Page 129 of Broken Butterfly
“Yeah, Stella. A sexy name for a sexy car,” I reply, all serious.
“I, Ryder Randall Cutton, take you, Elizabeth Penelope Fairchild, to be my lawfully wedded wife…”
“Your turn.”
“I’m sorry, what now?”
“Your turn,” he says, putting the car into neutral and getting out.
“No, Ryder! I can’t!”
“Yes, you can.”
“Are you crazy? I’ll probably drive it off into a tree!”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Elizabeth, get into the driver’s seat.”
“Nuh uh. Nope. No way. You can’t make me.”
I cross my arms, shaking my head no like a two-year-old. Before I know what’s happening, Ryder has my seat belt unfastened and me hoisted up and over his shoulder as he walks over to the driver’s side.
“Ryder, what the hell?” He’s perched on the branch of the old oak tree that leads to my bedroom window.
“Hey, Elizabeth. Do you mind waiting to yell at me until I get inside? I hate to admit that I’m a little terrified up here.”
“Ryder, aren’t you afraid of heights?”
“Yep,”
“Oh, crap. Oh, okay. Here, take my hand.”
“…for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part…”
“Do you feel it, Ryder?”
The pull that always brings us back together. The attraction. The need. The desire. The love.
“I do.”
“Will it always be like this?”
“Want to tell me what’s going on? I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.” Ryder looks at me.
Holding the bottle with my left hand since my right hand is still too sore from punching Marshall, I tip the water back and look at him. I mean, really look at him. He looks good. Strong and vital and so damn handsome. I never allowed myself to really see him before. Not just the superficial things I’m attracted to like his golden eyes I know have flecks of green in them that are the same green as my eyes. Or the way his muscles bulge when he crosses them over his chest like he’s doing now. Or the cupid’s bow on his full top lip. His tanned skin or his devastating smile I am lucky to be the recipient of often. No. Those are only superficial qualities.
What I see now, perhaps truly for the first time, is how Ryder always stands by me and supports me no matter what. How he has gifted me with his love and with his heart and not once expected anything in return. How he must love me so much, he was willing to give me up to Jayson and still remain my best friend even though I know it must kill him every day to see us together. I see all the years we’ve shared, all the times we keep finding our way back together, how even though I love Jayson so very much, my heart has always belonged to Ryder.
“I, Elizabeth Penelope Fairchild, take you, Ryder Randall Cutton, to be my lawfully wedded husband…”
“This song is one you wrote me. You gave it to me the night of our senior prom. I have played it and practiced it over and over the past year, putting it to memory, hoping that one day I would see you again and play it for you,” Ryder tells me.
“I wrote this?” I ask because the amnesia has taken all of my memories away, the last eighteen years of my life are gone. Wiped clean. But somehow, by some miracle, small pieces of memories of him remain.
My chest heaves as I breathe in and out, and Ryder starts to play my song on his guitar. His fingers glide across the strings and ruts, and not once does he look away from me. The song I wrote for him is heartbreaking in its melody. The ebb and flow of the musical notes are filled with longing. I must have written it about us. The music is our story. As I sit cross-legged on the piano bench, I close my eyes and begin to hum the tune. Do I remember it? A vision of Ryder and me dancing cheek-to-cheek surfaces, and I’m transported back to a time where longing and love flowed between us.
