Laura Miller: Butterfly Weeds

The evening was a Southern stereotype — warmer than comfortable, more humid than not, but then again, what more could I expect from a Charleston summer? I was learning very quickly that this was the only way they came — hot and sticky. Thank God for the breeze that made its way over the waves in the harbor and to our faces, though. Without it, I just know I would look like a soggy newspaper with all of its ink running down its thick, cemented pages. Minus the natural fan, my make-up and sunscreen, along with my cheery expression, would have taken off for the imaginary finish line at my painted toes hours ago.

With that thought, I caught a strand of my long hair that was being tossed in the salty breeze and secured it behind my ear as I took a step onto the city’s shell sidewalk and waited for my company to join me.

“Now, where would you like to go, Miss Lang?” I heard his beautiful voice echo from behind me then.

It was as if his words had come from heaven. Miss Lang. Yep, that was my name. I tried unsuccessfully to replicate in my head the exact way he had said it. His voice had this thick, Charleston accent, where every word had more syllables than ever intended, yet each word seemed as if it had been carefully chosen and presented in a way that only a man born and raised in the heart of the South could — distinguished and from a different time. I smiled up at him, and he flashed a coffee-stain-free grin back at me. I was quite aware of just how rare his pearly whites were. This whole place ran on coffee beans and their fumes, though I hadn’t figured out why. You’ve got the beach to your right, palm trees to your left. Do you really need a better pick-me-up? And on top of that, I had found out fairly early on that businesses here operated on a 32-hour work week. No one in this town worked on Fridays. No one. Here, Fridays were dedicated to the two Bs — Beach and Boats.

“Well, Miss Lang, where’s our next stop?” he asked again, extending his bended elbow toward me.

Without so much as a thought, I slipped my arm into his.

Even when he was trying to act impatient, his smile was still gorgeous — almost debonair-like — to match his jet-black hair, sun-tanned skin and soft, brown eyes.

I put my roving thoughts on hold and turned my head toward the sky to instead marvel at my pleasant predicament. At the same time, I felt a smile unexpectedly escape my glossy lips, and I didn’t even try to hide it.

The sites of downtown — the pier, the market, Marion Square — began cascading through my mind like an old-time slide show. There were too many places to choose from, though any place would do — as long as I had my company. And maybe life wasn’t that complicated after all because wrapped up in my arm was Anthony Ravenel — first-year lawyer, quiet but deliberate. His office was a door down from mine at the firm, which seems now to be a pretty serendipitous coincidence — considering he had become such a close friend and that with his family’s old money, he really never had to work a day in his life. But then, I guess much like all of us at 112 Broad St., unfortunately, law was his passion.

“How about…,” I began, and then let my words trail off as I continued to ponder my great dilemma, our next grand adventure.

I could feel strands of my dirty blond hair being tossed in the soft breeze again, gently tickling the part of my sun-tanned back where my sundress began. I wasn’t a true Charlestonian, so Fridays still involved me locked away in a small office with no windows to the world, but there was always Saturday — just enough time to get that Vitamin D that I used as an excuse to get a free tan.

My marveling continued then as I noticed that Anthony had been watching me intently, as if each word that poured off of my lips held some precious, untold secret. I can’t remember the last time I had this much undivided attention. Even my clients didn’t pay attention to me this well. I made a mental note to choose my words carefully and to not mistake his psychiatrist-like listening skills for a therapy session. This was my co-worker after all. Though, I was starting to guess that on the flip side of the coin, it was a whole, different story. I was quickly getting the feeling that he wasn’t seeing me as just a co-worker tonight. No, it definitely seemed like something a little more. And now that we’re on the subject, he sure didn’t look like the same guy that shared a wall with me 50 hours of the week either. Tonight, somehow, he was the perfect kind of seductive and dangerous — the kind that could strike up a sweet conversation with you outside the hard walls of the courtroom but then murder you with dagger eyes and knife-sharp words during his opening arguments inside. And then, he was still different somehow. I hadn’t figured out if it was that his future was more thought-out than anyone I had ever met or if it was somehow that his heart always seemed to know exactly what it wanted that made him inherently different from most guys. Then again, he was also straight and to the point — no drama, no jaded past. He was, no doubt, someone a girl like me could appreciate.

“How about we go…,” I began again, recovering from my spiraling thoughts once more, but this time, a sound stopped me short.

Almost instantly, I halted and dug my sandal’s heel into a soft space between the pieces of uneven sidewalk beneath us to keep my weight from tumbling forward. I could feel that Anthony halted too, bracing me as if to catch my fall. At the same time, I felt the corners of my mouth fall out of a smile as my eyes darted feverishly to the direction of a familiar, yet long-forgotten memory.

The adrenaline that rushed in waves through my body started at my heart and then sprinted to my fingers and knees, causing little, tingling sensations. And on the inside, I panicked.

The hum, which cut like a knife into my togetherness, was coming from an unfamiliar, dark-colored sedan resting at a stop light on the street directly in front of us. I noticed the melody first, but as I stood there, blocking out everything — the trotting hooves of carriage rides, muted conversations — I could faintly make out lyrics too.

“Julia, are you okay?” the beautiful man beside me echoed, sounding slightly concerned.

My heart was beating violently against the walls of my chest now. My breaths were quickening. My legs were struggling to hold my weight. The tiny heel of my sandal had, by now, become a part of the ground beneath me, and I was just merely an extension of this small piece of earth. And somehow, in what had only amounted to a matter of moments, my world had grown so small — and nothing mattered more than hearing that melody in the near distance. And yet, somehow, I managed to find a word. Well, almost a word.

“Hmm?” I asked half-heartedly. Even I could tell I was clearly distracted and disinterested in my company’s, for now, unimportant question.

“Are you alright?” he asked again cautiously.

I tried to recollect myself even as my senses were being drawn into the Siren’s sedan-like lair.

“I’m sorry,” I answered him in a soft, unusually preoccupied voice. The voice even surprised me. “I just… that song,” I stuttered. My eyes were planted straight ahead.

He moved closer, and suddenly, I felt his fingers interlocking mine. I was aware enough to notice that they were larger than mine, a little rougher than mine, but I was too lost in something other than us to respond outwardly to his brave gesture, though I don’t think he had ever touched me like that before. In fact, who was I kidding? Of course he had never touched me like that before. Co-workers don’t hold hands.