Page 108 of When There Was You
“You push in the first peg. Do you see how it fits?” I ask, demonstrating without pushing one in all the way.
She picks up a purple peg and punches it through the paper. Her face lights up after seeing it illuminate. “Oooh. That’s pretty.”
“Isn’t it? What colors are we making our butterfly?”
“All of them!”
We alternate punching in the various pegs, consulting occasionally on placement to keep our insect shape. When I glance at Emmy midway through, her face is the portrait of concentration, the tip of her pink tongue poking through her lips. Once the outline of the butterfly emerges, her smile radiates.
“This is so neat,” she gushes. “Let’s make the inside thingies now.”
We begin adding smaller shapes within the wings. Playing with a Lite-Brite after all these years does my heart good, especially collaborating with Emmy.
In that moment, I’m struck by how easy she is to be around. That if I simply be myself, follow her lead, and let things flow naturally, this “parenting” stuff isn’t so daunting after all. She’s merely a tiny human. The only difference between us is I’m bigger, older, and hopefully wiser.
I was relieved by her response to her father kissing me. We’ve mostly stowed our PDA, giving Emmy time to adjust and get to know me, and to not pressure or overwhelm her. But she seems to take us in stride, accepting me like her dad brings women home regularly.
Shit. Has he?Butch already said he’s cautious about who he introduces to his daughter.
“Emmy, may I ask you a question?”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you like me being here?” I fight a wince at how insecure that sounds. Do kids pick up on that kind of thing?
“Mm-hmm. And my daddy likes it too.”
“That makes three of us then. You don’t mind him having a girlfriend?”
She shrugs. “He’s never had one. But he seems happier now.”
I study her face, which stays focused on our butterflyin progress, now lighting up most of the screen. “Was he…unhappy before?”
“He was just Daddy. I think he was lonely. Daddies are literally supposed to have mommies.”
I bite back a chuckle. “You mean a wife?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s nice when people fall in love and get married.” Ideally.
Emmy looks at me now, nodding. “Like Cinderella, when she finds her Prince Charming!”
I flash her a smile. “Exactly. Who doesn’t want to find their prince?”
I may have found mine…in lumberjack form. Because I am definitely, irrevocably in love with Butch Hamilton.
That nightafter Emmy’s asleep, Butch takes Hemi out for a quick walk, and I tiptoe into the bedroom. Wanting to sleep in one of my boyfriend’s shirts, I open one of his larger dresser drawers and find a stack, rooting around for a soft one. I tug one out, shaking my head when I read what’s on it:Mopar or No Car. I’ve never seen such brand loyalty before. I strip off my clothes and pull on the shirt, which is comforting two ways: it smells like Butch and the well-worn cotton lays softly against my skin.
Now I’m cold. I open one of the smaller drawers in the middle looking for socks, but it’s more of a catch-all receptacle for his stray items. I barely notice what because my eyes fixate on the photo laying on top…of us. Someone must have taken it at Thanksgiving without me noticing. It’s a beautiful shot of Butch and me standing in the living room. He’s talking and I’m laughing, our expressions bright and happy. I pick it up and take a closer look. We really are a stunning couple.
And how sneaky of Butch. Why didn’t he didn’t share this with me? I’ve half a mind to steal it.
I momentarily startle when my memory flashes on a picture of Mick, Remy, and me from our Christmas in Half Moon Bay. We took it before things got X-rated. It’s the only photo I have of the three of us. Taken with my Polaroid, Remy held the camera aloft, we all squeezed together on the sofa, and he pushed the button. It came out perfect.
That picture is hidden away with other treasures from my days with Mick and Remy…my “Mick’s tape,” a journal, the story I wrote.
I’m about to replace the photo when a piece of paper flutters to the floor. Maybe it was stuck to the back? I bend and retrieve it, unable to miss what’s so plainly scrawled in a woman’s handwriting.
