Silent Flutter (The Butterfly Series) Read online

  Silent Flutter

  By: Lacey Ellmoore

  For my sisters; may you always feel the flutter.

  Table of Contents

  Present Tense

  Quinn Lizabeth Border

  New School; New Quinn

  JWV

  One Step Forward…

  me and Him

  Choices

  It’s Only the Beginning Now

  Deafening Silence

  Present Tense

  PRESENT TENSE

  January 4, 2013

  I'm sitting in a room with a giant TV in our "friends’" giant new house in a ritzy suburb outside of Houston, Texas. The neighborhood has gates and one of those pretentious "gate keepers" (AKA renta-cops) that thinks he has the most esteemed job in the entire world. He had to buzz us in after asking for everything BUT our mothers' maiden names to make sure that we were actually “invited guests.” We were met at the door by husband and wife, owners of this mansion for two, wearing matching maroon and white "Gig Em' Aggies" t-shirts and much-too- toothy grins. After receiving the grand tour (Seriously, why do two people with no kids need five bedrooms and four and a half bathrooms?)and saying hello to the rest of the clan drowning in maroon, we were given the option of which room we wanted to "watch the big game in." I couldn’t care less. There was the den, decorated with; imagine this, Aggie memorabilia, framed Aggie Bachelor’s Degrees, and an assortment of dead animal busts. I find myself thinking, I’m surprised they’re allowed in here without meeting the dress code. Or there was theatre room upstairs with dark gray walls, minimal furniture and a projector that exposed the only bit of light in the room by "projecting" the game onto a vast, naked wall on the opposite side. I chose the gray room; at least in here I could blend into the darkness and maybe make it all the way through this night without being bothered with facts and stats about Jonny “Football” Manziel; A and M’s “outstanding rookie quarterback.” Seriously, who cares? I’m lounging in one of those foldable sports chairs with the cup holder made of mesh holding my canned Bud Light and my cell phone. I hate Bud Light but there are only a few Miller Lites left so I'm letting Him have those. “Sweetheart, you know Miller Lite is my beer. Be a doll and save those for me. Drink the Bud Lights.”

  I'm trying with all that I have to blend with this group of Texas A and M enthusiasts engulfed in the big "Bowl Game" even though I’ve heard from several people that these Bowl Games don’t matter in the least bit. Oklahoma University, whom they’re playing, is down by eight points and all I can think is, please let A and M lose so all of these people can feel the same, irritated displeasure that I have felt for this entire night. I selfishly want everyone's spirits as low as mine by the end of this never ending "evening with the group".

  The Mansion Owners asked us all to write down our initials and predict final scores for the game on the back of a cardboard beer box with a sharpie, beginning with the Aggies’ score. So far the board reads as this:

  JCL 35-17

  CAS 43-17

  DBM 34-21

  RAF 41-17 and then mine...

  QLB 12-42. I'm the only one who dared put down a score predicting a win for OU. I've been shunned immediately, but they add a smile to their genuinely stunned and disapproving expressions and I'm supposed to know that they are "only messing with me." Even the dog (What’s her name again? Oh yes, Agatha, or Aggie, for short. Yuck!) seems to be ignoring me now that she knows I don't give a fuck about Texas A and M or football in general for that matter. Her collar is of course maroon and adorned in little white "thumbs up" insignia. Poor thing never had a chance, I think.

  These "friends” of ours are nice enough, but the air around me is thick with condescension. I wish I was at home, curled up in my cold, yet completely comfortable bed. I could be escaping in a book about characters whose lives I envy with every inch of my being. But, no. Instead I'm here where He wants me to be like the doting girlfriend that I am, even though He’s still on my shit list from New Year’s. I'm bringing Him a beer with every flick of his wrist holding the empty can between his fingers and that look of expectation in His eyes. I'm to know the cues.

  I make the trek downstairs to the kitchen and into the fridge. I would hope for some solace in the presence of the other wives and girlfriends that are gathered around the island in this perfectly manicured domestic dwelling, but I find it even more claustrophobic in here than with the men in the theatre room. Their judgmental eyes bore through me as I make my way from the fridge to the island in the center of the kitchen to find a fresh Koozie because His is no longer keeping his beer perfectly chilled. Seriously. I can feel four pairs of eyes boring into my pink and mint green sweater. No maroon, or even white to be found anywhere in my threads. After the initial shock slid off their generically beautiful faces, one of the wives/girlfriends finally shrugged and said, “Well, at least she’s not wearing red for OU." And like a chorus line, they all giggled in unison while smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in their Aggie Spirit Tees. What is this, a cult? Well, I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.

  There's a moment when I'm walking back down the hallway towards the foyer and the stairs, fresh beer and Koozie in tow, the sound of the other ladies' hoots and cheers filling the air that I've left in my wake (even though I know that they don't have a damn clue about football and are just cheering because they think it will make their men love them more) when I truly consider walking straight out the front door and never looking back. A time in my life, now over two years past, flashes before my eyes and it looks…beautiful. But, my momentary glimpse of freedom is ripped away when I'm torn from my reverie by the demanding holler from above, "Quinn, BEER! What the hell!?" His voice is resonant. As is expected, I make one final, tempting glimpse at the door that could easily lead to my fantasy future, or beautiful past, only to turn my back on it and head up the twenty-eight grueling steps to my reality.

  The night proceeded as I had predicted and feared, Texas A and M won. I fake smiled my way through congratulations, high fives and goodbyes as He led me out the door and to His truck parked on the street. All is right in the world… if you're an Aggie.

  QUINN LIZABETH BORDERS

  My name is Quinn Lizabeth Borders. My simplistic mother didn't think the E was necessary because "nobody ever pronounces it right anyways." That's one of the things I love most about my mom, she's unpretentious and very matter-of-fact. And she's right. I've never heard anyone actually say E-lizabeth, the letters are always mumbled together quickly, resulting in, Lizabeth. Based on the quirkiness of my name, people often assume that I'm a unique girl with an artistic spirit and sense of style, but that's not really the case at all. I do have a touch of creativity, but I'm no Picasso or Lady Gaga.

  As for my looks, I consider myself pretty average, accept in height. I'm 5'9", which is about five inches taller than almost all of my girlfriends and at least three inches taller than my mom and two sisters. “Your height is a blessing. Quit slouching!” Mom always scolds.

  “No, Mom, it’s definitely a curse. Is it a blessing that I can’t wear cute high heels like everyone else because I’ll look like a freaking giant?” I used to argue back in high school. “Is it a blessing that I have to bend at the waist in every picture with my friends so that I can be somewhat near their faces? Is it a blessing that I’m taller than most of the guys at school? No guy wants to feel emasculated by dating a girl that he has to look up to!” Mom usually left the argument at that. Either she didn’t want to repeat the same fight with me time and time again or she knew deep down that I was right.

  I was however blessed in two very important areas that most of my friends weren't, and the height thing has one advantage; lo
ng lean legs. My hair is naturally curly and about four different shades of natural and salon-made blonde that cascades down to the middle of my back. My skin is light; unless it’s one of the two months out of the year that I've been "fake baking" at the tanning salon in order to darken things up a bit before donning a swimsuit or sleeveless tops. Everyone in Texas is tan.

  On most days I wear too much make-up; mascara specifically. I hate it when my light blue eyes look tired and gray so my go-to solution has always been to add more layers of the thick, black goo to liven them up. And as for my style, it has certainly made a transformation over the past year, as well, but I have not yet traded in Forever 21 for Ann Taylor Loft.

  I'm twenty-three years old and I am in my first year of teaching Creative Writing at a private school just west of Houston. My students consist of a bunch of horny, catty, overly dramatic sixteen and seventeen year olds. I always get asked the same questions every time someone finds out that I'm a high school teacher, "Don’t your male students hit on you?" Or "Oh my gosh, you're so young, don't you get mistaken for your students?" The answers are yes and yes. But I absolutely love my job. Even the hormone-driven boys that think it’s cute to try and flirt their way out of assignments or ask me to homecoming, and the frigid old teachers that hold their noses up at me when I enter the teachers’ lounge not wearing a floor length denim dress with apple appliqués on the pockets.

  There is a downside to being surrounded by teenagers all day, though, and that is that what I want more than anything when I get home from a long day at work is to drink a glass of anything alcoholic and have a nice, adult conversation with someone that doesn't say "swag" or "yolo." Problem is, He hardly even notices when I get home, let alone makes any effort to strike up a conversation. He gets home, to our tiny one-bedroom apartment, empties his pockets of loose change and his wallet into the caddy on the kitchen counter and plops down in front of the TV to watch “the game” or ESPN highlights. I’m usually not even acknowledged….unless He’s hungry.

  He is not abusive to me physically or even emotionally for that matter, nor has he ever laid a hand on me in the past. Passive and neglectful even, but not abusive. I'm not some stupid, young woman in a relationship with a sadistic man or anything "lifetime movieish" like that. I am; however, in a passionless two-year relationship full of forced smiles and hardly any laughter anymore. The electricity has vanished. But doesn’t that happen in all relationships eventually? At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  But there is love. Love is the one thing holding us together by the thinnest of threads, and it feels as if one jagged move on my part will sever that thread and we… I, will be left with nothing.

  But it hasn't always been this way. He and I met in high school. It wasn’t a true-love-from-the- start, high school romance or anything even close to that, though. We shared the same friends and eventually became best friends ourselves. So cliché, I know. Actually, during my last two years of high school and for the first year of college I dated another guy in our "posse" but that's a whole different story. One not nearly riveting enough to tell. When that bastard broke my heart; however, it was Him, my Best Guyfriend, as I called Him, that I turned to.

  May 12, 2009

  It was the Friday before the start of Finals Week, and the last day of lectures. I got out of my four o’clock class (Algebra 101) and began the fifteen minute walk back to my dorm room on the opposite side of campus. I was feeling both exhausted from a full day of classes and invigorated at the thought of starting my first summer away from home soon. This new-found sense of elation was brought to an abrupt halt; however, when I returned to my dorm to find that The Bastard had packed all of his things (his toothbrush, a pair of comfortable shorts, a couple of shirts he hung in my closet for “just in case” purposes when he “illegally” slept over according to campus guidelines) and he was sitting on my twin sized bed, head hanging towards the cold tile floor. “I’m sorry, Quinn, its over. I don’t think we should be tied down while we’re still so young,” was all he had to say to me. He did not even look me in the eyes after almost three years together. Bastard! In other words, “It’s about to be summer and I want the chance to bang as many incoming freshman sluts as possible.”

  It felt as if I had swallowed a brick and my heart had been clamped in a torture device. I couldn’t even find the words to ask why; I just let him walk out of my dorm and out of my life that day, not knowing how thankful I would be to myself and to The Bastard in the future. Somehow, through the heartache, I made it through Finals Week, puffy-eyed and sleep-deprived, and I checked out of my dorm, finalized my transfer papers and loaded up my Chevy Malibu for the three-hour drive back to my hometown. I hadn’t made many new friends during my Freshman Year because The Bastard monopolized most of my time so there wouldn’t be anyone to miss, and I could not even bare to stay in the same town as him, let alone risk running into him on campus and whatever new girl would be on his arm. So, I did what any other melodramatic eighteen year-old girl with a broken heart would do; I packed up my shit and left.

  I called Him, my Best Guyfriend, on my long drive back to our hometown and away from my old life. I needed someone to listen, and I knew He would. He always did and I loved Him for that. Anytime The Bastard and I would fight (which was more often than I cared to admit at the time), I would call Him and He’d be there to say all of the right things.

  “Hey, Quinn!” he answered excitedly on the second ring. His excitement faded quickly, though, when he heard my sobs.

  “Why am I not worth it?” I cried, not even bothering to say hello.

  “Worth what? What are you talking about?” he asked, worry straining His voice.

  “Worth the time, patience and love it takes to make a relationship work,” I clarified through the tears. “Why was it so easy for him to give up and I’m the one who’s left in pieces. I’m a wreck and he’s probably out fucking somebody else already!”

  “Come on, Quinn, don’t do that to yourself.”

  “Do what?”

  “Torture yourself by thinking about who or what he’s doing right now. Forget about him, he’s a bastard.” My thoughts exactly.

  And after about twenty minutes of listening to me cry about my disheveled life, He somehow managed to make the rest of my drive bearable, and even had me laughing by the time I hit the nine-mile road that led to my parents' house out in the country.

  This was not how our story as a couple began though. No, things didn't turn romantic until a couple of years later. This was not for His lack of trying though. I have to give it to Him: that nineteen year-old with little life experience and very little girlfriend experience sure could conduct a chase. And I was certainly not making it easy.

  NEW SCHOOL; NEW QUINN

  With my first summer of college, my first love and my first heartbreak behind me, I was more than ready to start my Sophomore Year with a fresh outlook and emotional guard in place. Little did I know, when I transferred to my new school, just forty-five minutes south of my parents, but four hours south of The Bastard, I was going to get more than a fresh outlook; I was going to get a whole new college experience. Somewhere in my mind I concocted the perfect solution for my broken heart and it was much like concocting the perfect drink: three parts vodka, one part juice. Only this solution consisted of three parts partying, one part slutty demeanor. I went out almost every single night of the week; drink in hand, skirt hiked up, cleavage out. My two best assets never missed an opportunity to be noticed.

  Almost every night went the same way: huge keg party at The Neighbors (as they were known by everyone on campus because their house was centrally located and close no matter where you lived): beer pong, body shots, flip cup, flirt, tease, fondle. And they almost always ended the same way: wake up from my booze induced coma, reach around the other side of the bed (only to find a different, yet all- too familiar pair of perfectly sculpted, bare pecks), grab whatever “slut gear”, what I liked to refer to my newfound wardrobe as,
” that I donned the night before and bolt out of whosever house I was at as fast as I could without being detected. This was the perfect antidote for heartache; for a while.

  Eventually I got tired of the games though. It was actually a lot of work. Step one: select the perfect, hunky baseball player from the party. Step two: make the initial, enticing eye contact. Step three: tease him a bit with my carefree but oh-so flirty attitude (flip the hair, find an excuse to stroke his bicep, etc.). Step four: make sure that I'm getting drunk but not more than my prey for the evening. And Step five: put up a pretend battle when he tried to take me home before eventually giving in to "just for a little while” or “just to watch a movie." This five-step process lasted the full length of a party and was repeated every weekend and on the occasional week night if The Neighbors didn’t have anything important going on in class the following day. Much to me and my friends’ surprise, my grade point average never dipped below a 3.0 throughout "Operation Get Over the Bastard" and this would often lead me to boast about how I knew how to have “the perfect college experience.”

  After two months of waking up next to a new guy almost every Saturday or Sunday morning I decided make a change and just focus on having fun, not bagging a new Conquest for the evening. Just before leaving my crappy, one-bedroom apartment to head off to yet another party at The Neighbors; Inner-me (the self-appointed name of my self-conscious) gave me a stern pep talk:Quinn, tonight will be different. Yes, you will drink and have a good time, but you will NOT be leaving that party with anyone that doesn't have a vagina between their legs! I was great at self-administered pep talks and I almost always listened to Inner-me…. almost.