Page 139 of When There Was You
“Something even better,” Butch answers.
“Nothing is better than ice cream,” she mutters. “Can I bring my bugs?”
“Sure. Get your little butt in the car,” he commands.
We pile into the Barracuda and drive about fifteen minutes to a park. Butch grabs a flashlight from the glove compartment and leads the way down a nearby path.
“What are we doing?” I whisper.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“So can I,” he answers.
“You are a maddening man.”
His white teeth shine in the dark. “I’m not ruining a good surprise, Sundance. If you don’t agree, I’ll make it up to you later.”
I smile to myself as we continue walking the dirt path, an occasional lightning bug blinking in search of a mate. Night is closing in quickly as we arrive at a long wooden bridge, suspended above a pond surrounded by an expansive lawn and trees. Butch stops when we reach the center, shuts off the light, and we fall silent.
Like magic, they appear. Fireflies. Hundreds and hundreds of them, as far as the eye can see, emitting their luminescent green glow across this woodland paradise. My breath catches as I absorb this phenomenon of the beetle world. Even Emmy’s speechless.
Butch’s hand finds mine and squeezes.
“It’s amazing,” I whisper, almost unable to grasp what I’m witnessing, it’s so extraordinary.
“They’re like little fairies,” Emmy adds in a hushed tone.
We watch in silence for a long while, gradually crossing the bridge to view from different vantage points.
Emmy opens her jar and releases her fireflies, whispering to them, “Go be with your kind.”
When we’ve had our fill, Butch stoops to let Emmy ride him piggyback and I shine the light as we make our way back to the parking lot.
Emmy chatters animatedly but my thoughts veer to how lucky I am. To observe the miracle of life in so many forms, to experience true love even when I thought it was lost, to realize I’m but a speck in the cosmos, here to make the most of my own blink of time.
Sixty-Six
I’m on the porch steps watching Butch split wood.Finally. I’ve fantasized about the lumberjack doing this task for months, and he’s not disappointing me. It’s a beautiful Saturday in late September, with a breeze rustling the trees against azure skies dotted with billowy clouds. Hemi’s stretched long beside me, snoring softly, no movement aside from the occasional twitch. Butch wears faded jeans and a T-shirt. Sweat coats his skin, and those muscular biceps and forearms are on display as they flex and exert with each strike.
“Don’t you want to take your shirt off?” I call out.
He rolls his eyes, flips his ballcap backward, and resumes.
Yum.“This is like my birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. Definite video material.” His parents purchased one of those VHS camcorders recently and we’ve all had fun with it. It would be the perfect medium for lumberjack porn, if it exists. And if it doesn’t, it should. I’ve got the model right here in all his six-foot-four glory.
He ignores me and continues chopping, a quirk of his lips betraying his amusement.
I rest my chin in my palm and ogle.
Butch lodges the ax in a fresh log and walks those long legs over to me. He lifts the hem of his shirt and uses it to wipe his brow, giving me a direct view of his torso.
Double yum. “Goddamn, Lumberjack. I’m about to slide off the steps.”
He smirks and hikes an eyebrow. “Sounds like a problem.”
“One you could solve,” I offer with a wink.
