Page 32 of Fresh Start
“Come on, or she might run off without us,” I said.
Us. Why did the word make my skin hotter and cause a lump in my throat? There was no us. There could never be an us. Not again.
Dawson nodded and walked inside, leaving me to admire the tight ass he’d acquired as part of his fitness regime for all his movies.
Damn. Even after everything, I still wanted him, didn’t I?
The conservation center had definitely been given an upgrade since my last visit because it now boasted a digital surround system, informative tablets, and all sorts of interactive tech. According to the guy giving the tour, a kind resident had made a contribution a few years back to preserve the center and protect the local species.
When I looked at the plaque dedicated to the resident, I recognized my father’s name. “Paul Karagiannis,” it read. “Patron of Cedarwood Beach Kaleidoscope.”
“Is that a relative of yours?” Dawson asked standing next to me and looking at the plaque himself.
He remembered my real last name? Flashes of the past suddenly took over of my teaching him how to say my name, how to spell it, and what it meant. It was teaching it to him that made my decision to assume a screen name final.
“My dad, yes,” I told him without turning to him.
“Papou loves the Butterfly Festival,” Summer said, papou being the Greek word for grandfather. “He says they remind him of Yaya Nicoletta. I can’t believe he’s not here for this year’s.”
Mom. Mom had been such a hippie. Her entire life revolved around nature. And her kids. She loved all of us.
Her love was so large and infinite that she’d convinced Dad to adopt another child, even though they already had four children and a house full of horror.
The Butterfly Festival had been her idea after being involved at the center. She had been integral during the first few, organizing everything and raising the money needed to protect the Mobjack Monarch.
“She loved butterflies,” I said to Summer. “You know, years ago, they wanted to knock this place down and build a mall in its place.”
“What? No way. Why would they do that?” Summer asked.
“It was a different time back then. But your Yaya Nicoletta tied herself to the front doors along with two of her friends and refused to move unless the bulldozers drove off,” I said.
The memory was fresh in my mind as if it’d happened yesterday. Watching my mom at only seven years old fighting for what she believed in had changed me.
That day she became my very own superhero. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up, and I’d been looking forward to the day that my mom would see me be my true self, fighting for what I believed in and be proud of me.
“What happened then?” Dawson asked, and I turned to find his gaze boring into mine, hot and sweet and so soothing that it made remembering her a little easier.
“The mayor came and tried to get the chains off them, but my dad stepped in and punched him. So the police came, and so did the media. Dad was arrested for assault, the media painted my mother and her friends as heroes of the First Amendment, and the mayor had to back down and send the bulldozers away.
“Ever since, this center has remained standing in this place, stronger than ever, protecting the local butterflies and helping them pollinate, reproduce, and transform,” I said.
“And that is why our very own local Monarch is called Nicoletta,” the tour guide said, and I turned to him to find the entire tour watching me.
Crap. I hadn’t meant to take away from the tour. I’d only wanted to tell Summer her own personal history.
“Sorry,” I said to the guide, but instead, he smiled at me.
“It’s always fascinating to hear the personal stories that shaped this town,” he said. “Thank you for sharing. Now, if you’ll all follow me, we can go into the habitat where the butterflies are acclimatizing to nature before we release them into the wild next week.”
Summer jumped on the spot and clapped her hands together.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” she said and took both our hands to drag us behind her.
All the while, I could feel Dawson’s gaze on me.
I wanted to turn around and tell him to fuck off. To concentrate. To get the thought out of his mind.
I didn’t want him, and he certainly didn’t want me anymore. We only had to put up with this tour and then not have to speak to each other ever again.
