Six

It's hot today. Way hotter than the weather forecast called for. My eyes slide to Rhys, peeking at him out of the corner of my eye. If I'm hot in my tee and shorts, he has to be dying in his black jacket and denim. My fingers lightly trail over the late-summer mums as I watch him frown down at his phone, the petals soft beneath my fingertips. "Are you hot?"

He looks up, a mumbled, "No," growled my way as he tucks his phone away to grab a cigarette. Our eyes briefly meet as he lights it, my attention turning back to the flowers. There are a few butterflies fluttering along the blooms, their dusty yellow wings glinting in the waning sunlight. I hold my hand between the flowers, coaxing one onto my fingers. Smoke blows along my cheek as Rhys moves closer, the stink of it stinging my nostrils as he asks, "What're you doing?"

I can hear the amusement in his voice, but there's no smile on his lips when I give him a quick glance. It's such a bad habit, smoking, but what isn't these days? I actually like the smell of the smoke, the smell of fresh lit tobacco and alcohol on the breath. It reminds me of the better parts of my childhood, of the sweet neighbor who lived next door from my parents. He may have started drinking at the crack of dawn, but he was kind to me. His liquor made him uncaring and extremely trusting. I remember watching his niece cry at his funeral; big fat tears that slid off her chin to splat onto the top of his coffin. Beautifully heartbreaking. That's what Rhys is too. He smells like cigarettes and coffee—spicy, rich and earthy. He's like a walking, breathing, living version of my favorite scent. It's strange but comforting.

Fluttering wings crawl along my fingers to the back of my hand and I look at Rhys again. He's actually smirking now, his lips wrapping around his cigarette as he watches me.

"Do you like bugs?" I ask. My eyes leave the cobalt of his to watch the butterfly walk across the back of my hand.

"Bugs? Like spiders and shit?" The smoke from his mouth puffs along my lips as he leans in to look at the flapping yellow wings still crawling across my skin. "No. I squish them."

"But you like butterflies." It's not a question. The small tilt of his lips created by the little insect tells me he does, or at least more than other bugs. I roll my hand over, encouraging the little butterfly to settle on my palm.

"Yea, I guess."

"I hate them," I say. Finding his face, my eyes settle back on the twist of his lips. Is it normal to be jealous that his smile is for a bug and not me? "Butterflies are little liars. Master manipulators at making everyone think they're something they're not." I swallow as his tongue wets his lips, watching them close around his smoke before looking back at my hand and the bug stretching its wings there. "They're ugly little caterpillars that have learned to grow pretty wings of deceit." I slap my other hand down, smashing the little yellow butterfly in my palm. Brushing my hands together, I watch it fall to the dirt, yellow dust from its wings staining my fingers. "They're nothing but pretty bugs."

Rhys snorts, his eyes on the butterfly at my feet as he drops his cigarette next to it. His sneaker rubs both into the dirt. "You're so fucking weird."

"You're my butterfly." His eyes find mine, at my confession, his hands tucking into his jacket pockets as he watches me.

"Are you saying I'm a bug? Or that you hate me?"

"Neither." Turning to face him more fully, my sneakers bump against his, my finger rising to trail along the open zipper of his jacket. He watches me as I press along the seam hard enough it scratches my skin. "You're a pretty liar." I press into his zipper even harder, using the pain to spur my confidence. "And just like the butterflies, you've somehow manipulated me to see past all of those secrets you keep." I can feel the blood welling up on the pad of my finger, and I pull my hand away from him to look at the small drops of ruby gathering along the tip.

Rhys snatches my hand, drawing my gaze to his as he presses his thumb into my cut so more blood drips down. "You should be more careful, Hadley. Saying shit like that makes me think you want to join my collection of broken hearts."

I pull our joined hands toward my mouth, licking the blood up the length of my finger, over the rough edge of his fingertips and over my cut as he watches. The coppery tinge brightens my senses as I look into his denim eyes. Despite the way the words dripped venom from his lips, I don't think he'd actually be so opposed to the idea. I'm not above letting his demons paint their runes of destruction over my skin even if all it ever gets me is a night of fake bliss. He can stick me in his jar of hearts for all I care, add me to his collection of sins.

He drops my hand when I'm silent for too long and I look back at the mums. The butterflies have all left, I notice. "My nana used to collect things." I hear his snort at my abrupt change of subject and feel his heat lick along my back as I tear a few petals from the bush and let them slip through my fingers. "Stained glass and wind chimes." Her entire house was covered with her little treasures, stained glass pieces hanging around every window. She even had this special film she'd had installed on her windows, so that every morning her white-and-beige furniture and accents would glow with a rainbow of colors. I know she kept the lighter theme in her house for that reason, so there was always some kind of prism of light shining along the floors and walls. "I hated the wind chimes. Her house was the noisiest one on the block. She had at least a dozen hanging from her porch and there was this stray cat that would come around like clockwork to bang them around every evening. I swear it knew how much it annoyed me and did it on purpose."

Ignoring the yellow and white swirling in my ring, I pluck some more petals. Rhys's breath burns along my ear. "Why didn't you get rid of the cat?"

I shrug, turning my face to peek at him out of the corner of my eye. "My nana liked it and that was reason enough for me to just deal with it."

"Your parents are dead." It's not what I was expecting him to say, but I'm not surprised he brought it up. It wasn't a question either. I've never told him they were dead, but I guess it's not hard to figure out since I never talk about them and only my nana.

"Yes." Dropping the straps on my backpack, I drop it to my feet. Turning around, I sit next to it, raising my knees to rest my cheek against them as Rhys sinks next to me. His fingers brush along my thigh as he gets comfortable, his eyes on my face, waiting for me to say more. "They died in a house fire when I was fifteen. The firefighters who found me said it was a miracle I survived. That I must have had a guardian angel watching over me."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Put that down and come here, Hadley," my mother's voice calls from the doorway, the silver butterfly clips holding back the hair at her temples glinting in the light of a candle on the shelf. I ignore her, shaking my head in silent defiance. "Be a good girl and come here."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A good girl. I snort, my lips twisting at my mother. That's not possible; nothing I ever do is good enough for my parents. I am never good enough for them. My eyes land on my father's unblinking gaze from where I stand near his chair. It's a nice change to not hear him slinging around his insults and disappointment at my behavior. That's all he ever fucking does; all he ever has to say to me. I hear the floorboards creak as my mother takes a step into the room and my attention turns back to her. Her hands are shaking despite the confident bite of her tone just moments ago. Is she scared? What the fuck could she possibly be scared for? I'm the one going to be punished, not her. "Why are you trembling?"

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She ignores my question, her eyes flickering between my hand and my face. "Knock this off right now, young lady!" One of her hands is clutching a pleat in her long skirt, the other gripping the doorframe like she needs the support to keep from toppling over.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The crease in her brow lightens just a bit when I step forward in her direction, then quickly deepens when she realizes I'm not coming to her. My foot steps into something warm and wet when I pass my father's chair, my toes sticking to the floor as I walk to the candle on the shelf. Letting the hammer I was holding slip through my fingers to my feet, I reach for it. The hot glass burns against my palms as I cradle it to my chest, but I don't mind, taking a deep breath to inhale its scent. It smells like sugared donuts, far too pleasant to be in a hellhole like this. I look back at my father, his silent face staring back at me. "No."

I don't know how long I was silent, but Rhys doesn't seem to mind, his legs stretched alongside me as his fingers pick at a tear in his denim. "My parents weren't very nice people, and I don't miss them." His face turns to meet mine and I'm surprised to see nothing but subtle understanding on it. Most people get uncomfortable when I say things like that. They can't possibly understand how I could think that. But I should have already known that Rhys would get it. He's probably the only person who would.

"I don't believe in guardian angels." I watch his jaw work as he turns away from me, staring at the hard edges of his profile. "If they're somehow able to save people from fires and car accidents, then they should also be able to save them from abuse and neglect." He pauses, tongue running over his lips. "But they don't, because they don't exist."

My lips part with a loud breath, my head raising as I drop my legs to lay flat like Rhys's. My sneaker toe accidentally taps against his foot, and he kicks mine back much harder than necessary. "Or maybe, they do exist and people like us just aren't good enough to get one."

He shakes his head, his bright blond hair flopping over his frown. "Doesn't even matter. People like us don't need them." His hand raises, roughly pushing the hair from his face. "We're our own guardian angels. We don't need anyone's help. We'll save ourselves or die trying." His cornflower eyes find mine, scrunched at the edges. "You're strong and your parents were weak. That's why you made it out and they didn't."

His words feel oddly like a compliment, and I can't help the slight purse of my lips in reaction. People don't pay me compliments that don't hold a hidden agenda, but his feels genuine. And that makes me feel something.

He looks away from me, ending our silent moment. "How'd your nana die?" His question chills my skin despite the heat.

Now, I'm frowning. The thought of her bringing that familiar gut-wrenching ache. "She fell and hit her head. I found her when I came home from classes one day." I feel Rhys shift beside me, but I don't look, instead I fix my eyes on the sun disappearing over the hill. "She was old. The coroner said she probably died instantly."

"Do you still live in her house? With all the wind chimes?" I shake my head at his question, listening to his lighter flick on as he lights up another cigarette.

"No. The bank took it after she passed. She had a reverse mortgage or some shit." I left everything but a single wind chime when I moved out. The bank tried to contact me several times about getting the rest, but what would I have done with all that stuff? I didn't want it, so I let them deal with it. I'm not sure why I chose the wind chime that I did, but at least hanging it by my window, it doesn't make much noise.

It was lonely after she was gone, just me and her bright rainbow house. Her wind chimes would torment me throughout the day, reminding me of her with every blow of the breeze. I found myself wandering the city a lot then, doing whatever I could to keep myself busy and out of the house.

"Saltwater taffy?"

My eyes shift over to the elderly man seated near my bench, dropping to the handful of wrapped candy sitting in his palm. You're not supposed to take candy from a stranger, but I doubt this old man in a wheelchair is all that wicked. Smiling, I reach out and take a piece of taffy. "Thank you. What kind is it?"

He nods, stuffing the candies back in his pocket after taking a piece for himself. "Watermelon I think. Maybe strawberry?"

He shrugs and I watch as his shaky fingers unwrap his sweet, popping mine into my mouth. I nod when he looks over at me, eating his own. "I think you're right. It tastes like watermelon."

We sit in silence, the sound of our mouths quietly smacking over the sticky candy barely audible over the bustle of the city. After a bit, the man pulls out another, softly nudging my arm with a "take it" gesture.

I smile again, slipping it from his fingers. "Where'd you get it? I haven't had taffy in years."

He snorts, unwrapping another piece for himself. "I stole it from the front desk at the nursing home."

I laugh at that, crumpling my candy wrappers between my fingers. "You're allowed to leave?" I ask, referring to him sitting with me at the bus stop.

"Nope."

I laugh again, my head turning when a loud, "Larry!" is shouted in our direction.

The man, Larry I'm assuming, sighs loudly, eyeing me from under his large unruly brows. "I've been caught."

A nurse comes running up to us, her hands dropping to her knees as she reaches Larry's side with a frown. "Larry! You know you can't just take off like that. You're not going to be allowed to go outside without supervision if you keep disappearing." She looks over at me, smiling for a moment before her eyes fall back onto Larry, "Are those taffies, Larry? You know we need to watch your blood sugar!"

Larry frowns at her, his lips pursing but he says nothing. He reaches into his pocket to grab his candy, holding his hand out to me. "You might as well take it before Hitler here does."

Biting back a smile, I take his offered candy, cradling it in my lap as Larry's nurse grabs onto the handles of his wheelchair. "Thank you."

"That's not very nice Larry," his nurse says as she starts to pull him away.

He rolls his eyes, looking at me as he's rolled backward. "Feel free to come visit me at Rivercrest Retirement Home... bring me something good if you do."

I laugh, nodding as he's turned around. "Maybe I'll do that."

Larry had shown up at just the perfect time for me, when I was in the midst of losing myself after Nana's death. Talking to him had been the first time I'd felt something besides just sad.

Rhys stands abruptly, startling me from my thoughts and I look up at him from the grass, watching the bobbing orange end of his cigarette as he talks around it. "You're a sad, weird girl, Hadley."

I can't help the small laugh that slips out, grabbing my backpack as I stand. Apparently, Rhys has had his fill of talking and emotions for the day. "But you like it."

His eyes narrow on my face as his lips close around his cigarette, his fingers coming up to hold it as he takes a drag. Smoke blows from his nose as he holds my gaze. "I don't like anything about you," he says as he pulls the cigarette from his lips.

I smile at his frown, shifting my backpack onto my back. "See you later, butterfly." I turn away from him, being the first to walk away this time. I feel his gaze on my back but don't look, my fingers digging into the straps of my bag as I walk. I heard what he didn't say, what he never says. Rhys Elliot likes me as much as I like him, whether he's willing to admit it or not.