From His Lips (2 page)

She was wearing an ill-fitting yellow dress,
buttoned up to the collar. Her hair was swept carelessly to the
side. So much of it. Long, dark, curly. It glowed with red
highlights where the sun touched it, like fiery pieces of stoked
coal. She regarded me with eyes that were the shape of almonds;
dark espresso eyes, flecked with cinnamon. She was singularly the
most beautiful, exotic creature I’d ever seen.

Then she blinked, and the moment was gone.
Pretty soon she would be too.

“Shhh. Don’t move,” I said. “Not a
muscle.”

“Huh?” She turned a bright shade of red.

She had felt it too, and she was about to
flit away.

“Don’t move,” I repeated. “There’s a
butterfly. On your shoulder.”

Lame, but it was the only thing that came to
mind.

“What color?” she asked.

“Red.”
Like the glints in your hair, the
flush on your cheeks
.

“Red?”

A lie.

But I didn’t care if she believed me. I just
wanted her to stay. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” I
said.

The truth.

“You know,” I continued, grasping at straws
to keep her there, “there’s a Native American legend which says
that if you want a wish to come true, you must capture a butterfly
and whisper your wish to it. Since it makes no sound, it won’t tell
the wish to anyone but the Great Spirit. By making the wish and
releasing the butterfly, your wish will be taken to the heavens and
be granted.”

“Are you...are you going to try and catch
it?”

“Only if it wants to be caught.”

Somewhere nearby, a rose bush was in full
bloom. I could smell its sweet, heady fragrance in the air.

She made a short, jerky move, clamping down
on the papers she was holding, as if to steady herself. Something
glinted off her left hand. A ring. A plain golden band on her
wedding finger.

Fuck.

All of the roving, tossing, turning energy
found me again.

“It’s gone,” I said.

“What?”

“The butterfly.”
The weird stillness I
felt around you
. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are
you?”

“No,” she replied.

But she looked unsure, like she wasn’t sure
exactly
what
had just happened.

That makes the two of us.

I smiled. “I’d say I’m sorry for running into
you, but I’m not really.”

Her guard was up now; her face back on. So
that was the look she normally wore to keep the world at bay.

“Need some help?” I offered her a hand.

“I’m fine.” She kept her head down.

Her right knee was scratched, but she was too
busy clutching the papers like a shield to keep me away. It didn’t
seem right to just leave her there, in the middle of the street,
but that’s exactly what I did. Because I wanted to stay, and you
never,
ever
mess with another man’s woman.

I was tempted to turn around and make sure
she was okay. Maybe I just wanted one final glance. She looked too
young to be married.

Keep running, Troy. Keep running.

I had three more rounds to go, but I headed
back to Ryan’s. I felt like I had just been run over by a
truck.

Ryan was sprawled out in the living room,
watching TV and balancing a bowl of cereal on his lap.

“Hey,” he said without turning around.

I peeled off my sweatshirt and downed the
rest of my water. My throat still felt parched.

The doorbell rang.

“Dad! Are you expecting someone?” asked
Ryan.

Bob came into the kitchen, finishing off his
coffee.

“Would you mind getting that, Troy?” he
said.

I opened the door and did a double take.

Yellow dress, curly hair, crooked pile of
papers.

Her.

Standing upright, she was curvier than I
thought. Not quite as tall. But she turned just as red when she saw
my bare chested form.

Hell. I was ready to buy whatever she was
selling. Cookies. Time share. Encyclopedia Fucking Britannica.

“Ryan?” she said, peering at me through the
screen.

“I’m Ryan.” His head popped up beside me.
“He’s Troy. Who are you?”

“Coming through, coming through,” said Bob.
“Oh hey, Shayda.” He let her in. “Boys, this is my assistant. Be
nice.” He said something to her before leaving, but I wasn’t
listening.

I smelled roses as she walked past me and
headed for Bob’s home office.

“Holy crap. My dad’s assistant? She’s
smokin’!” said Ryan, when she was out of earshot.

“Lay off, man. She’s married.”

We shut up as Ryan’s sister walked into the
hallway.

“You want breakfast?” she asked, rubbing her
eyes sleepily.

“Since when, Jayne?” shot Ryan. “Should you
even be up? It’s not noon yet, is it?”

She was sixteen or seventeen, and her
schoolgirl crush on me embarrassed Ryan, although he didn’t say. He
knew I would never make the moves on his kid sister. That’s just
part of the bro code.

“Shut up, smartass.” Jayne flipped him the
finger and gave me a honey-sweet smile. “You sure I can’t get you
anything?”

“Jayne, I’ll look after breakfast,” said her
mother. “You go change.”

Elizabeth Worthing was not impressed with her
daughter’s flimsy pajama shorts. Jayne made a face, but she went
off to do her bidding.

“Morning, boys.” Mrs. Worthing gave Ryan and
me a peck on the cheek. “Have fun last night?”

Ryan groaned, nursing his head.

“How about you?” she turned to me. “You need
an advil too?”

I shook my head. My cotton-balled hangover
had been knocked right out of me.

“God, you reek,” she said, as I reached over
and grabbed an apple. “Off to the shower, young man. You’re not
getting any pancakes until you’ve freshened up.”

“Pancakes? Yummm.” I took a big bite of the
apple. “Thank you, Mrs. Worthing.”

“Call me Lizzie,” she said.

“Since when?” asked Ryan. First his sister
and now his mum. “All my friends call you Mrs. Worthing.”

“Lizzie, Mrs. Worthing. What difference does
it make?” I heard her say as I headed for the bathroom.

“Hey, Jayne.” It was Shayda’s voice, coming
from the study room. “Have you ever seen a red butterfly?”

Without the distraction of her unsettling
presence, I could focus on other things. She had an accent— barely
detectable, like she had practiced the words many times to iron it
out, but it still lingered in the folds. It wasn’t so much the way
she said things, but the tone they took. High and low, up and down,
a soft lilting like she was a bit unsure, so some words came out
like question marks.

“A red butterfly?” replied Jayne. “Does that
even exist?”

“Sure does.” I peeked into the study.

They jumped liked they’d been caught in the
act.

“I saw one just this morning,” I said. I had
the funny feeling they’d been talking about me.

“Yeah, right.” Jayne recovered first. “What’s
it called then?”

A full flush settled over Shayda’s face when
I looked at her.

“A Beetroot Butterfly.” I smiled.

PAST

Matilda didn't speak much English, but we
communicated just fine.

“
Morgen
,” she said, her eyes fixed on
my lips.

Kiss me.

Obviously.

I obliged.

“
Morgen
.” She laughed and said
again.

“She wants to know if she’ll see you
tomorrow,” explained Ellen.

“Morgen. Ja. Ja!” I nodded.

“Okay.” Matilda smiled and got out of the
car.

Jayne let herself in the front seat and
stared sullenly after her. “She walks funny.”

I laughed. Matilda walked sexy—with a
seductive sway to her hips that got more pronounced when she knew
she had eyes on her.

“I like her,” I said to Ellen.

“I knew you’d get along,” she replied. “She
really likes you.”

“So what else is new? Everybody likes Troy.”
Ryan slapped me in the back good-naturedly.

“And I like
you
,” said Ellen, sidling
up to him.

“Sheesh.” Jayne rolled her eyes. “Now that
we’ve cleared all that up, can we go? Mum said to be home by
six.”

With my parents out of town, Bob and Lizzie
had taken me under their wing.

“Why don’t you just stay here until they get
back?” they said.

“Thanks, but I prefer my own space.”

Truth is, I would have loved to stay. Lizzie
was a mean cook, and Bob often took Ryan and me to work with him.
We’d take pics of the properties he was listing and goof around at
local hangouts until he was done.

But I couldn’t stay. Because staying meant
running into Shayda, and I didn’t want to feel that intense
awareness of her shoot through me. It made me feel alive and lousy
at the same time, because I had no business thinking about her. So
I accepted Bob and Lizzie’s dinner invitation instead. She would be
gone by then and I wouldn’t have to wrestle with my misplaced
reaction to her—look at her, don’t look at her; talk to her, don’t
talk to her.

“Hey,” Jayne rolled down her window and
pointed to a Greek restaurant as we drove by a busy stretch of the
road. “This is where Shayda works!”

“I thought she works for Dad,” said Ryan.

“Yeah. In the day time. At night, she
waitresses here.”

“She has two jobs?” asked Ellen.

“Mmmm.” Jayne nodded. “She’s always working.
She has to sponsor her family over from Tehran. I think her parents
and brother are still there. She’s only been here a year
though.”

“Mum said she had an arranged marriage,” said
Ryan.

“It wasn’t arranged-
arranged
. Her aunt
set them up when she moved to Toronto.”

“You think her family got her married so they
could all move here?”

“What do I look like? The six o’clock news?”
Jayne swatted her brother.

“I’m just asking,” said Ryan. “You two seem
to have hit it off.”

“How old is she anyways?” asked Ellen.

“Same as you. Twenty? Twenty-one? I’m not
sure.” Jayne shrugged. “She doesn’t talk much about herself.”

*****

“Any plans for Canada Day?” asked Bob.

“Not really. I’ll probably just catch the
fireworks at night,” I replied.
With Matilda
.

“Can Ellen and I come over? You guys have
such a fantastic view out on the lake,” said Ryan.

“Sure. Consider yourself invited.”

“Why don’t you join us for lunch, Troy? Then
you guys can head out together,” suggested Lizzie.

“Thank you. You’ve just spoiled me with that
delicious chicken. You know I’d never turn down your cooking.” I
smiled.

“I’ll make something too,” said Jayne.

“You?” Bob and Ryan looked like they’d just
been smacked in the face.

“Yeah, me. You gotta a problem with
that?”

“I’m glad you’re taking an interest, Jayne.”
Lizzie hid a smile. “What’s with the sudden domestication?”

“It’s not sudden,” Jayne protested. “I just
didn’t...you just don’t know about it. That's all. None of you
know.” She sputtered indignantly.

“Well, I look forward to whatever it is you
plan to serve us,” said Bob.

“Sure. You have insurance,” replied Ryan.

“Mom!” Jayne was not amused.

“I was thinking of inviting Shayda and Hafez
too,” said Lizzie. “What do you think?”

“I think that would be fantastic,” said Bob.
“After everything they’ve been through, being around family would
lift their spirits. Even if it’s not their own.”

“Why? What happened to them?” asked
Jayne.

Bob and Lizzie exchanged a look.

“Let's just say they’ve had a rough start,”
replied Bob.

A wild, unruly part of me crawled out from
the ranks, wanting to know more, but I secured it, like trapping a
horned spider under an upside-down glass. I couldn’t contain it too
long though. The beast broke free on my way home.

I stopped at a bar and found a table by the
window. So what if it happened to be directly across the street
from the restaurant Jayne had pointed out, the place where Shayda
worked?

One drink, I told myself. Then I leave.

But a man can make one drink last for a long
time when he wants to. And so I sat there, ignoring to the stares
of women in clingy dresses, nursing a dry manhattan, as I watched
the waitress across the street.

She was wearing the same yellow dress, with a
green apron around her waist. Her hair was tied back and she
occasionally tucked a loose strand behind her ear. The patio was
full, the music loud. She seemed to be the only one serving the
tables. In and out she darted, balancing trays of drinks and bread
and entrees. She smiled when she was supposed to, talked when
spoken to and brought the check at the end of the meal. It was as
if she was there, and yet removed, like she had carefully stowed
away the part of her that was her, and was moving around in a
hollowed-out robotic assembly of hands and legs and eyes and face.
It wasn’t something you’d notice, unless you’d seen her, the
real
her, like I had for those few beats on the sidewalk.
Because even momentarily, she had shone, so bright that I wondered
what she’d be like if she were free and unrestrained.

I stayed until she turned the sign on the
door to ‘CLOSED’ and the lights turned off inside. But she wasn’t
done. She came back out and watered the plants on the patio. She
must have been dead tired, but this was the part she enjoyed. I
could tell because she stroked the flowers gently, letting her
fingers sing to them, perking up their tired, wilted forms after a
hot, sunny day. Then she found a small table in the corner, away
from the lights, and had her dinner.

Why was she sitting here alone? Why wasn’t
she hurrying home to have dinner with her husband?

Not your business, Troy. Not your
business.