Butterfly Weeds (17 page)

             
I laughed.

             
“Okay,” I said, smiling, agreeing to play along with his little vow.

             
The melody was slow and soothing, and immediately, it captivated me, almost seeming to transport me to a beautiful and enchanting place in a world where nothing ever seemed to go wrong. I remembered that world. I was seventeen in it and the muse of a talented seventeen-year-old, small-town boy. I let myself believe I was in that world again as I took a deep breath, exhaled and then watched religiously as his fingers gently tickled the guitar’s strings, and his same, familiar, soothing voice softy came to rest at my ears.

             
The voice was home too, and I hung onto each word, lost in my past:
             
“
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…”

             
Will stopped singing, yet he continued to play the melody on the guitar a few more measures before his fingers stopped strumming as well.

             
I hesitated before I spoke. It might have been because I was slightly tongue-tied. It might have been because I was hoping that there was still more.

             
“Where are the rest of the words?” I asked, smiling softly. “What does the butterfly hear you sing?”

             
“I’m, I’m still working on the rest,” he said, smiling his coy, alley-cat smile. “You can hear it again when I’m finished. I promise.”

             
“Well, when will it be finished?” I asked curiously.

             
He paused, and his eyes found a place on the wood floor before meeting my eyes again.

             
“I’ll find a way to get it to your ears,” he said, smiling coyly. “Don’t worry.”

             
I smiled at him softly.

             
“Okay,” I said, nodding my head slowly, my gaze still on him, watching him almost suspiciously. “I’ll wait if I have to, I guess.”

             
I brought my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my bended legs.

             
“You should play – for people – you know. I might even do you the honor of being your biggest fan,” I added, urging him on with a smile.

             
Will’s face lit up, but he was shaking his head.

             
“You never give up, do you?” he asked, chuckling.

             
My eyes caught his. I didn’t say anything, though my expression was telling.

             
“Nah, work keeps me busy,” he said, eventually shaking his head. “Besides, I don’t mind just playing like this – for friends, for you.”

             
I could definitely tell that my cheeks were blushing now as my eyes darted directly to the engrained lines on the floor again. I prayed that it was dark enough now that he couldn’t see the fire in my face.

             
We were both quiet for a long minute, while my eyes traced those lines in the wood floor over and over again. Then, something brave came over me. I was still seventeen – for now.

             
“Will,” I said, breaking the silence. “You know you’ve got a piece of me always, no matter what this crazy world has planned for us, right?”

             
He shook his head slowly, taking in my words, almost as if it were perfectly normal for me to have said them.

             
“Yeah, I know, and you’ve got the other half of me, damn the luck,” he said, chuckling softly.

             
I laughed.

             
“How are we ever gonna function separately?” he asked.

             
“I’m sure we’ll make do,” I said, smiling, watching him stroke the strings silently on his guitar.

             
After several seconds, his eyes met mine again. I continued to smile, yet I quickly forced my gaze to the horizon in the distance.

             
“I probably should be going,” I said then, softly, shifting my eyes back to him eventually.

             
“Okay,” he whispered, nodding his head slowly, as if he were being forced against his will to agree.

             
Now, he was the one that focused on the engrained lines on the wooden porch floor. My eyes settled on him again. It seemed as if he had something else to say but was afraid to say it or didn’t know how to say it or something. And I wasn’t sure if he would hold onto it forever.

             
I took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. Then, I reached down to grab the glass of lemonade on the other side of my chair. But as I moved, I suddenly felt his hand gently come to rest on my opposite hand.

             
My face quickly darted back toward his. At the same time, my heart quickened. His hand was so familiar, yet something told me that it should be foreign to me now, and everything else told me that it shouldn’t be on mine. But my hand was cemented to the wooden chair underneath it, and it would hurt too much to even try to move it. I knew this, so I simply let it be, as my eyes settled on his own baby blues. And for a moment, neither of us said anything. It was almost as if this were the last time we would ever see each other – like this, anyway.

             
“Promise me you’ll come if I ever change my mind about the singing gig,” he whispered finally. “Promise you’ll come and listen to the rest of the song.”

             
My heart slowed and the corners of my mouth rose slightly. I paused, dragging out the seconds, though consciously refusing to get lost in his sea-colored eyes, like I had done so many times before.

             
“I promise,” I said softly.

             
My eyes lingered on his and his on mine for a second more, but a sudden thought of Brady led me back to my path, and I pushed myself up from the lounge chair, slid my hand out from underneath his and walked to the glass door that led to the inside of the house. I was no longer seventeen – or else, I wouldn’t be walking away.

             
Once in the kitchen, I set the glass in the sink, quietly slipped on my sandals and made my way to the front door.

             
My hand rested on the brass door knob for a second before I paused and turned back toward his tall silhouette standing several feet behind me.

             
“Thanks for tonight, Will,” I said softly.

             
“Don’t mention it,” he whispered, with a half smile escaping from his lips.

             
I smiled too, and then I slowly turned back toward the cherry chestnut door, twisted the knob and slid through its frame and back into the chilly, evening air.

             
W
hen I reached the stack of metal mailboxes, I used the smallest key that dangled from my overly cluttered keychain to open the tiny compartment. Then, I pulled out two envelopes – one was most likely junk mail and addressed to April, my roommate; the other was smaller and hand-written and bore my name across its front. I smiled when I saw that the return address on the small, ivory envelope was Brady’s. I paused for a moment to rip open its seal.

             
Brady had made it a point to send me letters sporadically during our time apart. Though his letters were never very long or in depth, they were very sweet and never failed to make my day. Smiling, I hastily pulled out a piece of cream stationary and allowed my eyes to carefully browse over the words:
Dear Julia,

             
Though I miss you like crazy, I’m kept afloat by the thought of us. At times when I think that I cannot wait another minute to see you, I think about a time when our lives will no longer keep us a world away – a time when forever is ours. I love you, Julia.
Waiting on forever,
Brady
 

             
My smile grew. Brady had a way with words. He was quite possibly a man after my own heart. I appreciated the fact that he could take a piece of paper and pen and transform them into a mini work of art. He was my own, little Shakespeare.

             
Folding the stationery over itself and sliding it back into the envelope, I reached for my phone in my back pants pocket of my jeans and found Brady’s number on speed dial.

             
Within seconds, I heard his Northeastern accent pouring through the speakers.

             
“Hey, I got a love letter from someone today,” I said playfully when he answered.

             
“You did? Who is he? I’ll take him right here, right now,” he said in his best, raging lunatic voice.

             
“Relax, I think he’s harmless,” I said, smiling.

             
“And who are you calling harmless, exactly?” he chimed back.

             
I laughed as I took a seat on a bench outside of my Banker’s Hill apartment building.

             
“So, what are you doing tonight? Saturday night. Got any big plans?” he asked.