Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ELIZABETH
Butterflies but Not Goodbyes
At the sudden bounce-drop, I’m startled awake.
“Turbulence,” Fallon reassures me. “Nothing to worry about.”
I loosen the white-knuckle grip I didn’t realize I had on his forearm and roll my head on his shoulder to look at him. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep.
Slightly embarrassed that I used him as a pillow, I sit up and try to finger-comb my hair into submission.
Fallon’s private jet is different from the one I flew in before.
It’s more like a luxury motorcoach with wings.
There are sleeping quarters in the aft with a king-size bed and a mid-sized bathroom.
The middle of the plane where we’re sitting is more like a living room with a comfortable U-shaped sectional piled high with throw pillows, and the rear galley next to the bedroom has a small kitchen and a service bar.
“How long was I out?” I ask, glancing over at the row of small windows. Nothing but sunny, blue sky.
“We’ve got another half hour before we land.”
I slept for almost the entire eight-hour flight? Did he even move during that time while I was practically draped over him?
A pretty redhead, who introduced herself as Tricia when I boarded, approaches. “Can I get you anything to drink or eat?”
I’m starving, but caffeine comes first.
“Coffee would be wonderful.”
I’m pulled catty-corner on the couch when Fallon grabs my ankles and lifts my sock-clad feet onto his lap.
“Make that two,” he says.
Fallon digs his thumbs into the arches of my soles, and I melt like butter into the leather cushions. Dear god.
“You talk in your sleep.”
I don’t even want to know. My dreams are always of Ryder.
“I’ll take that over snoring.”
He wiggles my big toe. “You do that, too.”
I smack him on the arm. “I do not.”
Do I? Ryder never said anything.
Tricia sets a tray down on the narrow coffee table in front of us and lifts a lid to the sugar dish to reveal yellow sweetener packets, then removes a small stainless-steel cloche from a plate of pastries that smells divine.
“The scones were made fresh this morning.”
I glance at Fallon. He remembered my addiction to cinnamon scones and how I like my coffee.
“Stop staring, Kitten. It’s rude.”
I don’t give myself an opportunity to question my motives before blurting, “Come for dinner tonight.”
“I don’t want to freak out your kids with their mother bringing a strange man home from Italy.”
“You won’t.” Even though my children have never met him, they know him. I made sure of it. “Besides, it’s not up for discussion,” I add, giving him no choice.
I won’t let him seclude himself in his giant mansion and retreat from the world like a self-exiled recluse.
Biting into a warm scone, I ask with my mouth full, “Do Aurora and Trevor know you’re coming?”
I never got around to replying to Trevor’s text.
By the time I got back to my hotel, I fell face-first onto the bedcovers and was out like a light.
Emotional exhaustion is real and kicks your ass worse than any type of physical exertion—and seeing Fallon again was absolutely emotionally exhausting.
Last night was also the first time in three years I slept for more than two hours without waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares.
Fallon casually drapes one arm over the back of the couch and sips his coffee. “The Montgomery grapevine travels faster than the speed of light.”
“So, you didn’t tell them.”
He half chuckles. “Trust me. They know without me having to say anything. Sometimes, I think Aurora must have put a tracker on me at some point.”
I can see that actually happening. Aurora and Fallon share similar horrific childhoods. Her upbringing forged her soul into steel and made her into a force to be reckoned with. And just like her half brother, she is fiercely protective of the people she loves.
Needing to stretch my legs after sitting for so long, I stand up and bend over at the waist to touch my toes.
Daily yoga and Julien’s morning “death” runs have kept me limber.
However, life as a single parent of three keeps me busy enough, so the mornings I’m able to drag myself out of bed at four thirty aren’t as often as they used to be.
I catch Fallon checking me out before he quickly averts his gaze.
“How long are you planning to stick around?” I ask.
I want to know if his sudden reappearance has an expiration date. There is still so much for us to talk about and time to make up for.
“Depends.”
Raising my arms overhead, I bend to the side. “On what?”
He keeps me waiting while he takes an inordinately long amount of time to drink his coffee.
“Stuff.”
That’s not helpful at all.
Fallon’s non-answer suspends in the space between us, maddeningly vague, yet so fitting for the man who always carried secrets. A secret for a secret , he would often say.
“What stuff?”
He shrugs a shoulder, and I decide not to push.
Tricia comes back and starts cleaning things up. “The pilot informed me that we’ll be starting our descent.”
Sitting down, I secure the seat belt around me and move Fallon’s hand from the back of the couch. I’ve been dying to get a closer look at the new ink he’s gotten.
I trace the artwork up each finger to his wrist. “When did you get this done?”
Fallon unbuttons the cuff and rolls up his shirtsleeve to his elbow, exposing a beautiful floral design of vines and small flowers that look like climbing jasmine.
“I got full sleeves done the first time I went to New Zealand.”
I sweep the pad of my thumb over the lone butterfly, its wings outspread in flight and almost identical to the broken, blue butterflies that cover my old scars.
“It’s gorgeous,” I reply.
My fingertips tingle as they explore his skin, and I feel a tug I haven’t felt in years.
The ache of my husband’s absence remains ever-present in its permanence, yet here Fallon is, back in my life and resurrecting feelings I thought I would never experience again.
Happiness pulses through the cracks of my heartache, but it’s shadowed by fear.
What if he leaves? If he disappears again, I don’t know if I can endure the emptiness he left behind the first time.
But what if he stays?
My chest compresses with the question I’m not ready to answer.
“Why a butterfly and not something more masculine like a skull or a cobra?”
I’m joking, of course, but when I lift my eyes to Fallon’s intense blue gaze, every molecule of oxygen gets sucked right out of my lungs.
“You know why,” he quietly replies.
I think I do, and that’s what scares the shit out of me.