Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 19

Roman

This was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

It’s all her fault. Sofi’s. Seeing her almost bare in that sexy underwear was enough to throw me over the edge, but then hearing about her date with Blickdick did me in. I’m fucked. Totally fucked.

The recluse I am, I didn’t remember how crazy the city is on a Saturday evening, and with some ridiculous convention happening in town, an influx of tourists, and every New Yorker and their mother escaping the city for the holiday weekend, I was unable to hire transportation—neither a driver, an Uber, nor a taxi. I, Roman Hurst, was forced to rent a fucking car. I haven’t driven a car in years. Make that a decade. My hand actually shook when I signed the rental agreement. I should have changed my mind and ripped it up. Big mistake.

They say some things you never forget. Like riding a bike. Tying a shoe. Or driving a car.

Yes, I haven’t forgotten how to drive, but I feel unsteady behind the wheel. And all these damn navigational things cars now have make me extra angsty. The BMW is like some futuristic space mobile. I didn’t even know how to turn on the ignition with the fricking start button. In retrospect, I should have rented a helicopter. What the fuck was I thinking? Damn Blickdick. He’s fucked with my head. Hell, if he wasn’t going to this damn wedding as Sofi’s date, I wouldn’t be here. And if driving isn’t bad enough, the thought of going to a wedding is even more nauseating. In Connecticut no less. While I’ve designed numerous wedding gowns for clients, I’ve never been to a wedding. There’s only one I wanted to attend. But that didn’t happen. At that thought, a bolt of sorrow and remorse shoots through me.

Sitting in the passenger seat dressed in one of her Goodwill finds, her hair fixed in two long braids, Sofi sketches butterflies and is totally oblivious to my inner turmoil. The torrent of emotions sweeping through me. Sorrow. Regret. Guilt. Remorse. Apprehension. I turn on the radio, hoping some music will relax me. It’s WQSR, the classical music station. It doesn’t. Brooding Beethoven’s Fifth, played by the New York Philharmonic, only heightens my unrest.

We turn onto the scenic Merritt Parkway and I grow more jittery. On the radio, a fast-paced piano selection. The Flight of the Bumblebee. My nerves buzz. In the rearview mirror, I can see the tension in my face. The crease between my brows. The lines on my forehead. Seriously, my visage looks like a construction sight. My fingers grip the wheel so tightly my hands hurt.

Sensing my distress, Sofi turns to look at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I mumble. No! Capital N-O! My stomach churns while my breath labors against the nausea rising in my chest. Sweat beads cluster on my forehead. My skin grows chalky. Bile mixes with pieces of my dark broken self.

Then, just as I approach the Greenwich exit, Chopin’s Funeral March plays and at the same time, a minivan cuts in front of me, the back window sporting a sticker. Baby on Board. I totally lose it and swerve the car onto the soft shoulder. So radically, the tires screech against the asphalt.

“Jesus, Roman! What are you doing?” shrieks Sofi as I slam down on the brake, jerk the car into park, and jump out. Without closing the door, I bend over and, with a thundering belch, throw up on the road. The entire contents of my stomach puddle below me, including some chunky bits on my shoes. Cars whoosh by me. The stench is awful.

“Oh my God,” squawks Sofi as I barf again. I want to tell her to stay put, but I can’t get words out in my wretched condition. As I retch for a third time, I hear her get out of the Beamer. I vomit again, and from the corner of my watering eye, I see her round the car and run up to me. She looks aghast. Horrified.

“Stay away from me,” I choke out, trying to stand up straight. I feel weak and unsteady. My voice is hoarse and my knees are wobbly.

“Roman, please let me help you,” she insists, urgency and compassion in her voice.

I’m frankly too weak to resist her helping hand. In fact, I’m trembling and have the chills.

“Roman, are you sick?” she asks, gripping my forearm.

I shake my head, too afraid to open my mouth, fearing another round of puking.

“Let me clean you up.” Still clinging to my arm, she reaches into her bag with her free hand and slips out a Kleenex. Gently, she wipes my mouth and then lets go of me, squatting down to clean up my shoes. Thankfully, no chunky bits have gotten onto my black tux or my shirt. She stuffs the gross tissue into the fender. I’m grateful she didn’t litter and cost me a $200 fine as a highway patrol car pulls up to us.

A uniformed officer gets out and strides up to us. He’s careful not to step in my pool of vomit. “Is everything all right here?”

I nod and fake a small smile. “Yes, officer. Just some carsickness. Maybe a case of food poisoning. Or a bug.”

He looks at me questionably—at my eye patch—and I wonder if he’s going to say that I shouldn’t be driving with only one good eye. Instead, he asks me for my driver’s license. Which thankfully, I’ve kept up to date despite my aversion to driving. And my handicap.

“It’s in the car with my cell phone.”

Without me asking, Sophie pivots and reaches inside the car for it. She hands me the phone and I slide my license out of the shiny black leather case. It was just renewed last month. Taking it from me, the cop inspects it. My heart thuds. Is he going to call it in and check my driving record? Ask me about the accident? In front of Sofi? Worry pulses through me as I battle nausea. Fortunately, he doesn’t and hands it back to me. Shoving it back into my phone case, I inwardly sigh with relief until . . .

“Can I please see your car registration and insurance card?”

Huh?

“Officer.” Asswipe. “It’s a rental and we have a wedding to go to. We need to get on our way or we’ll be late.”

The prick lingers, demanding the rental contract. Fuck. I don’t remember if I took insurance out. I was a nervous wreck at the car rental place. Not in my right mind.

Sofi jumps in. “Officer, please! It’s my sister’s wedding! She’s terminally ill and may not have much time left on this earth! My parents will be devastated if we’re not there.”

Tears form in her eyes. I don’t know if she’s telling the truth about a family member or being a great actress and bullshitting him. Either way, she convinces him. He put his mobile device away and his face softens.

“Sorry to hear that. Drive carefully and enjoy yourselves.” He returns to his car and drives off. See ya.

“C’mon, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Sofi doesn’t budge. “Roman, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I grumble, my voice now stronger.

“If you’re sick, I can call you an Uber or a cab to take you back to the city.”

“I told you I’m fine.” My voice rises with an unsettling mix of anger, regret, and faux determination. “Let’s go.” Before I change my mind. I’m dreading going to the wedding, but my dread is surpassed by one driving force. The fear of my butterfly going home with Blickdick. Or anywhere near him.

Before I can take one staggering step, she snatches the fob out of my hand. “Fine, but I’m driving.” Her sharp gaze meets mine. “Get in.”