Friday, 12 November 2021

Butterfly Save - Mignon Mykel



 It’s been one hell of a year.


If I’m being honest, it’s been one hell of a life. 

For years my worth has been tied up in one of two things: goaltender for the San Diego Enforcers, and husband—then ex-husband—of the oldest MacTavish daughter.

Regret is a heavy thing and it’s weighing on me.

Now I’m retiring myself up to the wooded island my family called a second home growing up.

Getting away from the limelight.
Feeling closer to my roots.

I’m fully prepared to live out the rest of my life alone up here in seclusion.

And then I meet her. 
Timid. Cautious. And so damn beautiful.

I should stay away.
She doesn’t need my brand of baggage.
But damn if I can't help myself.

 
 
 
 
 







 

 

Past my concrete porch, over a yard that could use mowing, further beyond the rather large patch of ditch lilies, and across the road, I watched the truck pull into the neighboring drive.
The truck sat there, just idling, for easily forty seconds, but eventually the taillights turned off and the driver’s door opened.
In quick fashion, a burly man jumped out, slinging a backpack over his right shoulder.
Short, buzzed head of what looked to be light-colored hair, maybe even a light brown.
His bushy, but not long, beard was a shocking contrast to the t-shirt and basketball-type shorts he wore. I felt that most bearded men wore flannels and denims, not gym attire.
But then again, maybe that was my sheltered upbringing.
He stood there, facing the abandoned house but not moving.
I told myself to leave.
That creeping on the man was crazy.
Besides, he didn’t look like he was going to be doing anything too exciting any time soon.
Just when I convinced myself to step away, the man turned his head and was looking back at my place. It took a solid five seconds for me to realize he was looking...
Right...
At...
Me.
Blushing profusely, I stepped away from the window and let the curtain swing shut.
Fuck.
Frick, frick, fuck.
“Fudge!” I yelled, putting my hands into my hair.
Shoot.
He’d have questions.
He’d want to know why I was staring.
He was going to come over here and demand answers.
I’d have to meet him.
I would no longer be safe in this place that I finally—freaking finally—felt safe in.
Nervously, I twisted my right hand back and forth around my left wrist, where my watch normally sat when I wasn’t painting. I walked in a quick circle, trying to figure out what to do.
When my circling stopped and had me facing the window again, I dared myself to peek again.
Was he still standing there?
Was he staring at my place?
Or maybe he was making his way across the road and through my yard and up my concrete steps and...
STOP!
I forced myself to swallow and breath, then pulled back the curtain slowly.
To my surprise...
There was no one.
The man wasn’t on my porch.
He wasn’t in my yard.
Heck, he wasn’t even by his truck anymore—although the truck was still there.
Maybe he didn’t see me, after all.
Sure thing, Summer.
Shaking my head, I let the curtain fall once again and forced myself to get back to work—to get lost in something I could control.
Afterall, my canvases weren’t going to paint themselves.

 


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