Page 19 of Broken Butterfly
I glare up at him. “You can’t tell me what to do. I can call Ryder or Jayson or even Julien whenever the hell I want.”
Fallon presses in until our faces are so close, we’re breathing the same microcosm of air. “You gave me the right to tell you what the fuck to do when you came to me and asked for my help. Either accept my rules or go the fuck home. I don’t need this shit.”
My lower lip quivers but I suck it up and raise my head high, eyes flashing.
“There she is,” Fallon says with approval. “Now close your eyes.” I do with a huff. “Who do you see?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Tell me, kitten. Who do you see?” He grabs my chin with his fingers.
I open my eyes. “I see Ryder and Jayson.”
He nods once and steps away. “Then there’s your answer.”
Damn him, he’s right. Again. I can’t go back until I know who I am, who I want to be, and who I want to be with.
“What if it’s too much for them? What if by finding who I am, I lose both of them?”
“What if Starbucks gets rid of my favorite chocolate caramel latte? Who the fuck cares, Elizabeth? Grow a goddamn spine and woman the fuck up. Make a choice. Make a decision. Let me help you. Otherwise, pack your shit up and leave. I’m not your damn babysitter.”
Fallon’s words are like a sledgehammer hitting a thumb tack. The elevator doors open to our suite and he stalks off leaving me standing there. Alone. The doors begin to close. I throw my hand out to stop them.
“Fallon, wait!” I run after him. He slows and turns around, his facial expression unreadable. I’m used to cocky Fallon, asshole Fallon, crazy Fallon, and weird Fallon. I’m not used to this Fallon.
“I’m womaning the fuck up,” I say breathlessly.
He cocks his head, and it reminds me of those times before when he would look at me and do just that. Those times when Old Elizabeth was wary and unsure of him. But I’m not.
“No more bullshit?” he says.
“No more bullshit,” I agree.
“You’ll follow my rules and stop being a sneaky bitch?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Good girl. Let’s order some breakfast.”
“I hope they have your favorite chocolate caramel latte,” I tease.
“Shut the fuck up,” he replies with a crooked grin, and I laugh.
I officially both love and hate New York City. I love that there are endless things to do. I love the hustle and bustle of the culture. I love how when you turn a corner, there’s something interesting to see. What I do not love is all of the people. I’m a small-town girl and this huge city is just crazy-packed full of people. You walk down the street and you’re surrounded by people. You go into a restaurant—same thing. Go into a store—more people. I wanted to see the infamous New York City subway system, but as soon as we got underground, I turned Fallon around and walked us right back the way we came. Crowds of bodies packed like sardines in small, confined spaces is a huge no for me. I decided New York City is like an ant colony. Thousands upon thousands of little ants all bumping into each other but still getting their jobs done.
This morning, Fallon took me sightseeing. In Times Square, I got to jam with a street band and learned how to play the steel drum. He kept his promise about our second deal and found a local women’s shelter that we visited for a few hours. They allowed me to sit and talk with some of the women who were staying there, many of them with small children. The women told me their stories. Stories filled with abuse and pain. I felt every word they spoke to me. They humbled me and strengthened my resolve to do more for women like them. Women like me. Women like my sister, Hailey. Women who lived through incredible trauma but fought back and survived, not just for themselves but for their children. I wish I could have fought harder for Elizabeth Ann. I wish I could have fought harder for Hailey.
Once I’m finished talking with the women in the center, I go in search of Fallon. I find him out in the center’s courtyard shooting hoops with a few of the younger boys. I stay hidden in the shadows along the wall and watch. Fallon doesn’t smile much, but when he does, it’s breathtaking. I watch him joke and smile with the younger boys, and every single one of them absorbs his attention like sunshine. Fallon will make a great father one day. If I told him so, he’d more than likely vehemently disagree with me and tell me to fuck off with that typical Fallon smirk, but I see him. I know there is more to the man than the façade he carries. Deep down he feels more than most people. He cares.
The day is overcast and cold enough that you can see the cloud of your breath when you exhale. I love the feel of the cold, crisp air as it tingles a slight burn when it fills my lungs. It’s not uncommon to get snow in New York in November. I wonder if we’ll see it snow before we leave for Iceland tomorrow. I know we’ll definitely see snow inReykjavik.
“You’ve got a very nice young man there,” the director of the women’s center, Janice Berkeley, says beside me.
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I reply. “But yes, he is. He doesn’t allow many people to see it though.”
“His generous donation to the center will help fund so many programs.”
I turn my head to gawk at her. “He made a donation?”
