Christmas in Coconut Creek (Dirty Delta, #1)(54)

“You look like you belong in this garden, Ophelia. Now get your cute, sunshine ass up on that bridge so I can take a fucking picture.”

“So bossy,” she commented. Her hesitation only lasted a moment before she was positioning herself at the center of the tiny walking bridge that crossed over the stream. “Is this good?”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened the camera. “Move a little bit to the left.” There were people walking around in the background ruining the shot. “Now lean against the post—no, not like that, that looks like you're a department store mannequin.”

As she readjusted herself I snapped photos, catching those candid moments where I could tell she didn’t know whether to kill me or kiss me.

“Add ‘Instagram boyfriend’ to your dating profile,” she suggested.

“I don’t know what that is.” I squinted. “Can you move that one piece of hair behind your ear?”

“You’re unbelievable.” She laughed, swiping the pesky strand away from her face. “Better?”

“It was never bad; you know you’re killing me in that dress.” Her forearms settled on a spot on the railing where the sun found its way through the thick leaves. “Now smile like you’re enjoying leisurely butterfly watching with the man who’s going to blow your back out later.”

Her eyes widened and a broad, amused grin lit up her face. Perfect.

When my camera roll could easily incriminate me as Ophelia’s stalker, I waved her back over. “Got some good ones,” I said. “Just had to loosen you up a bit.”

“I think you still get some points off for vulgarity.”

“But I get some points added for photography, so we can call it even.” I reached down and nudged her hand with mine, pleased when she grabbed it without question. “Is this okay?”

She nodded shyly.

Holding hands felt like a foreign gesture. The little things about being in a relationship were what I’d forgotten: opening doors, sharing meals, offloading about our shitty days. A partner was like an extension of yourself and being able to open those previously locked doors with Ophelia when it came to dating felt like reintroducing myself to, well…me. The version I shoved in a closet and turned the key on.

I didn’t talk to Mateo about butterflies. I didn’t talk to anyone about anything most of the time, because I viewed my vulnerability as weakness, and being weak was never an option for me.

My father died and I had to be strong because my mother and sister needed it. I went into the Army and I had to be strong because my country needed it. I joined Delta and my only choice was to be strong because I needed it.

The truth was, the only reason I ever walked into that butterfly museum the first time was because I felt that sick, pressing weakness trying to carve me open and I needed to shut it down. My mother used to tell me that my father was with her all the time, and whenever she was having a rough day, she’d see him in the butterflies. So I went alone, looking for my dad, embarrassingly enough, because there was no one else to talk to—and I kept going back. I went back all the time.

But that wasn’t the kind of deep life shit you opened up about to a girl you barely knew.

“Women like it when men take the lead. First dates are supposed to feel like the beginning of a good book.”

“Interesting,” I mused. “And when you get to the end of the chapter you want to keep flipping the page to see what’ll happen next.”

“Exactly.” She said. “If you couldn’t tell, I got my degree in English lit.”

“I can get down with some Jay Gatsby. Specifically the version of him that got to make out with Carey Mulligan.”

“You know what happened to Jay Gatsby, right?”

“Didn’t he move to New Jersey or something?”

She started to pull her report card notepad out of her bag and I plucked it out of her hand.

“I know you’re not teaching English lit to eight-year-olds.” I paused to point out a grazing Spring Azure that Ophelia marveled at before it flew away.

“No, but I’m introducing them to greater works of fiction,” she explained. “We do more reading in my classroom than district standard requires, but I find it’s at the heart of creativity. The more the kids are reading, the more they’re talking and sharing. It becomes less of a tedious requirement and more of a stimulating activity.”

“High school was hard enough." I said. "I worked too much to be a good student.”

“When I was in high school my parents were having newborns, so I was like a pseudo-caregiver. Maybe I would have enjoyed teaching at the secondary level, but with my siblings, watching them grow up, I felt like that was the age group I wanted to focus on. It was important to me that they knew they always had a friend. It’s kind of stupid but I think that’s what all kids that age really need.”

“That’s not stupid, Ophelia.” I shook my head. “You have a habit of doing that, you know?”

“Doing what?”

“Dulling all these admirable things about yourself. Stop being meek.”

“I’m not being meek,” she argued. “Talking about second graders is never an interesting topic on a date. Men want to know things like where I’ve traveled, what the craziest thing I’ve ever done is, my body count—”