"I see," I muttered, not wanting to say anything else in fear I might actually laugh in her face.
"I know what you're thinking," she said. "You're thinking I'm insane."
"Not insane," I corrected.
"I wasn't looking for a sign from my sister," she insisted adamantly.
"Sure. I get it."
"No." She grabbed my arm with a surprising amount of force and turned me to face her. "You don't understand and you're not listening."
"Fine," I muttered, staring down into her eyes, a dark navy in the darkness. "So, tell me."
"That morning, I woke up to find a butterfly on the windowsill of my bedroom," she said, a firm and serious expression drawn on her face. "My window was open a crack, there was a small hole in the upper part of my screen that I'd been begging my father to fix for months, and somehow, this butterfly managed to find its way through the hole and down through the crack and onto the windowsill inside my room."
"Okay," I nodded, still unimpressed. This was what they did, religious people. People of faith. They try to convince you of the things you know to be false. They try to sway you toward their stance of blind belief in something that might as well be as impossible as the unicorns or mermaids. This was exactly why Audrey and I couldn't happen, this was exactly why this entire night was a bad idea, and yet, I remained standing there with her as she stared at me with an intensity that could've made me believe in the Easter Bunny if she looked long enough.
"It was this butterfly," she pressed and wrenched the neckline of her top lower to reveal the tattoo I had done on her. Her finger tapped the black, white, and gritty half and I shook my head.
"Okay?"
"It was a black Swallowtail," she went on. "I had never seen one of these in person before, it was Sabrina’s favorite, and it just happened to show up on my windowsill on the day I woke up with the love of God in my heart for the first time in years. You don't think that means something?"
I struggled to find the right thing to say, to tread lightly into a subject we were both passionate about, but from opposite sides of the fence. "I think it's a very nice coincidence," I said in a flat tone.
"Is it also a coincidence that I booked my appointment with you the day before?”
"Yes," I stated, unmoved, pulling my arm from her grasp.
I was still drunk, but I could already feel the effects of the alcohol wearing off. I could feel too much, think too much, and I needed something to take the edge off this fucking conversation. I turned from Audrey to begin walking again, steering my loose legs down the sidewalk. When she asked where I was going, I didn't reply. I didn't want to say it out loud. But I was going home, and I was taking her with me.
***
"Your house is so cute," she commented as we walked over the cobblestone pathway to the front door.
"Thanks," I grunted, although I would never have used that particular word to describe my home.
I patted myself down in search of my keys. "You put them in your pocket," she said lightly, and I tucked my hands into my jacket. Audrey shook her head. "No, they're, um ..." She reached out to touch one of the front pockets on my jeans and pulled her hand back just as quickly.
I dipped my hand in and found them there. "Thanks," I muttered again, as I slid the key into the door.
It was an old house, built in 1870. I didn't believe in ghosts, or that something as silly as an old house could serve as a vessel to harbor them, but I loved the history. I loved the creaks and groans in the floorboards, the way it shifted beneath my feet. It was heavy with the memories of time passed and lives lost. It's what I had wanted, ever since I moved into an old apartment on Essex years ago, and as soon as I had enough money, I snatched this place up.
Apart from Jake and tattooing, the house was one of the only things in my life I truly cared for, and I felt it showed. It was clean, repainted. The hinges were oiled, and the appliances were new. But now, watching Audrey step through the doorway and into the living room, it somehow felt tainted. Soiled, like the stains on her white coat. Unworthy.
I drew in a quivering breath and brushed past her into the kitchen, where I kept my liquor. It was there only because my parents and relatives occasionally gifted me with a bottle on Christmas, yet I seldom drank it. Most of the bottles remained sealed, and probably beyond their Best By date. But now, I perused the shelf of multicolored glass, in search of something to further take the edge off of this goddamn night.
Audrey walked in slowly behind me. Her footfalls were light and barely audible against the kitchen tile, save for the gentlest tap of her heels. Her steps whispered to me with warnings of her coming. Closer, closer, closer ...
"What are you drinking?" She was directly behind me now. I pulled in another breath, controlled and deep, as I pulled a bottle of Fireball whiskey from the shelf. I lifted the bottle over my shoulder, to show her the label. "Cinnamon? That sounds interesting."
"It's good," I told her as I grabbed a couple of glasses from a nearby cabinet. Then, as I opened the bottle, I realized what a presumptuous prick I was being. I needed the drink, not her, and yet, I had assumed and grabbed a second glass. "Do you want any?"
"Sure," she answered cheerfully.
I only poured a small amount into her glass, she wasn't staying and would have to get home. Being too inebriated was a recipe for disaster, no matter how you looked at it, so I kept that in mind as I poured some into mine.
I turned and passed her glass into her waiting palm. "Thanks," she said gently, and immediately pulled it to her lips. I watched her drink and thought about how pretty her mouth was. After she took a sip, she pressed her lips together, savoring the flavor. A bead of whiskey lingered on her bottom lip, and I would've greedily enjoyed it for myself, had her tongue not flicked out to capture it, as I stood there like a voyeuristic statue.
"Oh, wow," she gushed, looking down into the glass of liquid amber. "That's so good."
Her eyes lifted to mine and she watched me expectantly. There was a mingled blend of scrutiny and uncertainty chilling the flecks of silver in her icy rings of blue, and as she swallowed, the gradual shift of her throat revealed the presence of her nerves. I excited her with fear and danger, and wasn't that a fucking laugh? There wasn't a damn thing about me that was at all fearsome or dangerous, but here she was, standing before me in a façade of bravery, hiding the anxiety beneath.
I drank, needing my own dose of courage, and the hot, hot heat of the cinnamon and the alcoholic burn warmed my body instantly. It was comfortable and good, and in that comfort, I wondered if she could feel that way, too.
My gaze held hers as I put my glass on the counter and shrugged my jacket off. I laid it over the back of a chair before reaching out to take the buttons of her coat between my fingers. Audrey's breath tripped from her mouth as she dropped her stare to my hands. She stood there, pillar stiff, as I worked at the buttons, moving downward until there weren't any left and I could slip the coat from her shoulders. She turned soundlessly, allowing me to pull it off, and I laid it over mine.
It was a simple invitation, but a big step. I grabbed my glass and headed back into the living room, where I took a seat on the couch. Audrey, on the other hand, decided to continue her walk.