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He narrows his eyes.
“I’m serious. I’m a huge Owen McKay fan. How do you even know him?”
“We grew up together in Phoenix.” Now he shifts his gaze out the window.
“That’s really cool. Hey. You should see if he’d donate something to the auction. A signed jersey! We could get it framed.”
Ryder shrugs. “I might be able to arrange it.”
“I’ll text Whitney and tell her. Seriously, that item would slay.”
Thirty minutes later, I pull into a familiar place. The colorful signs in the parking lot guide me to the appropriate place to park.
Ryder exhales in resignation. “The butterfly gardens?”
I beam at him.
He sighs.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t have come,” I protest.
“Well, obviously. I thought it was going to be something cooler.”
“What’s cooler than butterflies?”
“Are you kidding me right now?” He diligently studies me. “I can’t figure out if you’re being serious.”
“Dead serious. This is my favorite place in the whole city.”
I shut off the engine and the sounds of Horizons disappear. We get out of the car, Ryder with visible reluctance. There’s a small hut outside of the building where you can buy tickets, but I gesture for Ryder to bypass it. I reach into my wallet.
“We don’t need tickets. I’m a member. And you’re in luck—my annual fee covers one guest per visit.”
“You have a yearly membership to the butterfly gardens.”
“I told you, it’s my favorite place. I come here all the time.”
I flash my card to the person at the gate, and then we walk into the indoor conservatory, a.k.a. six thousand square feet of sheer heaven. Immediately, I feel my entire face light. I happily take in the sight of butterflies against a tropical backdrop. The beautiful colors all around us. Shimmery pastels to iridescent blues, with browns and yellows and reds thrown into the stunning array. I brought Mya here once, and she said it made her feel like she was inside a rainbow. I think she meant it as a compliment?
“Honestly, this is how I picture heaven to be,” I tell Ryder, the lightness in my chest creating a spring to my step. “Look at it. Have you ever seen anything prettier?”
I glance over to find his blue eyes, vivid in their own right, fixated on my face.
“What?” I say self-consciously.
He clears his throat. “Nothing. You’re right. It’s nice here.”
I grab his hand and urge him forward. “Come on.”
We amble past a koi pond framed by lush vegetation and a bubbling waterfall. Lots of people decided to visit the gardens today. We pass a group of parents with their young children bounding along the winding paths. We dodge a hand-holding couple standing at one of the feeding stations. They’re watching a small orange and black monarch sip on some nectar.
“I don’t get you,” Ryder says gruffly.
“What’s not to get?”
He shrugs.
“No. Tell me.”
“You’re just…not how I figured you’d be,” he admits.
“Okay. And how did you figure I’d be?”
“You know, this super serious hockey player with a one-track mind.”
“I can be serious about hockey and still have other interests.”
“Like butterflies,” he says dryly.
“Why not butterflies?” I gesture at all the beautiful creatures fluttering over our heads. “Look how gorgeous they are.”
We wander toward a new path, this one quieter because there’s no children. A few feet ahead, a pink-haired lady is photographing a yellowish-brown butterfly perched on a leaf.
Ryder gives me a sideways look. “I just realized…I’ve never seen you take any pictures.”
“Should I?”
“It’s weird. I usually can’t go one day without seeing a chick taking a picture for social media. I saw a bunch of cheerleaders the other day posing in the quad for, like, a million shots. One of them kept poring over each picture and then ordering her friends to redo it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, my camera roll is filled with a gazillion shots. I just don’t take pictures here anymore because I’m pretty sure my last butterfly pic count was ten thousand, and I’m not joking. As for posting the pictures I take, nah. I’m not a social media girl.” I cock my head at him. “I assume you don’t have any social media either?”
He starts to laugh.
“Yeah, dumb question.”
“You know better, Gisele.” He shrugs. “I’m surprised you don’t have it, though.”
“Why is that surprising?”
“Because you’re a chick.”
“So that automatically means I need to be posting bikini pics and selfies? Fun fact: sometimes you can take pictures and just keep them for yourself without including the rest of the world.”
“I’d like to be included in the bikini pics. How do I opt in?”
I grin. “I’ll start sending you weekly shots.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“And I used to be on social media,” I remind him. “I still have the accounts, but they’re either private or deactivated. My old friend went after me pretty hard. That’s when I realized I don’t want my whole life online. All these moments belong to me. Not anyone else.” I wave at the butterflies and moths floating freely around us. “This is just for me.”
