The Bad Boy of Butterfly Harbor(65)

“Thank you for the pie, Holly,” Luke murmured once he lifted his head, but he pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes shut, as if he was afraid to look at her.

She reached a hand to his face, feathered her fingertips against his cheek, his lips, as she felt his warm breath brush against her skin. “You’re welcome.”

He released her and opened the door.

Holly didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop moving until she was outside again, through the yard, past the gate and out of sight.

Only then did she stop to breathe, clutching a fist against her throat, unable to stop the smile from spreading against her still tingling mouth.

“Friends,” she whispered even as she thought of—and wanted—more.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

SITTING ON THE reinforced wooden bench on his front porch, with Cash curled up at his feet, Luke sipped steaming coffee and watched the first flitting butterflies of the day awaken under the warm morning sun.

The already established, protected butterfly sanctuary was only three miles north, and occasionally the monarchs found their nightly nests in the eucalyptus trees outlining the Saxon property. To Luke it felt as if the more at peace he became with himself, the more butterflies found their way here, as if confirming that he had found his way home—the same as they had.

The Pacific chill and the flitting of wings settling the unease still churning inside him made getting up early worth it. It had been nearly a month since he’d returned to Butterfly Harbor. It didn’t seem possible time had gone by so fast. In some ways it felt as if he’d never left. In others, he heard a clock ticking as if he was on borrowed time.

For so long he’d dreaded coming back. Now he began to dread leaving again.

Luke sipped and closed his eyes, embracing the invigorating cool air. Inch by inch, building by building, person by person, Butterfly Harbor was coming back to life, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.

But he wasn’t back. Not all the way.

Not yet.

Holly’s face came to mind, how the memory of kissing her weakened the wall he’d built around himself. Going to the diner for breakfast, and sometimes dinner, too, had become routine. He found he couldn’t go for more than a few hours at a time without seeing her beautiful smile or that amused glint in her eye. Hearing her tease him or tell him about her day. She made his day—every day—better.

Interacting with her and Simon made him realize how much he’d missed growing up, but instead of resenting his circumstances, he embraced what he’d been given: the second chance to see what was possible.

This house that lurked behind him had never been a home. Not when Luke had planned out escape routes from any room of the house by the time he was ten. Staying here now had been his own form of penance, a penance he’d more than overpaid. There was nothing for him in these walls other than bitterness and hatred and memories he no longer wanted. He’d let this building haunt him, control him, drag him back into circumstances he’d long ago pulled himself out of.

Luke set down his mug and picked up the bolt cutters he’d taken out of the trunk of the patrol car yesterday. He got to his feet and walked down the porch steps, around the side of the house and into the thicket of trees housing his father’s shed.

The closer he got, the more knots twisted in his gut. He could remember staring at that padlocked door, crying, his lungs burning as his fingers were scraped raw from clawing at the wood, his throat all but bleeding from his screams to be let out. It had taken too long to realize he’d always been safer behind that door.

Luke snapped the lock with the cutters, ripped the chain free of the handles and wrenched open the double doors.

The smell of fertilizer and cheap booze hit him full-on. He covered his face with his arm, eyes burning as he turned his head away. His eyes watered as he stepped inside, heart hammering against his ribs. The shack was smaller than he remembered, and the workbench he’d sometimes huddled under for nights on end was piled high with rusted tools and empty bottles. Cobwebs hung thick in the two square windows, spiderweb cracks letting the wind whistle in as an odd companion.

The age, the desolation, the layers of dirt and dust and the hint of mold caking the air—it was all his father. His father’s demons, his disappointments, his failures.

Luke turned in a slow circle as he tried to imagine how his father had fallen so far he’d resorted to locking his only child away for nothing more than perceived wrongs and unwarranted frustrations.

He squatted and ran his fingers along the engraved tick marks he remembered carving with his ragged fingernails that night when he was fifteen. The five lines denoting the days he’d spent too terrified to attempt escape through the windows, grateful to be away from the man who had taken pleasure in making sure Luke knew nothing of being loved or cared for.