Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 12
Sofi
I’m surprised. Mr. Bossy readily agreed to have lunch at the self-serve museum café. He seems to be someone with champagne tastes who’d much prefer to fine-dine at Petrossian, feasting on caviar and Bellinis. But I’m wrong. The more I spend time with him, the more I discover he’s a paradox. A walking contradiction. The man who dwells in darkness and comes to life in an explosion of color. Over burgers, fries, and Cokes, I tell him more about my ambition to become a professional painter and my dream to one day go to a tropical rainforest to see butterflies in their natural habitat. He lets me do all the talking; I’ve honestly never been with someone who takes such an interest in me—well, except for my parents and my friend Vincent. When I attempt to ask him some questions about himself, he turns the subject back to me. I sense it’s a defense mechanism. He’s definitely closed off and I can’t help but wonder why.
After sharing a massive slice of chocolate layer cake, we head to the gift shop where I show him the butterfly anthology. He leafs through the pages, but ultimately passes on it because he doesn’t want to lug it. It weighs a ton. Instead, he purchases a stunning butterfly-print silk scarf and hands it to me.
“This is for you, my butterfly.”
“I can’t take a gift from you,” I say, my voice hesitant. He’s already given me way too much.
“It’s a small token for a great day. You’ve inspired me.” He affectionately flicks the tip of my nose, and my skin prickles everywhere. “Put it on, Sofi.” He juts his chin at me. “Now, please.” Mr. Bossy. At least he said please.
On impulse, instead of wrapping it around my neck, I tie it in my hair. Not knowing what he’ll think.
Roman’s piercing blue eye stays on me as I knot the ends into a bow. A smile blossoms on his face. “That’s what I like about you. Most women would have worn it as a scarf, but you made it into a headband.” The perfectionist fixes the bow. “Better. Let’s get some fresh air.”
He does a final adjustment of my new headband and I feel my cheeks heat. Is it suddenly hot in here or is it me? I could use some fresh air too. As we’re about to exit the museum shop, my new employer is drawn to a small object. His good eye lights up.
“I bet that’s a Luna moth,” he says, studying the life-size green glass paperweight. I tell him it is, noting the small sculpture is as beautiful and delicate as the actual winged creature. He says he wants it.
Carefully, he lifts it from the shelf and strides back to the cashier. She rings it up, and to my surprise, it’s on sale. The last one and only twenty-five dollars. Before he can hand her his credit card, I whip out mine and insist on buying it for him. He protests.
“No, please, Roman! I insist! I can afford it. I have a big-paying job now. It’s the least I can do. I want you to have it . . . a gift from me.”
With reluctance, he puts his card away and gives in. “Don’t do that again, Butterfly,” he reprimands as the cashier carefully wraps up the glass figurine in layers of tissue paper and places it into a small shopping bag. Roman takes it in his hand.
There are no thank-yous. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here while I’m still inspired.”
Passing by the formidable T-Rex before we exit, we head outside. The weather is still pleasant. Sunny and in the low seventies. The lukewarm breeze is a welcome reprieve from the stuffy museum.
“I should head home,” I breathe out. Truthfully, I’m not looking forward to taking the subway to my apartment. I don’t want the image of this beautiful day, filled with this gorgeous man and all those exquisite butterflies, to be obliterated by the grime of the smelly, crowded, bleak metro. Roman spares me the trek.
“Let’s walk for a bit. I don’t get out much.”
By dusk, after several stops including one for pizza and another for ice cream cones, I’m not far from my Hell’s Kitchen apartment. I don’t want him to see where I live. While the once drug-infested and crime-ridden neighborhood is now rather gentrified, my decrepit rent-controlled tenement building is embarrassing and nothing like the grand, turn-of-the-century residence he occupies. My phone rings. Sliding off my backpack, I slip it out of the front pocket and glance down at the screen. It’s my landlord. He’s probably calling me for my past-due rent yet again. Knowing I can pay it as well as next month’s thanks to Roman’s generous salary, I ignore it. The phone rings again. I let it ring.
“Who’s calling?” asks Roman, his voice challenging.
“Nobody important.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“You should catch a cab,” I tell him, evading his question and throwing the phone back into my bag. “I can make it home by myself.”
He looks at me like I’ve given him a slap to his face. “No fucking way. It’s getting dark. And your neighborhood’s not safe. I’m walking you to your door.”
“Roman, it’s perfectly safe. When was the last time you were there?”
He stops in his tracks and, gripping my shoulders, flips me around. At the touch of him, every nerve ending sizzles. His good eye burns into me.
“Twenty years ago. For your information, I grew up there. My mother and I lived in some shithole apartment. We were lucky neither of us was knifed down or shot by a stray bullet.”
His revelation shocks me. I wonder how much his upbringing has impacted him, but instead say, “Well, things have changed. A lot. It’s a nice neighborhood now.”
Roman’s brow furrows. “Don’t argue with me. In fact, I’m making that one of your job requirements. Simply do as I say.”
Five minutes later, we turn onto my street. A dozen bright red fire engines line it. It takes me a few moments to realize what’s going on. Oh my God! My building’s on fire! That’s why my landlord was calling me!
In a state of panic, I break away from Roman and race down the pavement. Firefighters, in bright yellow hazmat suits, are hosing the sky-high flames shooting out from the windows, many of them smashed. The air, thick with smoke, suffocates me and clouds my vision. I’m barely aware Roman is standing beside me.
“That’s my building!” I choke out, tugging the arm of a burly firefighter. “I have to go inside!”
“Please stand back, ma’am,” he says, jerking me free of him. “This is a danger zone.”
“But I live here! All my things are inside!” I cry, tears stinging my eyes from both the smoke and this horrifying reality. All my possessions are going up in flames. I’m losing everything I have! My art supplies! My paintings! My laptop! My life!
Desperately, I make a mad dash for the building, but two strong arms hold me back.
Roman’s. “Sofi, what the fuck are you doing? You can’t go inside there!”
“Let me go!” Writhing and wailing, I try desperately to free myself of him. “You can’t stop me.” But my will is no match for his strength. I succumb.
With limp limbs and a splintering heart, I watch as the building crumbles, and burst into a tsunami of tears. Hysterical, ragged sobs rack my body and if Roman weren’t holding me up, I’d crumple to the ground. Gently, he turns me around and takes me into his arms.
“I’ve lost everything! All my paintings!” I blubber, my sobs clogging my throat, my hot tears scalding my cheeks. “I have no place to live.”
Wordlessly, he draws me in closer to him, his protective arms wrapped around me like a hug. So sad, so numb, and defeated, I rest my head against his solid chest and sob into his jacket, my ugly tears and snot staining the buttery leather.
He just lets me cry and cry and cry until his voice, as soft as a prayer, sings in my ears. “C’mon, Butterfly. You’ll stay with me.”