Page 13 of Butterfly
“Do you want to come to my next game?” He interrupts my thoughts again, and I pause.
No, I don’t really. I don’t have any actual interest in hockey, but…
“Maybe. When is it?”
“Friday night. We play the Wildcats, so it should be a good game.”
I nod, grabbing another napkin and jotting down the time. When I go to crumple up my last sketch, he catches it with deft fingers, sliding it across the table. It makes me wrinkle my nose. That’s not the first impression I want him to have of my art—I shouldn’t want him to have one at all, but here we are.
“Wow, this is… you’re actually really good, Shiloh. I mean, I guess you’d have to be to do this for a living.”
I stare at the napkin, the imperfections, the way it looks like the ghost of an attempt at capturing how… lovely he is.
“It’s not my best,” I offer flatly.
“What are you talking about? This is good.” He snatches another napkin, and I feel my chest go warm. I don’twanthimto see imperfect sketches. I want him to see me at my best. But my best has a price paid in blood, so… I shake my head.
“You’re not a subject for a cheap medium. You’d look better in paints.”
He looks a little confused. “What do you mean?”
I’m saved from having to explain myself by our waitress coming back again. I notice this time she doesn’t flirt, she just puts the bill between us with a polite smile. “Can I get you anything else before you go?”
I shake my head and pull my wallet out of Donovan’s hoodie before he can grab his.
“I can?—”
“No, it’s fine. You can pay next time.” I throw some cash on the table and stand up. “Maybe after your game.”
“So you’re coming?” He seems a little shocked, maybe a little excited. I should say no—I should just sneak into his apartment tonight and end this weird fascination. But I know I’m not going to. People know him.
I want to know more about him. So…
“Yeah.”
He grins, and then his eyes drop to my chest. “So, uh, am I not getting my hoodie back?”
I shake my head with a small laugh. “Nah. How else will you see me in the stands? I’ll see you Friday.”
“There’ll be a ticket at will call for you,” he says.
“Really?”
“Under the name California,” he adds with a grin.
“All right, Donovan,” I don’t mean to breathe his name the way I do, to let my fascination show, but it comes out anyway. Maybe that’s what makes him move.
Before I can walk away, he catches my wrist. The feel of his fingers, even through the thick fabric of his hoodie, penetrate myskin. I turn slowly, staring at the way his hand easily encircles my arm. He’s sobig.
“Can I keep the sketches?”
I want to tell him no—I want to tell him they aren’t good, that I can do better, that I couldshowhim better. I want to invite him back to my place so I can show him exactly how I make art.
Instead, I carefully extract my wrist from his fingers and nod. “If you want. I’ll see you around.”
And to my surprise, he picks up every discarded napkin and carefully starts smoothing them out. He’s still stacking them into a neat pile like they’re something delicate when I leave.
Donovan William Myers is… strange. Intriguing.
