more polite than I had been up to that point.

The receptionist handed me a small card with my appointment time on it, and I stuffed it into my purse. “Okay, well, see you next week,” I said lamely and proceeded to slink away as fast as I could.

“Corin, wait!”

I looked over my shoulder to see Beckett following me. I stopped, knowing that if I didn't, he'd just run to catch up with me. Lynn the receptionist was right. Beckett Kingsley was relentless.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Beckett asked randomly.

“Uh, well…I…uh…” Words got lost somewhere between my brain and my lips.

“If you don't, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a tea or coffee or whatever. There's a shop next door,” Beckett offered, and I stared at him, blinking, mouth open and closing like a damn fish.

“Uh. I…uh…”

Beckett held the door open and put his other hand on the small of my back. “After you,” he said, and I startled at the brief physical contact. My skin sizzled. I burned.

Just from the touch of his fingers through cotton.

I hurried outside, his hand falling away and I tried not to be sad about that.

“I should get back to my studio,” I protested weakly. I wasn't sure I could survive drinking anything with Beckett without dribbling it down my chin and stuttering like an idiot.

Plus I didn't do
coffee.
I didn't make a habit of sitting with people I didn't know, discussing the weather and politics or whatever it was normal twentysomethings talked about.

God knows what sort of things would come flying out of my mouth when I least expected it. If I wasn't careful, I'd end up telling him about the new rash on my ass, or the fact that I currently had sweat dripping between my boobs.

“Come on, one cup of something or other won't make you too late,” he urged, and I found myself following him next door without another thought. It was entirely too easy to agree to whatever he suggested.

I wasn't sure why this good-looking, obviously very likable guy wanted to spend time with me. Maybe he was insane. Or perhaps he was luring me into a false sense of calm before he kidnapped and killed me. Some serial killers were known to be very charming and seemed like everyone else.

I'd have to keep a close eye on this one. I didn't want to end up stuffed in his trunk.

I also wondered if he still didn't harbor some strange responsibility complex after helping me all those weeks ago.

That seemed worse than the possibility of him being a raging lunatic.

“You don't have to talk to me, you know. Just because you helped me that one time doesn't mean you have to be my friend. And if you're planning on kidnapping and killing me, I carry pepper spray,” I warned, pulling the shiny metallic tube out of my purse.

Beckett held his hands up. “Whoa! No killing. Just hot beverages. Promise!”

I put the pepper spray back into my purse, feeling foolish. “Then I'm not sure if you're suffering from some sort of savior complex, but this,” I waved my hand between us, “isn't necessary. I'm not looking for pity friends.”

I sounded so defensive. I couldn't help it. I felt like this was all a great, big joke. That at any moment a bucket of pig's blood would drop on top of my head and I'd be left looking like an idiot.

It had happened enough times in my life that it wouldn't have been surprising. Well, not the pig's blood but definitely the idiot thing.

Beckett stopped walking and looked at me as though I had grown a second head. “You've got quite the chip on your shoulder. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice,” I admitted, shrugging.

“Look, I'll be honest, that day I helped you during your panic attack really got to me. I don't make a habit of worrying about complete strangers but I worried about
you.
” And there it was again. The fluttering. The nausea. Why did he always make me feel like upchucking?

He stopped just outside the coffee shop, turning to face me. “Maybe it was the fact that I could relate. That I'd been there. I wanted to know you were okay.”

His blue, blue eyes met mine again and I froze. Then I thawed.

Then I sort of melted into a giant puddle of Corin Thompson dribbling on the ground.

“But that's not why I'm asking you to come drink a hot beverage of your choice with me.” Beckett ran his hand over his messy brown curls. “I guess I just like talking to you. Like maybe you get it.” He tapped his finger over his chest where I knew he had the cardioverter implanted. “About this. Because you're dealing with your own stuff and maybe mine isn't such a big deal.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “But if I'm weirding you out, I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I just don't believe in missing out on opportunities anymore.”

“Opportunities?” I asked, not understanding.

He flushed a little, almost like he was embarrassed, and it was endearing.

Because Lynn was so, so wrong. I totally swooned over Beckett.

I was
charmed.

“To make a really great friend,” Beckett answered, giving me that sweet, confident smile that he flashed indiscriminately.

“Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?” I said. And I meant it. For whatever reason this man wanted to be around me.

It felt
nice.

So I walked into the coffee shop beside him.

And it was natural.

Like a heartbeat.

Like a butterfly's wings.

Like
normal.

“Whatcha havin'?” Beckett asked once we approached the counter. I looked up at the menu with way too many options, the words blurring in front of my eyes.

What the hell was a frap? A macchiato? Americano, grande, chai. It was gibberish.

I didn't drink coffee. And I sure as hell didn't frequent coffee shops. I wasn't sure what I wanted. Did I want anything? Crap. I was pretty sure I hated all coffee. Even the horrible chocolate-flavored stuff. Why had I agreed to come to a freaking coffee shop when I hated coffee? Was it too late to make an excuse and go home? I was really tired. I just wanted to lie in bed and watch reruns of
Judge Judy
. Maybe I could fake a fever. Or start dry heaving. Would that be too gross?

“Corin, there's smoke coming out of your ears. It's just a drink. I'm not asking you to devise a plan for world peace,” Beckett teased, and I glared at him.

“I like to take my time,” I retorted.

“Um. I'll have a…uh…latte?” I posed the statement more as a question. As if the bored-looking barista would confirm that I did indeed want a latte.

Wait. I hated lattes. I had felt pressured and put on the spot, so I ordered the one thing on the menu that would definitely make me want to vomit. Just great. I had ordered a five-dollar cup of coffee that I wouldn't drink. Awesome, Corin. Way to be cool.

I was such a dumbass.

The barista punched in my order while she chomped on her gum that looked ready to fall out of her mouth. I stared at her in disgust that she completely ignored.

“And I'll have a hot green tea and honey,” Beckett ordered, pulling out his wallet.

“Want anything else?” the girl with worse people skills than me asked.

“Want any cake? A muffin? Some cookies? How about a panini?” Beckett rattled off.

“Uh, no, I'm fine,” I replied.

“Oh, right. Diabetes,” Beckett said seriously, and I felt mortified that he chose to bring up my brain-to-mouth malfunction from when we had first met. I needed to learn to not be embarrassed by the dumb stuff that I did and said. Because as it was, I spent most of the time wishing I could crawl under a very big, very heavy rock.

“Here, let me give you some money—” I started to say, rooting around my purse for some cash.

Beckett put his hand on top of mine and I stiffened instantly. And then I relaxed. Leaned in. Damn it! He made me feel strange. Odd. Uncomfortable. Pleased.

Twisted into knots.

Get it together, Corin!

“It's on me. I invited you, remember?” Beckett dropped his hand and I took a step back. I needed some distance even if every fiber of my being argued that distance was the last thing I
wanted
.

“Uh, thanks,” I said, gripping my hands together and feeling awkward. A few minutes later Beckett handed me my unwanted coffee and motioned for me to find a seat. I chose one close to the door. Not a booth. That would be too intimate. I needed a table with chairs on either side of me and a napkin dispenser and salt and pepper shakers between us as a barrier.

After we were seated, Beckett scooped the tea bag out of his cup and dropped it on the saucer, stirring the liquid until it started to slosh over the edge.

“I didn't take you for a green tea kind of guy,” I observed, picking up my mug of coffee and bringing it to my lips. I took a small sip and tried not to shudder.

Beckett shrugged, still stirring his tea. “I can't have a lot of caffeine. It reacts with the medications. Plus, as I'm sure you know, it makes your heart beat faster, which for a guy who suffered from cardiac arrest four months ago, isn't a good thing. Green tea has some caffeine but not nearly as much as a cup of coffee.” He sounded so blasé. So bland. So unaffected.

Unconcerned.

But I could tell that was all a lie.

“Right. Of course,” I fumbled.

Beckett took a drink and made a face. “I miss coffee though. A lot.”

And there it was. The sadness.

I remembered the way he had looked that day in the park as he watched his friends play soccer. It was mirrored now on his face.

Bitterness. A touch of anger.

Regret.

It was a momentary slip in his happy-go-lucky façade that bled through before he could stop it.

A moment of truth I could tell he didn't want anyone to see.

But I saw it.

And I felt lucky he had shown it to me.

Then it was gone and the smile was back in full force.

I picked up my spoon and absently swirled the unpalatable liquid in my cup, trying to think of something to say.

“I hate coffee,” I announced a little too loudly.

Beckett frowned. “Then why did you order it?”

“Because I was nervous and I say dumb stuff when I'm nervous.” I didn't know how to choke back my honesty. It came out unbidden, whether I wanted it to or not.

At least I hadn't told him about my bra that was a size too small and currently digging into my ribs.

Beckett was doing the staring thing again and I had to look away. There was something about his gaze that was just too much.

“You don't need to feel nervous. Especially around me,” he said softly.

“Don't get up on yourself. Everything makes me nervous. Car insurance commercials make me break out into a sweat,” I responded breezily.

Beckett laughed. “What about grocery stores? I get the heebie-jeebies when I have to go.”

I made a show of shuddering. “Yeah, I'm a wreck venturing down the produce aisle.”

Then we were smiling. At each other. Together. Laughing.

When was the last time I had really laughed?

I couldn't remember.

“Keep Corin away from grocery stores and don't let her watch insurance commercials. Okay, I've got it. Anything else I should know?” he asked, drinking more of his tea.

“You got all day?” I raised an eyebrow.

“For you? Absolutely,” Beckett replied, and I beamed. Seriously. I actually
beamed
at him. Who was this girl and where did she come from?

Beckett reached across the table and pulled my cup toward him. He leaned down and sniffed the steaming beverage. “Did you just smell my drink?” I asked, laughing incredulously.

“Damn straight I did.” He sniffed it again and there I was, laughing again. Loudly. A little stilted but from the gut.

“Do I need to give you two a moment?” I joked.

Beckett sat up and pushed the mug back toward me. “No, I think we're good. Just letting her know I haven't forgotten about her.” He glared down at his drink. “I'll try not to hold it against you, green tea. But you're just not as good as my girl coffee,” he pouted, and I rolled my eyes.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're pretty ridiculous?”

“No, actually. I'm not known for my wacky and zany personality,” he laughed.

“I feel special then.”

Beckett shrugged. “I guess you bring it out in me.”

“One of my many talents, I suppose,” I said.

“I can only imagine,” Beckett smirked, waggling his eyebrows, and I shook my head.

I cleared my throat, feeling a little off balance and sat up straighter in my seat. “So you see Dr. Callahan?” I asked, searching for a topic we could discuss easily. Our physical ailments seemed the simplest direction.

Beckett's smile dimmed a bit. “Uh, yeah. Have been for a while now. But I don't have another appointment for a couple of weeks when she checks my ICD,” he replied, pushing his mug to the side.

“Is it strange knowing that thing is there, under your skin?” I asked, scratching a spot on my arm compulsively.

“Not any stranger than having my entire life turned upside down because of a condition I never knew that I had.”

He didn't sound upset. He didn't sound bitter.

Just matter of fact.

“What
is
your condition? You mentioned some letter before but I don't have a clue what you were talking about. I Googled it and was hopelessly confused,” I said and immediately bit my tongue. Way to admit that I was interested in knowing more about him!

“You Googled it?” Beckett asked, looking amused.

I shrugged and tried not to look as mortified as I currently felt.

“That's pretty awesome actually,” he mused, his eyes soft with an emotion I didn't entirely understand.

He started piling packets of sugar. Making elaborate structures that eventually fell down. He didn't seem made uncomfortable by my question but wasn't in a rush to answer it either.

“I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry. Forget it,” I fumbled, trying to backpedal as fast as I could.

“No, it's okay. I appreciate you wanting to know more about it.” Beckett's answering smile was a little pained but totally natural. Easy.

He knocked the sugar packets over and then rebuilt them. Slowly. Taking his time. “I have a genetic heart defect called ARVC. I won't bore you with the long name. But it messes with my heart rhythm. I didn't know I had it until I almost dropped dead from the heart attack.”

There was a touch of anger in his voice, but he brushed it off with an indifferent shrug.

“Wow. That has to be tough.”

Clearly that was the
wrong
thing to say. His mood instantly changed and his affable demeanor morphed into irritated frustration.

Beckett stiffened. “You don't have to feel sorry for me.”

I drew myself upright, his tone making me defensive. But more than anything, I didn't want him to think I felt
sorry
for him. Yeah, I sympathized but I honestly didn't pity him. Not one little bit.

“I
don't
feel sorry for you.”

Beckett looked at me incredulously, like he didn't believe me.

“I'm used to it, Corin. It's nothing new, all right.”

“Yeah, I feel
bad
that you're going through that. It sucks. But you seem to be the last person in the world that needs anyone to feel sorry for him. I think you seem to be handling things pretty well considering.”

“Yeah, considering I'm a dead guy walking, right?” he scoffed, swiping the pile of sugar packets, knocking them over.

“Wow, I thought I had the market on pessimism. I should have known your Suzy Sunshine bit was total crap.”

Beckett blinked a couple of times, staring at me, and then he relaxed. His mouth curved upward and his eyes started sparkling again.

“You don't have any sort of filter, do you?” he asked.

“Filter? What's that?”

Then we were smiling at each other again. The anger and the tension were gone.

“It sucks though, doesn't it?” he asked after a few minutes.

“What sucks?”

“The doctor's appointments. The never-ending questions about how you're feeling. The sympathetic looks when they find out what's wrong with you. The whispers. The doubts that you're really okay. It gets old. I try not to get down but being jabbed with needles and going through tests every few weeks is a buzz kill,” he said with a sigh.

“I hate going to the doctor. I hate the tests and the questions. I hate that my friends, my family, they all look at me like I'm going to fall apart at any minute. That when they look at me, they don't see Beckett Kingsley, they see a body in a hospital bed with wires and tubes everywhere.” Beckett gritted his teeth together and I found that I couldn't look away.

From his truth.

His honesty.

His everything.

But then his face smoothed out and he relaxed once again. He took a deep breath and lifted his hands into the air in mock defeat.

“But what can you do? Whine about it? Wallow in self-pity? That's not how I roll. I can't change what's happened, only what I do from here on out. And one thing I won't do is be miserable with the time I have left.”

He left me a little baffled. I didn't understand how he could be so calm. So resolute.

“How can you be so damn optimistic? Why aren't you more upset? Don't you get angry? Or at least mildly pissed off? How in the hell can you sit there and talk about this stuff with a freaking smile on your face? Do they have you on antidepressants or something?” I scoffed.

Beckett gaped at me for a second and then slapped his hand on the table, startling me. Shit. I had overstepped again.

But he didn't yell or become angry. He started laughing so hard that he was literally snorting through his nose.

“Are you okay?” I asked, getting concerned when he began to gasp a bit. He pressed his hand over his chest, fingers touching the bandage I could see peeping out from his collar.

“Seriously, Beckett, are you all right?” I asked. His face was red and he almost seemed to have trouble breathing. Was I going to have to call 911?

Beckett shook his head. “I'm fine,” he wheezed.

“What the hell was all that?” I demanded, irritated when he finally calmed down.

“In the last four months since my cardiac arrest, no one has ever asked me those kinds of questions.” I frowned, not understanding what he was saying. Beckett rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sure, my doctors ask how I'm feeling. If I'm short of breath or light-headed. They want to know about chest pains and dizziness. My parents coddle me and think I'm made of glass and my friends make a joke about it.” Beckett looked out the window, his blue eyes hooded, his brow furrowed. He wasn't laughing anymore. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't jovial and optimistic.

“No one has ever asked me if I'm upset. If I'm angry.” He turned back to me, his eyes meeting mine, and I couldn't look away.

“But you, a complete stranger, ask the things that no one else will. It's nice.”

“It's
nice
? So that's a reason to have a damn fit and freak me the hell out?” I frowned.

“Don't be so serious, Corin. Life's too short. Trust me.” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. Fingers curling. Palms pressed. Touching. Holding.