53 Letters For My Lover (39 page)

Oh god. He’s going to strip me of everything. No reminders.

I feel all eyes on me as I walk up to him and hold my wrist out, waiting for him to unwind the rosary from my hand.

He grabs it by the cross and pulls me roughly, almost violently, to him. And then his mouth crushes me, hard and unrelenting, parting my lips with fierce domination. He devours me with a single-minded hunger, until my limbs start to tremble. I feel an explosion of joy, relief, tears, laughter, surging through me. My arms go around him as I drink in the savage sweetness of this kiss, our first, truly free, toe-curling, mind-blowing kiss.

We come up for air, breathless and a little dazed.

And then all hell breaks lose, as everyone starts clapping.

My face turns a bright shade of red.

“Don’t you ever,
ever
, walk away with what’s mine, Beetroot,” he says.

He looks so endearingly comical, in his sharp suit with red lipstick smeared all over his face.

“I thought you’d put up more of a fight, Scary Cherry.”

“I lose it. Every time you wbarge into my office. Every fucking time.”

"Heyyy—”

“I know, I know. Stop swearing. Stop smoking. Stop drinking...” He looks at me expectantly.

“Which leaves just one other option.” I laugh.

“Let’s get out of here, Beetroot.”

August 8th, 2001

I have always loved
 the cottage at night. Soft candlelight casts a golden glow on the walls. I sit in the tub, leaning against Troy, our legs stretched out before us. He dips the sponge in warm, soapy water and squeezes it down my back.

“So when did you do all this?” I ask.

“I put in an offer when we got back from our trip.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I thought I’d surprise you. It was going to be the place you always wanted by the water.”

“How could you not tell me? I’m your realtor,” I tease.

“You’re a pain in the ass.” He bites my shoulder.

“So do you come here often?”

“I came in to check on the renovations. That was it. I couldn’t stand being here without you. I rented it out, hoping that someone might find the same magic we did here.”

“I am so glad I came across the ad.” I don’t want to consider the other possibilities, of skipping that random moment that brought me here. Then again, I know that somehow, someway, we’d be still be here, maybe not in this exact moment, but at some other junction in life, because we belonged together. “Is this the same tub we saw in that store?”

“No. That one sold. But they got me the next best thing.”

He runs the sponge down my arms and back up to my nape. “I like this Halle Berry thing you’ve got going on.” He tugs at my short curls.

“Halle Berry, huh?” I laugh. “For a while I felt like Humpty Dumpty. No hair. No eyebrows.”

“You’ve lost a lot of weight, Beetroot. I’m going to have to fatten you up.”

“Mmmm.” I turn around and kiss him. “I like the way this tastes. I could devour a full, eight course meal of this and still have room for more.”

He lets out a low growl and runs his hands over my slippery skin.

“Eight course? You mean eight inches.” His head falls back as I stroke him. “Not here, Beetroot. I want to fuck you properly, thoroughly—so completely, in so many different ways that this little tub isn’t going to cut it.”

And that’s exactly what he does. He takes me to bed, still wet from the bath, and he tastes me, and teases me, and pleases me, until I’m a hot, writhing mess of desire. And then he obliterates me, unleashing his raw sensuality, feeding on my skin, my nerves, my lips, even as he rides me higher and higher. He thrusts me to the edge of the bed, until my head is hanging off the side, as he claims me from behind. Then I’m on my back, my ankles on his shoulders, my hips lifted off the bed. He turns me on my side and takes me again. And again.

“I want it all,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. “Give me everything, Beetroot.”

And the last bit of reserve, the last unclaimed piece of my soul, gasps in sweet agony as a million glowing stars shatter around me. Nothing held back. No inhibitions. Every part of me is wholly, magnificently free to love this man as he deserves.

My breath comes in a long, shuddering sob as Troy abandons himself to his passion and collapses with a ragged cry.

August 9th, 2001

I open my eyes
and let the feeling sink in: Troy’s cheek nestled between my shoulder blades, his arms around my waist, his thighs cradling mine. Warm breath against my skin. Life feels so precious, that every battle, every scar, seems worth it. I slide my hands over his and breathe with him.

When I wake up again, he’s making breakfast. I listen to the sizzle of eggs in the pan, the tinkle of a stirring teaspoon, the ‘ding’ of toasted bread.

“Morning.” I wrap my arms around his neck, and feel my body protest with the best kind of soreness.

I want him again.

“It’s not going to work.” He forces a plate between us.

“What’s not going to work?” I nibble on his ear.

“These distraction tactics of yours. I’m still going to make you finish your breakfast.”

I make a face.

He makes me finish.

We putter around the
cottage. Me in a borrowed t-shirt; him in checked boxers and those damn impressive pecs.

“Come on, Beetroot. Time to get ready,” he says.

“Where are we going?” My head is on his lap, feet on the couch.

The photo of his parents is back on the mantle, in a new frame, next to the first pic of Troy and me, on the boardwalk.

“Have you been to the Butterfly Conservatory?”

“No.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.”

“I don’t want to go,” I reply.

“Why not?”

“Because butterflies are meant to thrive and dance and fly free. I don’t want to see them pinned behind some plexiglass.”

“Agreed,” he smiles. “Now are you going to get ready or should I forcibly evict you from my lap?”

I drag my feet to the bedroom and change into jeans and my Beatles t-shirt.

“You still have it?” He tugs the hem fondly. Then he frowns. “You’re practically swimming in it now.”

We take the quiet
byroads that follow the Niagara River, at times obscured by a thin line of trees, at times opening up to breathtaking views of the surrounding landscape. I ride tucked in behind Troy, my fingers locked around his chest as we pass a panorama of red, orange and gold maples. Between the trees, the river runs pale blue, like a silver snake, past vineyards and beautiful homes.

I love how our bodies sync together, leaning into winding curves, as we cruise along. Pressed up against his back, I feel a lightness of being that defies the heavy jacket and helmet.

He pulled them out of storage this morning, along with matching gloves and boots.

“I got them done for you when I bought the cottage. I always pictured us doing this one day.”

The jacket fits a bit loose, but I’m stoked to go on my first motorcycle ride.

“Hold tight!” he shouts over the hum of the engine when we get to an open stretch of road. “Ready?”

I nod.

He twists the throttle. The Ducati picks up, zipping down the tree-lined route at full speed.

“Woooo!” I squeeze my arms around him, letting the giddy thrill of exhilaration race through me. I feel invincible, shielded, in the shadow of his broad back and shoulders.

He slows down as we turn off a tree-lined street. Sitting amidst the immaculately groomed grounds is a giant greenhouse full of tropical plants with paths that meander through a rainforest-like setting. The Butterfly Conservatory.

“Oh!” I exclaim, as thousands of butterflies float around us, flying freely among lush, exotic blossoms.

They land on fruit plates and dishes of honey and water tucked along the walkways so we can watch them feed.

“Like it?” he asks as I walk ahead of him, my arms spread wide, hoping one of them will land on me.

“No pins,” I laugh.

I stop to read one of the signs. “It says not to touch them. The scales on their wings are so fragile, they’ll come off like powder on our hands, potentially reducing their lifespan.”

“Hard to believe that most of them live just two to three weeks,” he remarks.

“Except for the Monarchs.”

“Yes. They have a long way to go.”

“The journey of a thousand miles.”

“An eternity for a little thing.”

We stand in the warm, moist greenhouse, while droplets of water condense on the windows and run down like little streams.

“Have you seen a Monarch hatch from its pupa?” asks Troy.

I shake my head.

He leads me to the emergence chamber, where butterflies come out of hanging cocoons, unfurling their wings and taking their first flight.

“Those are Monarchs.” He points to jade green chrysalises with gold trim. “See the ones that have turned transparent?”

I gasp as I notice the black and orange wings folded inside, revealing a brand new butterfly. “Look at that one! It’s starting to split open at the bottom.”

We watch as the butterfly breaks free of its case and greets the world backwards, with tiny, shriveled wings. It sits on the empty shell and begins to open and close its wings, inflating them with a reservoir of fluid from its swollen abdomen. As the wings expand, the body takes on normal proportions and the butterfly rests.

“In a few hours when its wings are dried and hardened, it will take its first flight,” Troy explains. “Like that one over there.”

He points out a newly emerged butterfly that is flapping its wings slowly, and then faster and faster, before rising up gently. The new Monarch floats in the air for a few seconds and then joins the hundreds of free-flying butterflies in the conservatory.

“That was beautiful,” I whisper.

Troy hugs me from behind as we stare after the butterfly, no longer able to follow its flight as it blends in with the rest.

“If the cancer comes back, remember me like that,” I say, resting my cheek on his. “I feel like I’ve made my journey, like I’ve come a thousand long, impossible miles, but now I can fly free and weightless, disappearing where breaths go, where so many souls have gone before.”

He doesn’t reply.

Everywhere, exquisite butterflies float in the warm, moist air, spreading iridescent wings on leaves and flowers.

“Nothing’s going to take you away from me.” His arms tighten possessively around me. “When we get back, we’re getting married. And then we’re going to live happily ever after. You hear me, Beetroot?”

I nod, through the lump in my throat.

We make our way to the exit, savoring the feel of our hands clasped together.

“Look, Troy. This one’s a brilliant blue!” I approach a butterfly that’s drinking from a puddle of water on the path.

We crouch on the ground to examine it.

“A Blue Morpho,” he says.

We watch it from opposite ends. My breath catches as I note how its exquisite wings are the same color as Troy’s eyes.

“Beautiful,” I say.

“Nothing holds a candle to my Beetroot Butterfly.”

I smile, realizing we’ve been watching each other, our cheeks pressed to the stone tiles.

“Don’t move,” I whisper. “There’s a butterfly on your shoulder.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Fifteen years and you’re going to use that line on me now?”

“Eighteen,” I say. “And there really is a butterfly on your shoulder.”

“What color?” he asks.

“It’s a Monarch.”

Troy lies quietly and lets me watch it open and close its wings.

“I wonder how far yours got,” he says.

“All the way to the Great Spirit.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my wish came true. I found my wings, Scary Cherry.”