Butterfly Weeds (30 page)

             
I continued my awestruck stare into the screen, my breaths still short, as a phrase from my mother scrolled through my mind. She always used to say that the past is a relentless parasite in its quest, feeding off of the senses, looking for anything that will trigger a memory – forever there to complicate the present, forever there to remind us that it will always be a piece of us. I never had a clue as to what she meant, until now. Now, I understood fully, I feared, as I consciously commanded my heart to slow its pace. Any other time, I don’t think that I would have willingly entertained this so-called parasite. Most of the time, I wished it would just stay where it belonged – in the past. But this time, something was different. I was speechless, and I just couldn’t bring myself to look away from its beautiful lyrics.

             
I listened to the song one last time before shutting down my laptop and folding the monitor over its keyboard.

             
Then, I reached for my phone in my pocket and scrolled through my contacts, settling on Will’s name. I stared at the four-lettered word for a minute, before my fingers, absent the approval of my head, strayed to the phone’s keyboard and formed a sentence:

             
I heard my song tonight.

             
My eyes traced over and over again each letter, each word of the sentence my fingers had just written. Then, I backspaced each letter until there were no words left in the message’s screen and set the phone down.

             
And as if surrendering to the idea that I might never know for whom the sweet melody was actually intended, I stood up from my chair, switched off the den’s lights and headed toward my bedroom. I had another date tonight, but this time, with my dreams, and I dared not keep them waiting on thoughts of my d
ecided past and crazy what-ifs.

             
And, besides, in my dreams, it would be safe for the song to be mine.

             
I
couldn’t help but notice the minutes drag on.
Seven couldn’t come any sooner.

             
Resolving to bite the bullet and dive in – again – I began reading the paragraph at the top of my computer’s screen for the third time that evening. But no sooner had I gotten through the first sentence, a familiar
distraction came to my rescue.

             
My phone, jammed halfway under a stack of hand-written notes, suddenly burst to life. Without hesitation, I recovered the dancing device from under the stacks, glanced at its rectangular display window and brought the phone to my ear.

             
“Hey, Rach,” I answered.

             
“Hey, Jules, what are you doing?” she asked, without missing a beat.

             
I paused to lean back in my chair and glance up at the clock on the wall.

             
“Aah, I’m finishing up some stuff at the office, and then I’m going home to get some sleep,” I replied.

             
“Okay, well, book a ticket before you go to bed. Will is playing in
New Milford
next month, and you’ve go
t to come,” Rachel informed me.

             
I could tell excitement was bursting from every part of her. I pictured fireworks coming out of her mouth and ears.

             
“Wait. What?” I asked, still trying to put the pieces together – after having been distracted by all of the fireworks.

             
Rachel refused to
lose any steam by my question.

             
“Will is performing a benefit concert to help support flood victims. It’s for a good cause, which I don’t have to tell you about, and it would be so much fun if you could be there,” she rambled off.

             
I was squinting my eyes as I turned my friend’s request over in my head. I was well aware that the flooding had caused some major problems in my home state. As what happened about every ten years near the
Missouri
and
Mississippi
rivers, an unusually wet season had caused rain waters to exceed the rivers’ banks and to flood nearby communities. And I knew firsthand what a levee break, four feet of water and six inches of silt could do to a home and a livelihood. I was seven when I watched my parents battle through it.

             
I picked up a pen and began aimlessly twirling it.

             
“A concert? Really?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

             
“Pretty good idea, huh?” Rachel asked.

             
I stopped twirling the pen.

             
“Yeah, pretty good idea,” I said, nodding my head and smiling.

             
“Well…,” Rachel went on, fishing for my answer.

             
“Well,” I said, “that’s really great he’s doing that, and the concert does sound fun…”

             
“But…,” she interrupted me.

             
“But,” I continued, “it’s just not the best time. I can send you a donation though, and you can make sure he gets it for me?”

             
I heard Rachel groan in protest on the other end of the phone.

             
“It wouldn’t be the same, Jules. Plus, you haven’t ever seen him play. He won’t disappoint, I promise,” she said, trying desperately to convince me.

             
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” I said, laughing. “But I have so much to do here, and it’s been so long anyway. I think it’s just best if I just stay here.”

             
“Julia,” Rachel scolded.

             
Rachel very rarely called me by my birth name. She instead left the rare occasions for the times when she thought that I was acting exceptionally foolish. I had learned this a long time ago. And though I knew my friend’s tactic well, I kept quiet as Rachel continued.

             
“Julia, you and I both know that if you really wanted to, you’d leave that stack of papers on your desk for a couple of days and fly your butt up here,” she said.

             
I sighed.

             
“Rach, I just can’t do it this time,” I pleaded with her.

             
“Give me one good reason then,” Rachel demanded.

             
I sighed again – this time, more audibly.

             
“I told you,” I stammered patiently. “It’s not the right time. I’m just too busy, and it’s a long trip for just one day and one concert.”

             
Rachel took a deep breath before continuing.

             
“What are you so afraid of, Jules?” she asked sincerely. Patience had come back to her voice.

             
I paused for a second and allowed silent air waves to infiltrate the conversation.
What was I afraid of? What was I supposed to be afraid of?
I pondered Rachel’s seemingly out-of-place cross-examination. Sure, my friend’s request did sound fun. It would be nice to see my childhood friends again, and in the end, I knew that Rachel was ultimately right. I really could afford to leave the stack of papers for a couple of days and take the trip if I really wanted to, and the truth was that I really did want to. A piece of me ached to be there – to see him again, but I knew I shouldn’t, and I wouldn’t even allow myself to entertain the thought. Maybe I was a little afraid after all.

             
“I don’t know,” I said, after the brief break in the conversation. “It’s just been a long time.”

             
“What do you mean?” Rachel asked – remaining patient.

             
“I don’t know. I tried so hard to forget, and then that song…,” I said.

             
“Wait, forget what? And what song?” Rachel asked again, sounding puzzled.

             
“Just things I need to forget – that’s all. And his last song. I heard it the other day,” I confessed.

             
Rachel paused for a second.

             
“Oh yeah, that one,” she said. She sounded as if she understood me completely now.

             
“Rach,” I said and then stopped. I thought for a second on how I should word my next question before I spoke again.

             
“Rach, I don’t want this to sound conceited or anything. I’m just curious, but is the girl in the song…,” I began.

             
“You?” Rachel finished my sentence.

             
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I stammered. “Some of it matches. I was just curious. I mean, I guess it’s the whole butterfly thing. I think I’m just overreacting though.”

             
“No, all of it matches,” Rachel interjected. “But do I know for sure? No. I don’t know. No one does. He hardly gets anything out about it in his interviews. It always looks and sounds like he wants to say something about it but nothing ever comes out. And you would think that someone here would know at least something. We’re all curious – but honestly, Jules, no one knows. He keeps that part of his life pretty secret these days. I’m just waiting for him to show up wearing a wedding ring in an interview with Shawn Neville someday. That would be the first time that I would find out that he was even seeing anyone. And I would have said something about it earlier, but I didn’t know if you had even heard it yet or if you even wanted to be bothered with it.”

             
“Rach, really, when has that ever stopped you?” I asked, laughing.

             
Rachel laughed too.