Page 65 of Butterfly

I pushed it open. He lay on the couch, shirtless, eyes closed. As I slowly moved toward him, I gasped. Bruises peppered his ribs and abs, barely visible now, but they’d be black and blue tomorrow.

“Can you get me the ice out of the freezer?”

I grabbed it for him, and crossed to the couch. But instead of handing it to him, I carefully pressed it on his chest, feeling a need to help, to soothe his pain.

“What happened?”

He cracked open an eye. “Had some extra aggression to get out today. Things got a little heated during practice.”

“Why’d they get heated?” I asked, moving the ice pack to another part of his chest as he sighed.

“Someone said something I didn’t like. Had to make it clear they weren’t going to say it again.”

“What did they say?”

He opened his other eye but didn’t say anything.

“Oh. You mean they said something about me.”

He shrugged, then groaned. “They won’t do it again, butterfly.”

“We talked about this. You can’t beat up anyone who says or does anything bad to me.”

He raised a hand, brushing it down my cheek. “Watch me.”

Feeling awkward at the touch, and the heat that spread through me, I moved away, leaving the ice pack to slide down his chest. “Where are your roommates?”

“Emory has a night class and Matt is at his boyfriend’s. There’s Thai food coming. I got you Pad See Ew.”

My favorite. Once again he knew all my secrets; I wished I knew all of his.

But what could I say? Other than: “Thank you.”

He waved this off. “I’ve realized that feeding you is one of my greater joys in life.”

“Mason. You can’t talk that way.”

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry. “We should get started on the outline. C’mon, come sit. I won’t bite.”

Sure, like I believed that. Still, I sat, leaving space between us and feeling disappointed when he didn’t try to fill it with his body against mine. And angry at myself for feeling disappointed in the first place. We worked for a while, talking through the project, until the food came.

I got up to get it, serving it onto plates and bringing them to him on the couch. We ate silently, until:

“How are you?” he asked.

What was he even playing at?

“How do you think I am?” I asked him.

“I assume relieved, and feeling free, now that I’m out of your life. Or maybe I’m wrong, and you’re regretful. Lonely, even.”

I glared at him, started to get to my feet, ready to get the hell out of there. His hand shot out and gripped my wrist. It felt like a shackle, and what’s worse was that I liked it.

“Stay, Leslie.”

“Or what?” I asked, my heart speeding up.

“Or I’ll make you stay.”

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