Page 37 of Butterfly

“Please.” Her lips are pressing together firmly. “It’s hard for me.”

“Talk to me. Every time things get tough, you either run or clam up.” I take her hand.

“I told you. It’s not personal. I don’t usually talk with people about me.”

“Is that why you don’t have friends?”

Her glare is sheer fire. “You’re crossing a line.”

“Fine.” I can’t force her, but dammit, her silence bothers me.

She needs to talk. Maybe not to me, but someone. Anyone. Whatever she’s bottling up is going to explode, and it won’t be pretty.

“You’re angry,” she whispers.

“Because I care.” I’m about to release her completely when she snuggles close and wraps her arms around me, confusing me again. It takes me a moment to return the hug. “I don’t understand.” I hold her, burying my face in her hair. What the hell am I going to do with her?

“Neither do I.” Before I can say anything, she unwraps her arms from me and stands up. Her face is a harsh mask. “I’ll see you on Saturday.” And with this, she walks away from me, taking a piece of my heart and my sanity with her.

Twelve

Sienna

I CHECK MY reflection in the mirror again.

The week flew by. But it also seemed like an eternity. While Dart recovered well from the surgery, Alex sent me texts and called me every day, even though I…yes, ran away again, I guess. Between Alex’s busy schedule and my work, we didn’t see each other. He’s mad at me. Can’t blame him. Still, he can’t expect me to overcome nearly two decades of fear in a few weeks. But do I want to? My brain is about to explode.

Tonight, the dinner at Tyler’s isn’t a date but something similar. Tyler agreed to have him, but only because he knew Alex’s presence would make me happy.

I’m waiting for Alex to pick me up at my house—he insisted—while I’m deciding if the green satin blouse I’m wearing reveals too much of my back. Can’t even remember why I bought it. I turn around and glance over my shoulder. The depth of the back neckline is a little lower than I like, but not an inch of scarred skin shows, and if I keep my hair down, nothing should be visible.

The front neckline dips between my breasts, showing more than a hint of my cleavage, heightened by a bow of fabric in the front. I move around in my black boots to check if the blouse betrays me, but my skin is fully covered. The boots match the colour of my tight trousers. That’s the best I can do with my wallet and patience, but at least I nailed the smoky eyes this time. I think.

I jolt when my phone gives a loud ring. It’s Alex. I click the button on the intercom and unlock the door, opening and closing my hands to push down a rising wave of anxiety. A huge, massive bunch of flowers precedes him. Red roses, white daisies, and snowy baby’s breath hide his face. The thing is so big, it could pass for a moving jungle.

“My word.” My mouth hangs open when his bright smile appears from behind the bouquet.

“For you.” He steps inside and hands me the ridiculously big bunch of flowers.

The tight blue shirt that stretches over his broad chest doesn’t escape my notice though. Or those jeans that cover his powerful thighs. Or the way his grey eyes change colour when he smiles. It’s like his eyes can’t decide if they want to be blue, green, or silver and keep shifting from one shade to another.

For a moment, I stay there, the flowers in my hands. Even my anxiety is stunned. “Thank you. They’re gorgeous.” Unbidden, a tear slides down my cheek. Not sure why I’m getting emotional. It’s not even that time of the month. I wipe the tear away but not quickly enough to hide it from Alex.

“What’s wrong?” He shuts the door and cups my cheek, concern drawing his eyebrows together.

I let out a shaky laugh that’s probably making things worse. “It’s the first time I’ve received flowers.”

His frown deepens. “How’s that?”

“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure this is the most magnificent bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen.” An awful choking noise gets past my lips.

His thumb strokes my cheek until I stop the pitiful show.

I flash a smile. “Thank you. I love them.” Still smiling, I step back from him and head to the counter.

He nods and gazes around the flat, which doesn’t take long. He could cross the room that functions as the kitchen, dining room, and sitting room with two long strides. The only bedroom is big enough to accommodate the bed and the wardrobe. The bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub—not enough space for that. And every time I sit on the toilet, I touch the shower with my toes while practically hugging the washing machine. Yeah, I know that device intimately. But hey, the flat is all mine—once I finish paying for it—and is in central London. I can’t complain. Besides, it’s cosy with the dark-brown sofa matching the patchwork curtains and the wooden floor. Housework is a piece of piss. The neighbours aren’t that bad either. And as Virginia Woolf said, a woman must have a room of her own.

At the kitchen counter, I search for something big enough to contain the small forest. Gosh, it’s heavy. The glass jar currently filled with spare coins isn’t big enough. The flowers would topple over. The pot I use for cooking the soup should do the job.

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