Page 115 of Mourner for Hire
He glances down at his chest.
“It’s very Harry Styles of you.”
His face twists at this, and I laugh. “What? He’s the OG butterfly chest tattoo.”
“Not a chance. I got this before I ever saw him prancing around in concert.”
“Harry does not prance!”
He stares at me knowingly. “Have you seen him in concert?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes. I just said that and he’s brilliant. You’ve got to go.”
I don’t know why, but his answer surprises me. I run my teeth along my bottom lip, contemplating how to continue this conversation. “So when you saw he had a similar tattoo, were you just like, we are soul brothers?”
“Is that a thing?”
“It should be. Men need friendships just as much as women.”
He nods once. I can’t tell if he thinks my comment is stupid or if it is simply making him think.
“That’s Eli to me.”
I raise my eyes, beckoning him to continue. He doesn’t, being the man of few words that he is.
“How long have you been friends?”
“Since my dad died.” He remains expressionless. His answer is very matter-of-fact.
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-three,” he answers, rubbing a wet hand down his face and then flicking a water droplet over the cedar edge of the hot tub. “I was in the Air Force…” he pauses and looks at me, and I grin.
“I knew it.”
A quick raise of his eyebrows acknowledges my accurate assessment of him a year ago, but he continues.
“I couldn’t come home when he had his heart attack. Dad assured me he’d be fine, but he wasn’t.” He tries to shrugnonchalantly, but it’s weighted with grief both from years ago and in recent months. “Eli’s dad was best friends with my dad. And while I always loved Eli—he was like a big cousin to me—we also were just enough years apart that we couldn’t really be friends until adulthood. When I came home, his whole family was rallying around me and my mom. The rest is history.”
I offer a soft smile. “I’m glad you have him.”
He nods once. I’m surprised by this drop of his guard, and he must be, too, because he changes the subject. “Why’d you get the butterfly tattoo?”
The skin on my ribcage where my butterfly sits warms and not because of the hot water slushing against it.
“It reminds me that it’s okay to change. To evolve. To leave behind a life you were given for the one you actually want,” I tell him. “Most people think it’s this reimagined nineties’ trend comeback, but really, it was my obsession with caterpillars when I was five. I was shocked that these fuzzy little creepy-crawlers would eat a bunch of food and go to a dark room for two weeks and emerge victorious and beautiful and… free.” I whisper the last word to hide the crack of my voice.
I’ve never remembered this moment until I said it out loud. But I can picture it so vividly. I’m sitting cross-legged in the grass with a caterpillar on my finger.
“I hope he stays fuzzy forever,” I said.
“No, honey, she’s going to turn into a beautiful butterfly!” Mom said.
“Really?”
“Yes, baby. Just like you. Just like me.”
