“I know.” Lucy bit her lower lip, pondering. “Lara,” shesaid after a momentary pause, “do you want to help me write?”
“Help you write?”
“Yes.” Lucy tilted her head. “That typo you spotted—”
“Ugh…yeah. Sorry about that.”
“No,” Lucy smiled, “I want you to do it again. Proofread for me.”
“Really?” Lara narrowed her eyes. “Is that a good idea? You might get upset again.”
“I won’t,” Lucy promised. “I love you too much.”
Leaning in, she kissed Lara on the lips. The kiss lingered, and as it did, all the angst and heartache of the day dissolved. No lasting harm, everything was fine. And now that Lara was going to proofread for her, she might even make that deadline and—
“No, no. That’s all wrong,” I slap the heel of a hand against my forehead. “That’s far too stylised, not realistic at all. And I can’t possibly end it likethat.” Huffing, I delete the last sentence and read what remains. “Blah, blah, no lasting harm, everything was fine. Full stop. That’s more like it. Focus on the relationship, not the book’s deadline!”
I scratch my head. I should take my own advice.
Feeling meditative, I save the file and log off. I’ve written more than I thought I would, under the circumstances, but I can’t write anymore. Not with our disagreement still unresolved. Besides, this story’s not what I’m supposed to be writing. It isn’t part of my novel.
Not that it matters. How can I write without you? I look at my watch and quickly calculate that it’s one hour and, let’s see…thirty-eight minutes since you left. You’re really letting me stew, aren’t you?
My phone, sitting on the dictionary, hasn’t made a sound. I try not to panic, but I’m painfully aware that the longer the silence lasts, the greater the possibility that our relationship will be permanently damaged. I couldn’t bear that, not oversomething so silly and entirely my fault.
Ican’tlet it happen.
Grabbing the phone, I click the green call icon and scroll to my recent calls list. I know what I have to do, but the prospect scares me. What if you shout or worse, don’t answer at all? I place a finger over your number, letting it hover, poised. I draw a deep breath…
I want Lucy and Lara’s ending. I want you to walk through the door, flowers in hand, words of love pouring from your lips. I want to throw myself into your arms, knowing everything’s all right. Better still, I want to go back, delete my stupid, thoughtless words and rewrite them—edit, revise, replace my outburst with words of gratitude and love. But I can’t have either. I can’t change what’s happened, the past is the past, and Lucy and Lara are only characters, romanticised projections of what I want, not what I’ll get.
I look at the phone in my hand, a finger twitching over your name. I can shape what happensnow. Pressing dial, my hands tremble, and when the call goes straight to voicemail, I fight to keep control. My throat’s tight, but I have to speak; it’s too important.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. When you get this, call me. Or come home, we need to talk. I love you.”
I disconnect, and my hand, holding the phone, flops to my side. All I can do now is wait and hope you interpret my message as one of heartfelt love. I’ve done you wrong, I know that. I’ve neglected you and taken you for granted, and not just today.
“I won’t do it again,” I whisper. “I promise. Please forgive me.”
I nearly drop the phone when it vibrates and rings, and my heart skips wildly when I see your name emblazoned on the screen.
Please…
Hopes soaring, I offer a prayer of thanks and answer your call.
What the Butterflies Witnessed by Wren Valentino
Earlier that morning when he stepped outside of the five-story college dormitory he’d been calling home for the last three and a half years, Jonah was trying to convince himself to skip the planned field trip, even though Professor Munoz was his favorite teacher. The wintry weather felt more brutal than brisk, which was the way the weather app on his phone had described the plummeting icy temperatures. His jacket felt thin and his black knitted scarf kept rubbing against his unshaven face, adding to his growing agitation.
Longing to return to the overheated dorm room upstairs and spend the rest of the day feeling more unsure about his post-college future, Jonah decided he needed to show up and experience what Professor Munoz had promised would be a transformative experience. He found his way to the subway station, boarded a train, changed trains downtown, and arrived at the glass-domed butterfly conservatory nearly an hour later.
Relieved to see the familiar faces of his classmates, he nodded and smiled when they greeted him. Most were clutching to-go cups of coffee, while one of them reeked like cheap whiskey.
I’d be happy with either right now, Jonah thought.
“Hello, Jonah,” Professor Munoz said when she saw him. Her voice was always warm and had a maternal quality to it. This only made Jonah miss his mother even more, even though she’d been gone for over three years. At least she’d made it through chemo long enough to be there when his acceptance letter arrived.
“I’m so proud of you,” she’d said when he read the letter aloud to her, sitting next to her bed in the overly lit room in the otherwise gloomy hospice.
