Butterfly Weeds (29 page)

             
I was smiling when I flung my purse onto the countertop. Anthony was the Southern-gentleman type, and I was sure that he had broken his fair share of hearts in his day. He was the kind of guy that made girls melt; the guy that had his date swooning over the sound of her first name with his last name by dessert. That was about the time that his big, puppy-dog, chocolate eyes were at their strongest and a thick, Southern accent was stumbling uncontrollably off of his lips. I’m sure it was then that he usually had most girls won over. And despite my appreciation of his ability to capture a woman’s heart, I wanted, in the end, no substantial part in it. Love was off limits until further notice, I had promised myself.

             
It had been almost a year since I had said my goodbyes to Brady, and although it surprised me at how quickly my heartache had faded, the night of our engagement still oddly lingered in my mind. What was love anyway, and what was its part in ever after? What kind of love does it have to be to make you want to say
yes
to h
appily ever after – to forever?

             
And sure, tonight sounded like a date. Anthony and I had, after all, spent the rest of the evening together on a wooden swing out on the pier, listening to the waves gently crash into the edges of the city and watching dozens of well-lit, tiny boats slowly pass under the Ravenel Bridge. But he had never tried to kiss me, and we had never talked about plans beyond the night. We just simply enjoyed each other’s company, suspended over the water and beneath the stars still visible above the city’s hundreds of tiny lamps. Though, he had held my hand that one time. I had almost forgotten about that.

             
I paused.

             
My smile faded quickly as the image of the dark-colored sedan from earlier that night flashed back into the forefront of my mind. And what had I really heard? It was Will’s voice. It was a new song. But I had heard it before – a long time ago. But why again now? And
what exactly had it said even?

             
I had often heard Will’s songs in passing – in malls, local hang outs, and, of course, on the radio. It had become almost second nature by now to hear his voice everywhere, so much so that it didn’t faze me as much as it used to. But none of his songs I had heard in the last couple of years had been like the song I had heard tonight, however. This had been my song. Maybe that’s why, this time, hearing it had made my heart skip a beat, my mind turn into mush and my hands fee
l like dead fish. Poor Anthony.

             
But the last time I had heard it, it had been without all of its lyrics, and it hadn’t been on the radio or in a bar or blaring from someone’s car stereo. Instead, it was that one chilly, September night years ago. I remembered it vividly. But maybe I hadn’t heard it right tonight. It was late. There were people. There were other cars and carriages, boats and waves breaking against the city’s walls. With all that commotion, I could have heard anything. I could have imagined anything. Right? I stared at a spot on the ivory wall in front of me for a solid minute, examining my thoughts as they danced circles in my head. And just when I thought that they were determined to make me di
zzy, an idea took center stage.

             
Within an instant, all of my previous emotions – the racing heart, the quickened breaths – came rushing back and sent my body into a violent, physical motion in the direction of a sma
ll room, just down the hallway.

             
Against the inside wall of my den was a modest, wooden desk, shrouded with picture frames filled with images of my family and old friends. I quickly scurried to the shrine and fell into the black, leather office chair. At the same time, I swung open my laptop and frantically began typing the words
District 9
onto the small screen. After clicking
search
, a couple dozen websites appeared, and I clicked on the first of
ficial-looking site that I saw.

             
Anxiously scanning the songs by Will and his band, I found a sole love song, entitled
Butterfly
. With a hasty mouse click onto the song title, the same, memorable melody that I had heard years ago and also just hours before began seeping through my speakers and floating to my ears. Vocals followed, along with a sequence of carefully placed words, which tapered down my computer’s small monitor. My eyes raced through the lyrics, even before my ears could hear the melody that went with them. The song’s hauntings were unraveling what was left of my composure again. Its lyrics were a forgotten pleasure, and now that pleasure was stealing me away from my small, dark den and transporting me to a long-past, quiet, September night. My smile widened as my eyes continued to slowly scroll down the page – remembering a time, gone forever – as I read:
             
It’s a summer night
             
And I can hear the crickets sing
             
But otherwise, all the world’s asleep
             
While I can only lie awake and dream
             
And every time I close my eyes
             
A butterfly comes to me
             
It has soft, green eyes
             
A sweet soul
             
Brave wings
             
And each time, it hears me sing:
             
Where have you been?
             
I’ve missed you so
             
Tell me of your travels
             
Tell me you’ve seen the world
             
Now, you’ve come back home
             
Tell me you’ve carried me with you
             
That you’ve held me close
             
Tell me you’ve missed me
             
Or that I’m not crazy for waiting cause
             
Of all the butterflies that chose to stay,
             
I’m in love with the one that got away
             
Then in my dream it turns to me
             
And that butterfly smiles
             
And whispers in my ear:
             
Where have you been?
             
I’ve missed you so
             
My wings are tired
             
For I’ve carried you home
             
I’ve carried you through the mountains
             
I’ve carried through the sea
             
Everywhere I went
             
I carried you with me
             
Then instead of spreading those brave wings
             
And flyin’ far away again
             
That butterfly stays near instead
             
And whispers back to me:
             
Tell me again what you never said
             
And I sing again:
             
Where have you been?
             
I’ve missed you so
             
Tell me of your travels
             
Tell me you’ve seen the world
             
Now, you’ve come back home
             
Tell me you’ve carried me with you
             
That you’ve held me close
             
Tell me you’ve missed me
             
Or that I’m not crazy for waiting cause
             
Of all the butterflies that chose to stay,
             
I’m in love with the one that got away.

             
I was breathless.

             
The words on my screen had taken the air from my lungs. It was the rest of the song, and I couldn’t stop staring at it. I mean, the pier was beautiful. The man was beautiful. The night was beautiful. Yet, somehow I’ve managed to find myself now in a corner of my dark den, curled up in my office chair, staring at lyrics on my laptop’s tiny screen in a kind of sedative awe, my heart pounding – seemingly losing the battle, a loss for words – for the second time tonight. I could hardly believe what I was witnessing. I hadn’t been mistaken. My ears hadn’t lied. I resented the past for rearing its ugly head again, even as a warm smile jetted across my face. Will always had a way of throwing me off-guard at the oddest moments, but this was, by far, his fastest and most accurate curve ball. I wasn’t expecting this one – not now, not tonight, not ever. In fact, I never expected to hear those
words or his song ever again.

             
I commanded my hands to stop shaking, as my thoughts continued.

             
Even though the melody was mine, surely, the song was someone else’s by now. He said he would finish it, but it had been years, many years, in fact, and surely he had forgotten his promise. Surely, I was overreacting. Though, I couldn’t quite bring myself to stop. I wished I could just call him and ask him myself. But I knew that I couldn’t. What would I say? How would I say it? What if it wasn’t my song anymore, but instead, just some pretty lyrics? Even that slight chance that the song reflected our time together still could mean only that our once-upon-a-time love story meant nothing more than a lucrative business move for the singer. I decided quickly that I wouldn’t want to hear that truth. Plus, this was the last thing I needed right now. What I really needed was for him to stay in his world and for me to stay in mine. I’ve bee
n down that road and so had he.

             
My eyes, which had fallen into an intense stare at the keyboard’s letters, returned to the words still on the screen. And try as I might, I couldn’t stop the cascading thoughts because despite what I tried to tell myself, I found it somewhat odd that a piece of me strangely wanted to believe that the melody and the lyrics were meant for me to hear. It would be sweet, anyway. But then again, it was dangerous, I knew. And if I’ve learned anything from my old flame’s previous pitches, I’ve also learned that the past is a very determined ghost, haunting every chance it gets. Big events, small, mundane moments of the day – it doesn’t matter; the past will find a way to squeeze into the present – if you let it.