Page 101 of SNOB

“Come on, come on,” I whisper, the time for the screen to light feeling like eons.

You’d think I’m on uppers the way my eyes dart around the room, my legs shaking. A brick lays near the elevator and while I wait for the phone to charge, I run across the room and grab it. If this goes sideways I’ll need to fight with whatever I have left.

Bing!

From where I stand, I see the phone light up before I move back to it, hopping over a crate.

My phone lights up with messages and notifications. The number ninety-nine fills the red circle above my texts and calls. But there’s something else on my mind first.

After tapping the QuickGram icon, I type in the hashtag I saw on the wall. When it loads, my back hits the cold brick, my hand coming to my mouth.

My artwork is everywhere. New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Madrid. Different work. All with the same hashtag and that little drawing of me.

Gripping tight to the phone keeps it in my grasp as I read the caption on a piece almost as big as a billboard. I’ve never seen a picture of my mom so huge.

“Found the guy behind the #FindTheButterfly project. Now to find his butterfly.”

Mac stares at the camera, those iron eyes boring into me even through the picture. A man stands next to him in a beanie with a wide smile, his arm around Mac like Mac is some celebrity. My eyes drift to the location.

Brightbrook.

It’s the town over.

He’s looking for you.

Time slaps me in the face when I see how old these posts are. He’s been looking for me since I left.

Time. Something I don’t have much of.

Tapping my messages, I’m floored when I see the last one from Mac.

Mac: I promise I will find you, Butterfly

It doesn’t read threatening or disturbing. It reads earnest. Despite what I did.

A heaviness lifts off my chest, my body filled with a feeling I haven’t felt in a while.

Hope.

I scan the rest of his messages.

Mac: Don’t ignore me

Mac: You’re worrying me, Ember

Mac: Don’t be fucking selfish

Mac: You are mine. Always

After everything? My eyes blur, and this time it’s not from whatever Picasso feeds me.

There’s a message from Greta and my heart skips when I see her name.

Greta: Im sorry things were so weird between us. Mac told me everything. Pls come back

A tear falls from my eye. She cares. They care.

My head pops up as a laughter comes from a distance. Low. That Russian accent follows.

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