Page 77 of Butterfly

“You’re right, I do like Emily.”

“Great.” I clenched my jaw against the tears that threatened to fall. Of course he liked her.

“I like Emily just fine,” he continued. “Don’t care if she’s around, certainly not going to save her from a burning building. I like her, butterfly, but I loveyou.”

“Oh.” My heart started racing. He’d said that before. “But if you loved me, you wouldn’t have lied to me. You wouldn’t have drugged me. You wouldn’t?—”

He cut me off. “You’re thinking of sitcom love, romcom love. Antiseptic, perfect, not messy at all. Boring. That’s not real love, butterfly. When I say I love you, I mean the messy, dirty, dark, obsessive, can’t think about anything or anyone else, don’t care about anything else, kind. I’minlove with you, butterfly. That means I’ll do anything to make you happy, and safe, and mine. That might mean something else for another man, but the only man you’re getting is me, so the only kind of love you’re getting is mine.”

I couldn’t admit it out loud, but his was the only kind of love I wanted.

29

MASON

It took everything I had, but when Leslie was feeling better, I let her leave on her own. I didn’t pretend to let her go, only to follow her back to her dorm and break in while she was sleeping—although I considered it. I didn’t have cameras in her room anymore (I hadn’t been lying), so I had no idea what she was doing. But she’d softened toward me so much while she’d been hungover, I didn’t want to destroy the new softness by forcing or sneaking my way in.

Emory and Matt had approved.

“She needs to know she’s free to make her own choices, bro,” Emory had said.

She wasn’t. If I didn’t think that I wasthisclose to her admitting she loved me, if I wasn’t positive that she was going to choose me, I would never have let her leave.

And.

If I were honest with myself, I wanted, no,neededthat from her. I needed her to choose me. I’d keep her even if she didn’t, but my stupid heart, the masochistic fucking thing, wanted herto tell me she loved me, to decide to be with me, despite the way it would affect her reputation or fuck with her idea of right and wrong.

So I’d let her leave with a kiss on her forehead and a promise to come to hockey practice later that day.

Now it was later, and I was regretting my words. We were in the middle of a scrimmage, first string against second string. And we were kicking ass. The puck was mine, and I was skating toward the other team’s net, 90% of my focus on scoring, 10% on Leslie’s absence. This was my moment to prove myself—to the team, to Coach. I wanted her here to witness it.

So far, she was nowhere to be seen.

Where was she?

“Head in the game, Calloway!” Coach called.

Fuck.

He was right.

The first string goalie was watching, eyes on the puck, on me. If I was a more basic player, I’d try to fool him with a single deke, or some amateur head fake. But I wasn’t some basic player, and I was going to perform as if Leslie was in the stadium.

Approaching the net at a slower speed, I faked a shot to the left. The goalie raised a glove to intercept it, but I’d already pulled the puck back across my body before flicking it into the net. It sailed right past him.

The Datsyuk Deke. It was my favorite move, and it had worked.

There was cheering from the stands.

“Fuck yeah!” I said, proud, but my heart wasn’t in it, because as I scanned the rink, I didn’t see Leslie anywhere.

Dejected and angry, I lined up and congratulated the first string on the team. The center pulled me in. “Play like that, and I’m going to have to watch out for my spot,” he said, before clapping me on the back.

“Thanks, man,” I said.

A woman whistled. I looked up, and there was…Emily, walking down the stairs toward the ice, wearing a jersey with my number, 42, on it.

It was how old my mom was when she’d died.

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