Page 12 of Butterfly
One syllable compared to the thirty-second speech he gave me about his passion probably isn’t exactly fair, but it’s one more than I give most people. I know he doesn’t realize that, but it still has to count for something. He sits in silence for a few seconds, probably waiting for me to elaborate. All it does is let me see the little line that forms between his brows when he’s apparently frustrated. I add the detail to my sketch and sigh.
“And… do you sell art? Go to school for it? Teach it?”
It’s commendable that he’s trying, honestly, but… “Yes,” I answer again, and he actually rolls his eyes. “How often do you practice?” Maybe if I don’t leave any dead space, he won’t try to ask me questions.
He immediately launches into another long explanation, like he can’t help it. “Daily, for the most part, but it’s not like everyone thinks. Some days, we don’t even get on the ice and just spend time in the gym or working with strength coaches or athletic trainers. Sometimes Gilly, the other goalie, and I hit a yoga class while everyone else does gym shit. We get some days off here and there, but most days I’m at the rink daily at ten a.m., basically. There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not doing something for something.” I flip the napkin I’m using over, even though this sketch wasn’t the worst, and jot down the time he’s given, then stuff it into my pocket before he gets a closer look. I want to make sure it matches the picture I took of his schedule on my phone.
“What about travel? How often do you do that?”The fact that he’s letting someone who obviously stole his wallet and brokeinto his apartment to take his hoodie ask him these questions is beyond me, but I’m not going to ruin my good luck by pointing it out. Maybe he’s just lonely—he’s new here too.
“Frequently,” he sighs. “It feels like at least once a week I’m on some chartered bus heading off somewhere. We rarely get to fly, but those are the best trips. Nothing starts to suck more than playing back-to-back games in completely different cities on a long-ass road trip. The only real bonus is that our games are usually just on weekends, Fridays and Saturdays mostly.”
So if I wanted to break into his apartment again, Friday and Saturday are the days to do it. I should have kept the napkin out.
“What do you do on your days off?”
“Catch up on sleep, mostly. Sometimes I’ll start with a morning run, then spend the rest of the day in my apartment playing video games.” That lines up with the console I saw. “On rare occasions, Oakley comes through town with his team and I hit the arena to watch him play. It’s mostly chill, though.”
“Oakley plays for a different team?”
“In a different city,” he says. “In a different league. Do you know anything about hockey contracts?”
I’m torn between laughing and questioning whether he’s been paying attention, so I settle on tilting my head. “Do I seem like I know about hockey… anything?”
He scrunches his brows together. “Seems to me like you’re interested, is all.”
I don’t want to tell him I havezerointerest in hockey, but I’m making mental notes on how to be the perfect serial killer with the way he’s telling me his schedule.
“Go on,” I prompt. “Tell me about your friend Oakley.” And like a little puppy eager to please, he does.
“Okay, so I play in the AHL, but my contract is actually with an NHL team, and they just assigned me here. Oakley also hasan NHL contract, but he plays in that league. He was drafted in the first round, pretty high up.”
Every single bit of what he’s saying sounds like absolute gibberish to me. And even though I can tell he’s getting a little exasperated with my twenty questions, he still seems willing to play along with my little game. I pause to add a few lines to the sketch I’ve been working on while he talks—the little stray hairs brushing his forehead, the way his freckles dance across his nose. It gives him a chance to get in a question of his own.
“What about you, Shiloh? What do you do when you’re not at work, or school, or wherever it is you create art?”
I’m saved from having to answer whenLauracomes back out with two plates piled high and slides a chocolate milkshake in front of me.
I frown, but before I can say anything, Donovan drags it across the table. “He actually asked for strawberry. Why don’t I keep this one, and you can get him a new one?”
That brings me up short.
It’s a silly thing, honestly—the way it makes my stomach clench. I’m not used to people really paying attention or caring about what I want. From the look she throws me, she’s a little taken aback too.
“Sorry about that. I’ll go get you a new one.”
When she walks away, I frown, biting my lower lip. He’s already tucking into his food, but my fingers are tapping on the table before I finally decide I can give himonething.
“I work on art pieces to sell during my free time. It’s how I afford to live in a city this expensive.” Just saying that much feels like I flayed off a few layers of skin and exposed my ribcage to him, but Donovan just takes a big bite of his burger and nods.
“That’s cool, though, that you make enough to support yourself, I mean.” He seems… enthusiastic about it. Not like he’s storing the information away to use against me later.
“I suppose so,” I answer, and then dive back into questioning him.
By the time we’re done eating, I know his exact practice schedule, the gym he likes to work out at, his favorite restaurants around town, what movie he wants to go see next, and where he grocery shops. It’s… startling how open he is. How sweet. I’ve gone through six napkins trying to replicate the way his eyes sparkle when he’s excited, but pen and a cheap surface seem incapable of capturing it. I don’tlikesketching. It’s messy and imperfect. Colorless.
I need paint… I need to slide a knife along his skin, because I know his blood would make the perfect shade of red for his hair until it dried.
I…
