33. Wings, hearts, some things are meant to be torn apart
33
Wings, hearts, some things are meant to be torn apart
Moth
I felt free.
I didn’t feel fear for the first time in longer than I could remember, and nothing was holding me down. The wind blew through my hair, and the remaining sun rays beat down on my shoulders.
There was a very real and heavy chill in the air, and by the time I pulled up outside my dad’s house, I was shivering. Throwing the car into park, I pulled the key out of the ignition.
Was I ever going to stop thinking of it that way? As my dad’s house?
It was my house now, wasn’t it? When would see it as that? It was going to take a long ass time.
Maybe by the time the baby gets here.
I snorted at the thought. It had been weeks since the masquerade ball, and nearly two since the day I’d found out Tommy was the one behind it all, and we’d had a varietal fuck-fest on his living room floor, and there was no sign of a period—yet there was also no sign of pregnancy.
Sitting in the front seat of my car, I looked up at the stained glass window above the door and squeezed my boob—first one, and then the other.
Nothing.
No ache. No twinge. No pain.
Shrugging, I kicked the door open and grabbed my purse off the passenger seat.
Whatever. It would happen when it happened.
If it happens, the voice in my head reminded me, and I sighed.
Maybe it was because thirty was just a couple of years away. Everyone looked at me like an old spinster already, but I was beginning to fear it would never happen. Before, I didn’t care, and it hadn’t bothered me to think I would never be a mom.
But now?
Now I looked around the yard, taking in the long, tufted grass in desperate need of mowing. I imagined little brown-eyed kids running around beneath the oak tree, and swinging from the tire swing that I was determined to re-hang, and now that I had someone to want it with? I wanted it. I wanted to be a mom.
Even if it had started as something else entirely, whatever I had with Tommy had transformed into something else.
He spent every waking moment doing anything and everything for me. He was here more than he was gone, and the house was finally starting to take shape—inside, anyway.
Was it a relationship?
Not really. I didn’t think, anyway .
He hadn’t asked me. But did he have to? He stalked me. Was that the same as asking me out?
Was he my boyfriend now?
I wrinkled my nose, standing beside my little red convertible and looking out over the grass that transitioned into the fenced horse pasture and beyond.
Was my stalker my boyfriend ?
Again, I wrinkled my nose, and a little harder than before.
No, that was weird. I was not too fond of that.
Maybe I didn’t like the word? Was I too old for a boyfriend?
Was he too old to be a boyfriend? After all, he was, what, eleven years older than me? Or something.
This was weird. I didn’t like this.
Shaking the thought from my head, I stepped up to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Brown paper bags glared up at me, hating me as much as I hated them.
I hated grocery shopping. I hated putting it away, and I hated cooking it.
I wanted to cook dinner for Tommy.
He cooked for me. He bought groceries for me, and he bought dinner more times than I could count, and I wanted to do something for him.
Growing up, my mom made an amazing pot roast, and in one of my cleaning rages, I’d found the recipe handwritten on an index card and stuffed into one of her old, well-worn cooking books. My dad had tried and failed to make it himself. Now, I wanted to try.
It couldn’t be that hard, right? Read the writing on the paper and do that thing. That couldn’t be that bad, could it ?
I guess we will find out.
Gathering the bags in my arms, I used my flip-flopped foot to slam the trunk shut and moved toward the porch when something against the dark, rusted screen door caught my eye and I stopped. A white slip of paper fluttered in the cool fall breeze, flapping against the screen and rustling gently as I moved up the steps.
A stone of dread dropped down into the pit of my stomach, and I fought to shake it away. Tommy was being funny. That’s all this was.
Then why didn’t it feel like that?
I bent, gently depositing the rustling bags at my feet before I grabbed the paper and ripped it off, feeling goosebumps rising on my arms. This handwriting was different. It was small and neat, not the hurried, rushed spidery writing I was used to.
I’ve been waiting for you, Butterfly.
Did you miss me?
I’ll see you again real soon.
I shivered, tucking the note into the back pocket of my jeans before pulling the screen door open and unlocking the front door. I let it swing open, my movements rushed and fumbling as I grabbed the paper bags and slung them into the foyer, before jumping in behind them and locking myself in, hearing the telltale sound of the screen door slapping against the frame when the wind finally gave it up.
This didn’t feel right. This didn’t feel the same .
Something felt horribly wrong, even if I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
Someone or something had immediately ripped away the freedom I felt. I was a moth with my wings pinned by a cruel child, a magnifying glass clutched in his other chubby hand, intending to burn off my fuzzy antennae and leave me there to squirm. Standing there, my toes curled against the rubber of my flip-flops as I pulled the note out of my pocket and read it one more time.
“Butterfly?” I mumbled, my mind working in clumsy circles.
No. No, that wasn’t right. This wasn’t Tommy.
I had never been Butterfly to anyone but my dad. He called me that sometimes, reminding me that it was what my name meant.
I was his butterfly, but my dad was gone.
A shiver raced down my spine as I crumpled the note in my fist and shoved it back into my pocket, my other hand reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone. I flipped it open and went straight to my contacts, finding the little black heart that I’d never bothered to change. Tommy was at the station, but I knew he’d get my text, eventually.
Are you trying to be cute, or do I need to start freaking out?
I stood there staring at the screen, waiting for the checkmark to pop up that told me he’d read it. After a few minutes of staring, one thumb shoved into my mouth as my teeth pulled at a hangnail that had been bothering me, there was still nothing. Clicking my tongue, I shoved the phone back into my pocket and sighed.
I couldn’t just stand here forever. I needed to start cooking .
Shaking the thought from my head, I grabbed the bags and hauled them into the kitchen, slinging them onto the table as I started unpacking them. Beef brisket, Worcestershire sauce, gold potatoes, flour, beef broth, cooking sherry, yellow onions, garlic, various spices, and a bottle of Coke.
I swiped the recipe off the counter and squinted at it. When I was content that I had everything, I replaced the recipe on the counter where it would be safe and double-checked that everything was there. I dropped to my knees and started fishing for my mom’s roasting pan in the cabinet. It took a minute to find it, hidden in the shadows and spiderwebs, but when I finally pulled it out, I felt a twinge of nostalgia.
I missed her even more, now that I was here in this house and on the verge of having a family of my own.
What would she say if she was here now? Would she be happy for me?
Should she be happy for me?
It was a little odd, wasn’t it? Why was I okay with it? Maybe something inside of me had finally snapped. A screw had come loose and released my crazy into the world.
I snorted, carefully getting to my feet and plopping the pan down on the stove with a satisfying clang.
Even if it was an unconventional meet-cute, I would make my mama proud. I would be the type of mom I wished she had had the chance to be. I would be there for my child’s first day of high school, I would be there for their wedding. I would be there for the day they went into labor with their own child and—
I stopped, just as I turned to the counter and laid my hand on the package of meat waiting to be plopped into the pan.
I was possibly soon to be pregnant with my first child, and I wouldn’t have my mom here to teach me anything.
I’d have to do it all by myself and learn everything on my own. I would have to—
The sudden vibration of my phone in my back pocket pulled me out of my thoughts and I jumped, pulling it out. I saw my little black heart staring up at me, and instantly I felt better. I swiped ‘accept’ and held the phone to my ear.
He was talking before I even had a chance to speak.
“What happened?”
The growl of his voice in my ear still sent shivers rocketing up my spine, and I swallowed hard. All my feelings of uncertainty, and wondering if I was doing the right thing floated away the second I heard his voice. He was my rock, my safety. He was the protector I hadn’t even known I’d needed, even if his way of showing it was different from most.
“I came home from the store and there was this note on the door. I thought it was you, but it says ‘Butterfly’, and I—”
“I’m on my way.”
“No! No, wait.” Biting my lip, I looked over at the meat on the counter and sighed. I’d worked so hard. I wanted it to be a good night.
“Why?”
“I was trying to make this surprise for you, and I—”
“And I appreciate it, but your safety is the most important thing in the world to me, and wild horses couldn’t keep me away. ”
Even though I opened my mouth to retort, the line went dead, and I sighed again. I glared over at the meat on the counter as I shoved my phone back into my pocket. With a shrug, I picked up the package and tore off the cling wrap, dropping it into the pan with a satisfying plop that sounded wet and maybe a little messy.
Fine. Maybe it wouldn’t be a surprise, but I could still try my best.
And so I got to work, reading my mom’s faded little index card over and over again, adding salt and spices and liquids. I cranked the heat up to medium, just like the recipe said. Before long, the kitchen was full of nostalgic scents and I started to think that maybe, just maybe, I could do this.
Maybe I could have that little bit of my mom with me, even if she was gone. Maybe I could still feel her comfort, and if I had it myself, I could pass her memory along without her even being here.
It smelled amazing, maybe not the same as the way they were when mom was alive, but close. Maybe when I added the Coke?
“Look at you, Moth. My perfect little wifey.”
I jumped when I heard his voice, spinning on the spot, my fist clutching the wooden spoon as if it would save my life.
Hell, it wouldn’t even save my vagina from the intruder. What the hell was I thinking?
Tommy stood in the doorway grinning at me.
“Shit!” I bit out, releasing a whoosh of breath and letting the tension flood out of my muscles. “How the hell do you keep doing that?”
From the doorway, his lips split into a sadistic grin, his brown eyes dancing with glee. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed across his chest and his shoulders practically bulging out of his brown leather jacket. That very same jacket, once upon a time, had terrified me to no end.
Now it had become my home.
“I have my ways,” he said with a shrug, still watching me. “But the problem is, if I have ways… anyone else determined enough will have their ways.”
I sighed. He was right.
Maybe it took a stalker to know a stalker. I almost laughed at the thought.
He turned away, his arms dropping to his side as he turned into the foyer.
My brain stopped, backtracking and reminding me of the things he had said. The word he had said.
Wifey.
“W-wait. Wait!”
He turned, one hand on the frame of the door as he turned back to look at me, concern shadowing his eyes. He looked at me expectantly, but all I could feel was the blush rising in my cheeks and the anxiety sitting like a heavy weight on my chest.
Why did he still have this effect on me? After everything we had been through?
“Yes, princess?”
I shivered and forced myself to turn, balancing the spoon across the pot to free my hands. When I turned back to him, there was an expression on his face that I couldn’t quite place .
I tried to look into his eyes, but I couldn’t. Instead, I studied the floorboards and the way they didn’t quite sit flush together the way they should.
“Wh-what… are we?”
My voice sounded foreign, hard to place.
Had that really come from me?
“What do you mean?”
It was a simple question, but it stopped me in my tracks.
“I mean,” I whispered, licking my suddenly dry lips. “Are you my… boyfriend ? My future baby daddy? I’m wearing a collar, that means—”
“That means I am your daddy, and I will take care of you. Always.”
“But what does that mean ?!”
I didn’t mean for my voice to rise or for the tears to prickle in the corners of my eyes, but they happened anyway.
I heard the sound of his heavy boots stepping across the room, and before I knew it, I felt his fingers dip below my jaw and pull my eyes up to meet his. The minute those deep whiskey-shaded hues encased my heart, I couldn’t look away. I very nearly couldn’t breathe.
“It means I love you, my Little Moth.”
“Y-you said… " I gulped, feeling like a sandy beach had suddenly taken up residence in my mouth. “Wifey. Does that mean… ?”
“Does that mean I want to marry you? Yes. I do.”
My breath sucked in in a deep, shocked gasp.
Fuck. Fuck, I hadn’t been expecting this.
“A-are you…asking me? Is this you— ”
He chuckled, a low grumble in his throat that hit me straight in the groin.
“No, baby,” he said softly. “Not like this. But if I were… ?”
“I’d say yes.”
The smile that folded his lips was something I wasn’t sure I had ever seen from him, and the heart in my chest lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Good,” he said, leaning down to me and placing a single, soft kiss against my lips. “Now that I know that, it may be sooner rather than later. But for now? I need to check the house and keep you safe. So keep playing little homemaker, and daddy will be back.”
He left me standing there, breathless, as he walked out of the room. Before I knew it, I heard his boots walking around the house.