Page 48 of Butterfly

“But isn’t she pretty?” Maggie waves at the picture again, and my serious face is enlarged.

Gosh, I wish the sofa would swallow me. How embarrassing. According to YouTube, two million people are watching my picture right now. I hope that there isn’t anyone who knows me among them.

“Don’t be shy,” Emily says, a hand hiding her mouth as if she’s being discreet. “We had a row aboutthatgirl. Tell the truth.”

Alex crosses his legs and leans back, casting a disinterested glance at the picture. “I don’t remember ever having met her. What do you think?”

I think my appetite is gone. I put the bowl on the coffee table and cut the volume, shutting up whatever Emily is about to say. A side of me is aware that Alex didn’t mean that. Of course he knows my name, and dammit, he kissed me. But again, the cold spearing through me is also real enough. Old insecurities resurface to choke me. A voice inside me whispers that no matter what I do, no one will love me. My mum left me. My foster parents hated me. Why would Alex care about me? I rub my numb arms, trying to ignore the malicious whispers in my head. It’s rubbish. I know that, but my emotions didn’t get the memo.

Cold shivers run up and down my back. The sound of footsteps thunders in the flat. I curl into a corner of the sofa and bend my legs, fighting the urge to look behind me. There’s no one behind me. I’m alone with Dart in my flat. No one is coming. My breath comes out in hard pants, and sweat chills my skin.

Footsteps. I shiver. Little whore.

I’m alone. There’s n-no one behind me. I rock back and forth. All rubbish.

Dart’s warm, raspy tongue finds my face. His whimpers reach my ears. I breathe through the darkness closing in on me. The sound of the footsteps is fading. He snuggles closer, his big wet nose slipping under my arm as he demands my attention. I dig my fingers into his thick fur and stroke his strong neck as he presses his nose against my face until a shaky, shattered laugh rocks me. It’s a weak laugh, but the footsteps stop. The whispers die. My heart beats more easily, and the noise of the traffic returns.

Dart doesn’t protest when I hug him and rest my head on his back. His steady heartbeat thumps against my chest as he remains still only for me. His warm, fishy breath caresses my neck. I jolt when my phone rings. With a final sticky stroke of his tongue on my face, he jumps off the sofa and sniffs the phone, his ears up.

Suddenly, my mouth becomes dry. Alex is calling. The screen shows another random video. How long ago did the interview end?

With a trembling finger, I accept the call. “Alex.” My voice cracks with the anxiety still coursing through me.

The sound of a sharp breath comes from the other end of the line. “Sienna, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am. Thanks for calling.”

“I don’t know how they got that picture.” The angry vibe coming from him travels all the distance between L.A. and London in a heartbeat.

“It doesn’t matter.” I shiver again.

“It does.” There’s a moment of silence. Only his breathing can be heard. “You know why I said that I don’t know you, don’t you?”

“I do. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Dammit, Sienna!” A thump sounds, as if he smacked something. “Of course I worry about you. Stop saying that I don’t have to worry. I care. A lot.”

“Mr Knightley?” a voice calls from the background. “We need to go now.”

“Sienna…”

“You’re busy,” I say, pulling my knees closer to my chest. “We’ll talk another time.”

“We will.” Another pause stretches. “Believe me.”

“Have a nice day.” I close the conversation, the soup rebelling in my stomach.

He cares. He wouldn’t have called otherwise. The whispers always lie. I won’t listen to the voice inside my head. It’ll return when my guard is low—when my confidence shatters at the next blow. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m strong. Yes.

I lean back on the sofa, letting a lonely tear slide down my cheek.

~ * ~

AN ACHE POUNDS in my head.

Despite the fact that I had a decent night’s sleep, my body feels heavy and my fingers sluggish. It takes me two attempts to enter the details of a new patient into our database at the clinic. Dart is curled up next to me, raising his eyebrows every time a dog barks or a cat hisses in the lobby. If the smells of the clinic bother him, he doesn’t show any signs of distress. Last night he slept next to me, snoring and occasionally kicking his legs during a wild dream. In the morning, he came to the clinic, showing the enthusiasm dogs do everything with. I’m going to miss him.

“When was Terry born?” I ask the woman standing in front of the main desk, holding her terrier in her arms.

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