Chrysalis, page 17
I’m holding her again. We’ve been here for three days and every moment our bodies aren’t occupied doing something mundane, we’ve been intertwined. The books we brought out here to read have been abandoned for half an hour and she’s settled between my legs, her back to my front as we look out at the ocean, watching the day go by.
She’s far from all right, but I can tell she’s healing. She’s still quiet, but some of the fog has lifted from her eyes and I know her thoughts are shifting. From stolen glances and blushes, I know she’s thinking more about us.
I’m thinking more about us, too. I brought her here with the intention of giving her respite, of being whatever she needs to get through all the insanity of the past few months. At some point I realized how clearly she sees the hurt and broken parts of me. I am awestruck to discover a part of her that is fiercely protective, unflappably strong, and infinitely gentle and I find myself falling even more deeply in love.
It’s caught me by surprise—how these quiet days on the beach feel more intimate than anything we’ve had before. Her touch is magic and it heals me. Her tiger eyes see into the depths of my soul. I’ve never loved or been loved by anyone like this. For all the agonizing I did over how to say it, I barely feel I need to anymore. It resounds in our every touch, our every breath, our every unspoken thought.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
When she turns her head toward me, I think she means to say something and I look down at her, waiting for her to talk. But as those clear amber eyes look up at me with something I haven’t seen since she got here, my brain doesn’t register her intention until her lips touch mine. Our kiss is interminable and I’m too drunk with ecstasy to know whether she’s on my lap because I’ve pulled her on top of me or because she’s climbed there on her own.
“Closer.”
Her breathless plea holds a desperation I don’t expect. Darby is begging and it takes me a second to put together what she’s asking for. She’s climbing on top of me now—practically mounting me—and her hands are trembling as her fingers work at the ties on my board shorts. I’ve been unaware of how my own body was moving. I’ll make a slow meal of her later. In this moment, I’m desperate to deepen the connection I feel with her.
Everything that happens next, I experience in flashes. Our bathing suit bottoms are suddenly off and she’s letting out a wobbly moan as she sinks down onto me. I can barely breathe for how right it feels and at some point I realize that neither of us is moving. Not only am I inside her, I’m wrapped around her and she around me, our bodies tied in the most perfect knot.
A lump forms in my throat and my eyes blur with tears and she’s still trembling as the first one crawls down my cheek. My face is buried in her neck and I know I will never forget this moment—not the soundtrack of the ocean, nor the feeling of how tightly we’re locked together, nor the smell of sunshine on her skin. My dick throbs inside her, making a desperate plea of his own and her pussy responds by gripping me tighter. I don’t command my body to move, but it does and every part of me is touching every part of her as we slide together. The orgasm her body is about to rip from mine is secondary to the other energy between us that is building to an unfathomable climax: unconditional forgiveness, fierce devotion, undying love.
The tingling in my back foreshadows my imminent release and I begin to remember how it feels to come like this. The sound she makes a second before she comes around me is a combination of a scream and a sob, and when she pulses hard around me and digs her nails into my arm, I see stars. My whole world tilts as I erupt inside her and I go off for so long that before I’m finished, I feel my own semen gushing out of her pussy and sliding down my balls.
When we finally pull apart minutes later, tears are streaming down both of our cheeks. But for the first time I’m not worried about her. Because she’s smiling through her tears and relief is in her eyes. For the first time, she’s shedding them because something is right.
Ten minutes later, we’ve slathered each other with more sunscreen and waded into the water. We’re supposed to be cleaning up but we can’t stop kissing so we’re letting the waves do the work.
I won’t keep her out here for long. She can’t take as much sun as I can and even though the water is cool and comforting, it’s hot out here, we’ve been drinking, and it’s been awhile since she’s had anything to eat. But I won’t let this moment pass before I say the thing I’ve known since she walked into a room full of snapdragons.
“I can’t be apart from you.”
I murmur it into her lips between kisses and I hold my breath as I feel her pull back. But she’s smiling again and her eyes are bright and full of joy and my heart swells as she says the words I prayed I would one day hear.
“Let’s move in together.”
The sublime bliss of being in love overcomes us for the following two days. We spend halcyon moments window shopping in town, cooking together, strolling on the beach, and making love. We have both grown to adore this place. The town is large enough to have everything we might want—a few great restaurants, two cute boutiques, and a theater that shows indie films. But it’s small enough to feel private and secluded, and the people who live here are nice.
When Darby’s footsteps slow as we pass the lone real estate office, I know she’s thinking the same thing I am—that we should buy a place here. We haven’t talked about it yet, but I know that both of us are thinking about how to build a future.
Reality sets in the day before we’re set to go back to Sydney. We’ve been off the grid for a week and when she powers up her laptop, she tells me her lawyers have been reaching out. There’s still much to do to clean up Frank’s mess. Not only is she dealing with his estate, and the detectives—she has a lot of actual labor to do in relation to settling her affairs.
His house—the house she’d grown up in—has to be cleared of his things and she’ll have to decide whether to put it on the market. Because he was a high government official, there is some urgency around making sure any sensitive files he might have retained in any home of his are destroyed. There’s pressure from his administrative office in the Senate to get this done.
I’ve already agreed to spend several days during the holiday breaks helping her. Christmas is in a little over two weeks, but her progress will be halting. The FBI’s murder investigation conflicts with some of the document disposal protocols of the Senate administrative office. And it’s unclear which of the inherited assets Darby will be able to claim and deal with, until the issue of their legitimacy resolves.
After my shower, I walk in to the kitchen to find her on the phone. A brief eavesdrop reveals that she is talking to Avi, and that Darby is being walked through a document that he’s sent. I wait patiently for her to hang up, listening in as I begin to fix us brunch.
“How’s he coming on prospective buyers?” I ask when she hangs up, remembering that Avi is helping her find ethical buyers for all of Frank’s businesses.
The FBI is verifying information Sweeney has provided them about Frank’s dirty dealings, but he hasn’t given them everything. As Sweeney’s stories check out, the FBI is seizing the illegal business assets. This actually makes things much easier for Darby. With some of Frank’s holdings off of her plate, Avi is helping her with the remaining list of companies. Once she has unrestricted access, she’ll sell.
“That’s not what he called about, actually…”
I look up to see that she’s smiling a little.
“He called me for advice on a case he’s working on. Turns out he was so impressed by my political knowledge when we were working on the Sweeney thing that he wants me to do a little consulting to his team.”
“So, you’re, like, a Washington D.C. fixer now?”
“Just call me Olivia Pope.”
I have no idea who that is, but she’s grinning now and so am I.
“You are so badass, babe.”
On our way back to Sydney, Darby is a different person. The top on my convertible is down, and the head scarf she is wearing to control her hair paired with large sunglasses make her look like a movie star. She’s smiling and humming to the playlist I’ve put on and her fair skin has a healthy tan. The long stretches of road before us prevent me from having to shift gears too often and we spend much of the ride hand in hand.
She thinks we’re driving straight back to the city, but there’s something I want her to see. She’ll be on a plane two days from now and even though we haven’t figured out how to make things between us work, I want her to know I’m in. If we’re going to think seriously about what comes next, I want her to understand where my heart is.
“Are you up for a stop?” I ask her, when we’re twenty minutes out.
“Sure…” she smiles over me. “Where are we going?”
“Just a little place I heard about,” I say casually, squeezing her hand.
There’s something I’ve learned about her on this trip. For all the time she spends indoors—at her job, at her house, in dark movie theaters and hiding from paparazzi—something in Darby comes alive when she’s out in the open. For a long time, I thought it was because she’s never had the freedom that privacy affords—the chance to roam anonymously—the same freedom others take for granted. But I’m starting to think it’s more than anonymity that has her feeling free. I think she has a real wanderlust.
I don’t know what this means for the two of us yet. For so long, I’ve treated it as a given that I’d find my way back to Chicago. I’ve always dreamed of building my mother’s house and I know that, with Darby’s job, we’ll be there for at least a while longer. But I can’t help but notice the way something inside her opens up whenever we’re away.
“A butterfly sanctuary…” she smiles with delight after we’ve wended our way into the little town I diverted us to. A dirt road just past the wooden sign advertises our destination.
“You love butterflies,” I say, knowing she’ll take it as an explanation for why we’re here. She’s right to assume that most of the places I take her are chosen with the intention to delight her. She has no idea why I’m really bringing her here.
The place is unnaturally empty. It’s a Saturday during moderate tourist season, but ours is the only car in the parking lot. I’ve rented the place out. I want us to have it to ourselves. I don’t want interruptions when I tell her what I have to say.
The habitat inside the sanctuary reminds me of a greenhouse—the entire space is enclosed in an elegant dome of glass and foliage springs from every corner. It feels like a tiny forest and even though it’s enclosed, it feels airy and holds some kind of magic. It has a dirt and gravel floor and winding pathways are bordered by small, colorful stones. We’re in there for only a few minutes before we can’t see the glass walls to the outside. It feels as if we’re in another world.
It is quiet, save for the water that moves through the manmade streams. Flashes of brightness catch my eye with every glance—it’s the flutter of butterfly wings. We stop every few steps, to admire this or that species, to laugh as some of them play while they fly. I recognize the monarchs and swallowtails but most of them I don’t know. I’m scanning in hopes that I’ll see a blue tiger or malachite breed and point them out to Darby. The teal from the former and the chartreuse from the latter inspired the painting she loves—the butterfly I invented for my painting is a mixture of both.
I can tell that she is already bewitched by the beauty around her—that this is enough for her, and that she will remember this for a long time. We reach a sectioned-off area that is perfectly in the middle of the space—this is what I’ve come here for. A custom-constructed wooden shelf is painted in light gray and is lined in stones on the bottom. Hanging from the top are dozens and dozens of pupa. They are green and white and a few colorful butterflies are hanging around.
“Do you know the difference between a chrysalis and a cocoon?”
She’s cocked her head to get a better look. It is a unique sight to see so many pupa in such a small space, and one you would never see in nature—only in a sanctuary such as this. She shakes her head to answer, then continues looking at the shelf. She thinks I’m just being geeky and most of the time when I ask her questions like this, I am.
I take a step closer to her. “Caterpillars don’t make cocoons. Moths and other insects do. Cocoons are spun from silk. They protect what’s inside, but they’re vulnerable.” When I take yet another step, she looks up. Now I’ve got her attention. “But a chrysalis is harder. Only caterpillars make them. They build an exoskeleton to protect themselves after they’re done shedding their caterpillar skin. Before they go inside, they spin a silken button and attach themselves to a leaf. And so they hang, for as long as they need to. It’s in the chrysalis that the metamorphosis happens.”
“The painting that hangs in your bedroom? I told you before that I painted it when I was fifteen. What I didn’t tell you was that I was suicidal. That kid, dressed in black, in front of Heroes and Villains…wanted it all to end. It was the lowest point in my life. I wasn’t sure about anything. I honestly didn’t know whether I was going to make it. But my mother saved my life. She taught me the one lesson I needed to give me hope.”
Her hand finds mine and we thread our fingers and her hold on me is strong. My fear all along was that knowing how broken I once was would elicit pity, but all I feel from her now is love.
“Do you remember that book? The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”
“I loved that book.”
“It was my favorite book when I was a little kid. My mom dug it up from god-knows-where. It was the same copy I had read ten years before. And when she put the book in my hand, she said this proverb: ‘Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, he became a butterfly.’ She said that the reason why I was hurting so badly was because I was transforming.”
“This is our Chrysalis, Darby. I know it’s been painful—me here and you there—but it’s temporary. It’s not how our story ends. What we’ll become is permanent and what’s happening now is all part of the process. And I want you to know what I know. That when this is all over, we’re going to emerge from this transformed and become the beautiful thing we were always meant to be.”
“
When was the last time you were here? Before the repast?”
Darby is staring out of the car window as we drive through the gates of her childhood home in Evanston. It is one of the grander houses in the lakefront Chicago suburb and the place where her father had lived.
“Maybe my mother’s funeral? Sometime around then.” She says it quietly as she watches the house come into better view.
The eight-car garage around the side is closed and the car-lover in me wonders what’s inside. A BMW and a van that says AAA Locksmiths are out front. A uniformed man who is clearly Mr. Adjani, the locksmith, chats with a suited woman who must be Frank’s assistant, Anita.
Darby is the picture of calm regality as she steps out of the car to greet the locksmith with a handshake. Anita gets a hug. Betty, the housekeeper also receives a warm hug from Darby when the door swings open and all of us are let inside. I think again about how different her upbringing was from mine. Whereas I grew up in a tiny apartment filled to the brim with the love of my family, Darby was surrounded with staff. She’s talked about Betty before, who, like Roberta from her lake house, was like another mother to her. Now that we have met officially, I remember having seen her at the funeral.
We start in Frank’s office. That’s where Adjani needs to begin. Locked drawers and safes need to be opened and the biggest is in here. Another truck is scheduled to arrive later in the day—a shredding service that will get rid of sensitive documents. A government designee from Washington will come at the end of the week to collect the documents that need official treatment. Today, Darby will go through the safes and his office.
We get the locksmith to work and leave Anita to sift through papers. Her directive is to separate anything that looks like personal business from anything that looks like it belongs to the state. In a short while, Darby and I will begin sorting through the former. I’m here to help Darby through the emotions that are bound to come up. But I have an ulterior motive. If there’s anything related to what Charlie Sweeney’s giving the feds, I want to have a look. If Avi and I can eliminate the FBI’s need for his testimony, they’ll have enough to send him away for good.
While things are getting started downstairs, Darby gives me the tour I didn’t get two weeks ago. The house is gorgeously appointed if not a little cold. The antique furniture is perfectly coordinated but it feels a little like touring a landmark home—perfectly pristine, and utterly un-lived-in.
Darby’s bedroom is the exception. It’s the one room I’ve wanted to see. I didn’t expect posters of New Kids on the Block or old issues of Tiger Beat, but I smile when I enter—it’s definitely a teenager’s room. Unlike the rest of the house, it’s full of colorful elements that contrast the fine white furniture that serves as its base. The vintage canopy bed with it’s matching vanity and chests of drawers are complemented by brightly-colored beanbag chairs, a stylish CD stand, and a 90s era stereo system. There’s a guitar on a stand in the corner and another instrument case I recognize.
“You play violin?”
We both smile. She shakes her head. “Viola.”
She climbs up on the king sized bed and I think she means to sit, but she crawls to the headboard and rifles around for something between the edge of the bed and the bedside table in one corner. She whips an object I don’t recognize at first from some hidden place and when I look at her face, she’s smiling.
