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I reach into my pocket, the bumpy wings of the butterfly charm beneath my fingertips.
And…breaking out of my cocoon.
But is it if I’m just blindly moving forward again?
I push that thought away. I’ll get there, one step at a time. And anyway, Lake and I had our fun. We made our peace and I enjoyed hanging here with him. I owe him a couple dozen honey rosemary mules (which is why I’m making a new batch of the rosemary simple syrup to leave with him). But he needs to have his house back.
Which is why I finish folding the load of laundry I threw in the night before and start tucking it into my duffle, along with my camera and my laptop and my phone charger.
I’m corralling Steve’s copious amounts of toys when Lake pads down the hall, hair still wet from his shower.
He stops next to the island, and I see that he’s frowning when I finally get my fingers around the stuffed bunny and crawl out from beneath the countertop.
“Packing up,” I say in response to that scowl, shoving it into Steve’s tote bag before rounding the island and heading back to the stove, stirring the simple syrup. Most of the water has boiled off and the room is filled with the earthy scent of rosemary.
It’s all but done.
I flick the knob, turn off the heat.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I snag a mug and rotate back to face him, brows drawing together when I see he hasn’t moved from the island, and that…
His expression has become thunderous.
“No?” I ask, setting the mug I grabbed back down on the counter. “Is no caffeine another pre hockey ritual?”
He scowls. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I slide my eyes from side to side. “Umm…pre hockey rituals?”
Lightning and thunder in his hazel eyes, and I freeze when I find him suddenly in my face. “Packing, butterfly. What the fuck?”
I exhale. “I mean…the roads are open and you need to get back to your life, your routine.”
Flashing hazel eyes. “You got a place?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do. You. Have. A. Place. To. Go?”
My lungs inflate on a rush. “I mean, not yet,” I say after I exhale, after I summon a smile. “But I’m good at figuring that out as I move. And I’m really good at landing on my feet no matter what.”
“So everything you said last night reallywasbullshit.” He shakes his head, reaches past me for the mug and fills it with coffee.
“What—?” I rock back on my heels, rubbing a hand over my chest, my heart convulsing beneath. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
“I’m notinsinuatinganything,” he snaps. “Last night you said you run off without enjoying the present.” I freeze. “You said that you want to do better. But here you are, running forward again, no plan in place.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want your house back.”
Something crosses his face, an emotion I can’t identify, there and gone before I can process it. “I’m not even here half the time,” he grits out. “I don’t need my house back. But if you’re too fucking scared to stay, or in such a hurry to leave, or, hell, too proud to accept a hand up, then just go. Flit off, fly around, keep doing the same shit over and over again.” He turns away, mug in hand. “I need to get to practice. Tell the demon dog bye from me.”
“Why are you being such an asshole?” I snap.
He turns back, lifts his brows. “Why are you such a coward?”
Those butterflies in my belly take flight, whirling around and making me feel sick. “Fuck you.”
He salutes me with his mug. “Drive safe. Try not to end up in another snowbank.”
