Chasing Butterflies (7 page)

When his strong arms wrap around my waist, I move my hands down and place them against his t-shirt that clings to his hard, chiselled chest.

Before now, all I wanted to do was kiss him and for him to kiss me back. Now I’ve tasted him, I want more—much more. My hands snake up to his muscled shoulders and around the back of his neck until I push my fingers through his damp hair. I grip the back of his head and pull him against me, showing him how desperate I am for more.

Gabriel groans again and then his breathing starts to change. His hands start to roam all over my body, but they don’t go anywhere near the places I’m desperate for his hands to be. I pull my mouth away from his. “Gabriel.”

“Shh,” he whispers, nibbling and kissing my lips while his hands skim over my hips.

I don’t want to be quiet. I want to tell him how much I like him, how much I like what he’s doing to me right now, and how much I want to do more.

I pull on his hair, forcing his back, and then I do something stupid.

I kiss his cheek. And taste his tears.

Instantly, I pull away from him. “You’re crying?” I feel a lump lodge in my throat and start to shake my head. This isn’t right. He isn’t supposed to be crying while he’s kissing me.

“No, Yara,” he says, but he can’t look at me. He’s lying.

“Why?” I breathe.

He drops his hands and steps away from me, forcing me to slump against the tree. I frown at him, feeling confused, hurt and scared all at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Please don’t be sorry. Sorry means you didn’t mean for it to happen.
“Gabriel,” I murmur, my voice breaking at the end. “Why are you crying?”

I’m desperate for him to look at me, but at the same time I don’t want him to look at me. I don’t want to see whatever it is that’s making him sorry.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Yes, you should.
“I’m sorry, Yara. I’m really fucking sorry.”

I gasp at hearing him swear. It’s not that I’m averse to swearing because Granny swears all the time, but I’ve never heard Gabriel curse before. “Look at me.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s the least you can do. Please.”

He nods and then lifts his eyes to mine.

Gabriel

“I’m sorry,” I say again as I stare at her. I let my eyes linger on hers, wondering if she can see the shame and regret and guilt swimming through them. And then I look away. I don’t mind if she sees those things, but what I don’t want her to see is how desperate I am to kiss her again.

That kiss was the kiss first kisses are made of. I already know that I never want to feel another mouth on mine again…that no matter how many times I kiss Yara, I know it’ll never be enough.

“I can’t see you anymore,” I tell her.
I want to see all of you.

She sniffs as tears well up in her eyes. “Why not?”

“It’s for the best,” I say.
I wish it wasn’t.

“Was I not doing it right?” Yara whispers. She wipes her eyes with her fingertips and I hate that I’ve made her cry.

“It was perfect,” I tell her. “
You
were perfect.”

Her eyes dart all around as if she’s looking for a way to leave. “I have to go.”

“Yara, I—”

She’s gone before I can even finish my sentence. I turn around and slump against the tree.

What the hell have I just done?

Yara

Kissing makes you crazy. What I had before, or whatever they
thought
I had before, wasn’t crazy. Obsessing over someone, staring out of your window for days on end just to get a glimpse of them, and constantly daydreaming of their lips and how they made you feel like you were floating on a bed of fire—that’s crazy.

If kissing makes you crazy, then hearing the person that kissed you—the person that made you feel so alive you felt like you’d died when they left you—tell you that they never want to see you again? That makes you feel like you’ve completely lost your mind.

And if you aren’t completely whole or normal, then you don’t worry about what people might think if they found you cowering underneath your bed like a child in the middle of the night.

“Granny!” I wail. I pull my knees to my chest and curl into the foetal position. “Please!”

The door to my bedroom bursts open and I see Granny’s feet step into my room. Tears stream down my face and drop onto the bare floorboards. “Granny,” I sob, “I’m under the bed.”

“Get up, Yara.”

“I can’t,” I cry.

“It’s just a thunderstorm, girl. You can’t keep doing this.”

Lightning streaks across the sky and flashes into my room. I yelp and press myself against the floor.

“Get the hell up,” she orders.

“I can’t. I just can’t. You know why.”

The thunder rumbles in the distance, making every single hair on my body stand on end. The way it booms and growls as if the clouds are angry with me— it’s definitely the noise that scares me the most.  It’s also the noise that’s haunted my nightmares for twelve whole years…the noise I can’t escape from.

Before I know what’s happening, I’m being dragged across the floor.

“Granny, no!” I turn over and try to grab onto something—anything—to stop her. “Please,” I beg. “I don’t want to get out.”

“You’re getting out and you’re going to stay out. Every bloody time there’s a storm you’re quivering under there like a frightened baby. I’ve had enough, Yara. I’m sick of your shit.”

“I can’t help it,” I wail as she pulls me out from under the bed.
Wow, she’s still so strong.
“I can’t think of anything else while it’s happening, Granny! I don’t know what to do.”

“Here,” she says. Before I have chance to look up to see what she’s offering me, I feel something cool against the inside of my thigh. I scream when I realise it’s a razor blade she’s dragging across my skin. Blood gushes out of the slit she’s made, and I clamp my hands over it to try and stop the bleeding. I cry out again.

“You won’t bleed out,” she tells me calmly. “It’s just a surface wound.”

“What did you do that for?” I shriek as I turn my blood-covered hand over, watching the way the blood trickles down my arm. “It’s hurting,” I tell her. “It’s really hurting!”

Granny looks at me like I’m something horrible that she’s just stepped on as black spots start to flash in front of my eyes.

“I’ve just given you something else to think about. Lightning just flashed across the sky and you didn’t even notice, and you certainly didn’t cry like a baby when the thunder followed it.”

“What?” I breathe. I can feel my eyes blinking like mad as I look up at her.

“Here,” she spits, throwing the razor blade at me. “You keep that for next time you need to divert your attention.”

“The next time?” I repeat.

“Just don’t go too deep.”

The blade clatters on the floor in front of me, then the room starts to spin and everything goes black.

I sneak down the stairs, even though I have no idea whereabouts in the house Granny is, and slowly open the front door. I’m expecting her to yell at me, to beckon me back and make me explain where I’m going, to ask why I’m not at school. But she doesn’t.

In fact, I haven’t seen or heard Granny at all since she came into my room last night. I’m glad. I hope she’s gone away for a few days, or even better, I hope she’s made a promise to herself to never speak to me again.

I slowly shut the door behind me and peek out onto my street, hoping there aren’t any stragglers still on their way to school that might see me. I used to love going to school. Despite not knowing anything about the real world, I seem to excel at certain subjects, and it’s a way for me to escape the horribleness at home. But since Jasmine and her friends have upped their game, school has become a nightmare. I just don’t want to face it—or them—today.

I manage to walk into the village without anyone stopping me, and I even catch a bus without the driver admonishing me for not being at school. I make it all the way to the big village that’s fifteen miles away from Eleze, and when I step off the bus, I feel ready to make some changes.

After seeing the girls at that party the other night, I’ve realised that I don’t dress appropriately for my age. I don’t
look
my age either, and I’ve started to wonder if that’s why Gabriel doesn’t look at me the way I want him to look at me. Maybe that’s why he thinks he can’t see me again. Maybe if I wore clothes that are cool and trendy and have my hair styled the way other girls have their hair styled, he’d like me more. Maybe he’d like me enough to kiss me again, to make me feel like I’ve got butterflies in my tummy again.

Then I realise I don’t have any money to buy clothes or have my hair done, and I feel annoyed with myself. I guess I’m just going to have to stick with looking
and
feeling odd, and I’ll never be good enough for him.

Disappointed, I decide to just walk around for a bit. It’s not like I have anything to get back to anyway. After strolling the length of the main street a couple of times, I breathe a sigh of relief when I step out of the sweltering heat and into the cool bank. I brush the beads of sweat off my forehead and wipe my face with my fingers as I get in the queue.

I figured everyone else seems to get money from a bank, so I might as well try. Maybe I could get a loan or something and pay them back in a few months when I leave school and get a job. I’m sure I’ve heard people saying that’s what they do when they need a helping hand. Why should I be any different?

“Next,” calls the cashier.

I walk up to her and smile. “Hi,” I say, “I’d like some money, please.”

“Do you have your account details or your card?” She looks miserable, like she hates the fact that she has to speak to customers.

“No, sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t have any details.”

She huffs loudly, sending a waft of her onion breath right under my nose. “Name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your name,” she repeats. “I’m assuming you have one.”

I scowl at her.
What is it with people being rude all the bloody time?
“Yara Hendricks.”

She taps on her keyboard a couple of times, and then I see her eyes narrow as she concentrates on the screen. I try to lean over the mahogany counter to see what she’s looking at, but she tilts the screen away from me. “I need some ID, your date of birth, your address, your mother’s maiden name, and you’ll need to sign this.”

I push my provisional licence over to her and rattle off the information she requested as I pull the piece of paper towards me. It’s blank, except for a single black line, so I scribble my full name across it.

“Thanks,” she says with a sigh. “How much do you want?”

Wow, this was easier than I thought
. “Erm, I’m not sure,” I say. “I just wanted to get some clothes and have my hair done and stuff.”

She raises her eyebrows at me, and I notice how thin and squiggly they are. Her eyes scan up and down my body and then over my face. “Five hundred?”

I feel my mouth drop open. “I can have that much?”

“Miss, you can have whatever is in your account.” She frowns and then adds, “Within reason, of course.”

“I have an account?” I ask.

“Y-es,” she says slowly, sounding as confused as I now feel.

Oh.
“How much is in my account?”
Who opened it for me? Where has the money come from?

She sighs and taps some more buttons, and then it’s her turn to look shocked. “Just over two hundred thousand, Miss.”

What?
I suddenly realise that I must look like an absolute idiot. I didn’t even know I had an account, and now she’s telling me I have thousands?
Hundreds
of thousands? “I’ll take three thousand,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Please.”

She nods. “You want me to put it in an envelope?”

I shrug. “Sure, thanks.”

She hands a bulky brown envelope over to me and I take it from her, feeling excitement slither through my veins. “Thank you,” I whisper. I quickly stuff the money into my bag and scurry out of there before they realise they’ve made a huge mistake.

As soon as I burst back outside, I squeal with joy and then run towards the shops and salons, completely ignoring the strange looks I’m getting.

Today is the best day of my life.

Gabriel

Today is the worst day of my life.
Jonny pats my back as we walk towards his bar. “The first three drinks are on me,” he says. “And they’re going to be straight whiskey’s.”

I nod. I can’t think of anything else I want more right now. Except Alex. I’d give everything to have Alex in my arms again, to hear her voice whispering my name.

“Here you go,” Jonny says, sliding two shots across the bar to me. He takes one in his hand and waits for me to pick up mine. “To Alexandra,” he says, “may she rest in peace now.”

I swallow the lump that’s been stuck in my throat for the last five days and clink my shot glass against his. “To Alex,” I whisper.

I feel tears prickling at my eyes, but I blink them away. Crying won’t help. Not now.

“You ready to talk about her now?” asks Jonny.

I shake my head.

“Maybe you will after this.” He hands me the bottle of Jack and stands back to watch while I take seven huge sips. When I’m done, he shakes his head, leans over on the bar and stares at me.

“What?” I grumble as I wipe my face with the back of my hand.

“What happened between you two?”

“We broke up.” I take another drink.

“You broke up with a girl who was dying?”

I wince at his words. “
She
broke up with
me
,” I clarify, “and I didn’t know she was dying at that point.”

“Did
she
know?”

I nod. “I think so, yeah.”

“When did all this happen, Gabriel? And why the fuck didn’t you tell anyone that’s why you came back?”

I huff and bring the bottle to my lips again. “It happened around Christmas time last year. And it’s no one else’s business.”

I watch the confusion spread across his face as I down some more whiskey. I can already feel it numbing my pain.

“But you only just moved back here in May…a couple of months ago.”

I nod.

“Why did you leave it so long before coming back?” he pushes.

“I was trying to get her to take me back, and then I found out she was ill and I
really
tried to get her to take me back.”

“Why didn’t she?” he asks, frowning.

I see tears wobbling in front of my eyes and pinch the skin between them. “She said she’d fallen out of love with me.”

“Man,” he says, shaking his head. “That shit is rough.” He stands up straight and pulls the bottle from my hand. “Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Were you
in
love with her?”

I look up at him and watch while he pours himself another drink. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” he says. “A big fucking difference. You love your mum, but you’re not
in
love with your mum, are ya?”

I’m assuming his question is rhetorical, so I don’t answer him.

“I’m not sure,” I confess. “I still loved her. And this still really fucking hurts.”

“I bet it does.” He snatches the bottle away from me, and I try unsuccessfully to grab it from him. “Slow down a little bit,” he tells me, pouring some whiskey into a glass. “You’re going to drink yourself into oblivion.”

“That’s the general idea,” I say, taking the glass from his hands.

“Do you know why she killed herself?”

I shake my head. But that’s exactly what’s been whirling around and around in my head these last few days. “No, I don’t know,” I tell him.

“Was her illness that bad?”

I shake my head again. “I don’t think so. Not according to her dad, anyway. I asked him, and he said it wasn’t really making any sort of impact on her day-to-day life. He can’t understand it either.”