Page 87 of When There Was You
Forty-Five
Butch sends me two dozen roses at work Monday. They’re a bright, rich yellow (still his favorite color), long-stemmed, and positively stunning. The card brings a sappy smile to my face and tugs on emotions I’m struggling to deny.
There’s a reason Butch & Sundance are so good together. Give us a chance.
Butch
P.S. Do you know how to swim?
“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” I murmur under my breath, channeling Robert Redford from the movie. But seriously,oh shit. This scenedoeskind of mirror my current reality. Do I need to jump off a cliff to save myself, even if I don’t know how to swim?
Butch must intuit I’m waffling on how to proceed, but he doesn’t know why. Not really. My head tells me I have no business screwing up their family dynamic with my ineptitude,inexperience, and lack of maternal DNA. My heart…well, that organ’s always beat whatever direction it wants without a shred of sense, and it thumps to life whenever Butch materializes in any form: on the telephone, in bed, or via lovely flowers I can’t stop admiring.
On impulse, I make the call. It’s only a short wait before Butch’s voice reaches through the line, his familiar, deep tonality like a caress.
“It’s me.”
“Hey, you.”
“Thank you for the roses, Butch. They’re gorgeous.”
“You’regorgeous. Did you see the note?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You know how to swim, baby?”
“I do,”I whisper.
“Are we going to sink or swim together? Because I’m ready to jump off that cliff with you, Sundance.”
He’s so fucking sure. It makes all this worse. “I…like hearing that.” And I had the same thought less than three minutes ago.
“I’m sensing a ‘but’…”
“I have zero privacy here at work. Can we continue this tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for making my day,” I murmur.
“You make mine every day.”
“You’re going to make this tough, aren’t you?”
“Impossible.”
We hang up, and my eyes flick from the phone to the roses.He’s fighting for me. For us.
Butch callsafter putting Emmy to bed, and it dawns on me that’s why we always talk after 9 p.m. I’m perched on the couch with a hot cup of tea. There’s a knotbehind my sternum—and no question I’m dreading this conversation. The likelihood we can swim vs. sink seems unimaginable.
“Do you have a bedtime routine?” I ask. Delay. Delay. Delay.
“I read her a book or two, tuck her in, kiss her goodnight. And I keep her door cracked…we joke it’s to let the monsters roam freely instead of camping out under her bed.”
A choked chuckle escapes. “My dad read to me when I was little. Unforgettable stories likeTreasure Island,Wind in the Willows, The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh,andCharlotte’s Web. It’s probably why I’m a reader to this day.”
“My mom did too…in our early years, and I remember it fondly. It’s damn cool to be the guy reading to my daughter now, a tradition getting passed down the generations, you know?”
