Free The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen

Ruby. Truly. But I think it’s too risky. I still know quite a few people at Tulane—my former professors, colleagues in the field. If anyone would see us, put two and two together . . . Besides, I don’t think I could concentrate with your pretty face in the crowd.” He stroked my cheek. “You can keep yourself busy, right? Nose around campus and the bookstore until I’m done?”
    My heart sank. I’d simply assumed I was going to the symposium with him, since he’d asked me to attend that afternoon in his office, even before our relationship began. I hid my disappointment with an exaggerated head nod. “I’ll go to the library. I need to work anyway.”
    â€œI knew you’d understand.” He squeezed my hand. “And how is your thesis shaping up?”
    â€œReally well. Right now, I’m working on the connotations of the word room . When Woolf said a woman should have a room of her own, did she mean only a physical space? I think room could be something more abstract, a corner of the mind perhaps, a place free of judgment and guilt and expectation.”
    He said nothing but looked back at me with warm eyes and a soft smile.
    â€œWhat?”
    He shook his head. “Nothing. I just love the way your mind works.”
    Love . He loves me . Does he love me?
    â€œAnyway, I’m still in the note-taking stage,” I went on. “I have fifteen pages so far, but there’s still so much information to sift through. So actually, it’s a good thing I’m not going to the symposium. I can hole myself up in one of those study cubicles.”
    â€œWell, don’t work too hard,” he cautioned. “I wanted this weekend to be about pleasure not business.”
    I placed my hand on his upper thigh. “Well, I’m certainly enjoying myself.”
    â€œMe too. But . . .” He studied me like a crossword puzzle clue, as if both confused and challenged by me. “I think we should talk about what happened earlier. On Royal Street. I’m beginning to think you haven’t told me the whole story.”
    â€œStory?”
    â€œAbout your father. What happened when he died.”
    Mark must have seen my eyes water then, because he tucked one of my errant auburn curls behind my ear, then cupped my cheek with his hand. And the warmth of his hand caused the first tear to fall, and the rest followed suit. I pushed my fingers into the corners of my eyes to stop the weeping, but like a Band-Aid on a gushing cut, it didn’t work. In a matter of seconds, I was blubbering—a sudden, snotty-nosed, ugly cry. I covered my face with my hands.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I blurted.
    â€œThere’s nothing to be sorry about.” Mark made a shushing noise. “Ruby, I want to know the whole you, not just the parts you want to show me. I like it when you’re happy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know when you’re sad. So don’t leave me in the dark, okay?”
    I blew my nose first into a napkin plucked from the metal holder on the table.
    â€œIt was my fault,” I said.
    â€œYou said it was a car accident. Were you driving?”
    I shook my head no. “It was a hit-and-run. He was just crossing the street.”
    â€œHow could that be your fault?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t have happened if I had come home like I was supposed to.”
    I continued to tell Mark the details, how every year, on the night before Christmas Eve, my father and I went to the Celebration in the Oaks, the annual holiday light display in City Park. It was traditionally just the two of us, ever since I was a toddler, because my mother always took extra shifts at the hospital to assure she’d be off Christmas Day. And with each passing year, the holiday outing became as sacrosanct as Mardi Gras.
    â€œBut last year, Heidi invited me to go home with her to Minnesota. And I said yes,” I