“See the yellow butterfly, Wilbur?”
I rubbed my jaw, and then my fist, trying to decide which hurt worse.
“I’m sorry we got so loud. It’ll be just you and me at home, now. I promise. He’s not coming back.”
A second butterfly joined us.
“Two!” They trailed behind the entire time.
I’d been certain those butterflies were messengers of hope, of a new life. Even if it had simply been Gramma’s way of letting me know they were okay, I’d believed it. I’d felt peace, for them and for myself. I got the same feeling now, at the side of the road, as two fluttered by at night in April, an impossibility, unless I was meant to follow them.
“I want Shelby and Rip to feel that when they hear about me, Gramma.” I wondered if I could visit my sister, like Jefferson did me, like a ghost, or maybe as a cardinal or butterfly.
Before long, I was seeing myself in the basement of the fancy Tennessee hotel in October of 2018.
Patrick is sexy.