Butterfly Dreams

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Dedication

Acknowledgments

By A. Meredith Walters

About the Author

The Editor's Corner

Excerpt from
Should've Said No

I've always dreamed in butterflies.

Wild. Free. Colorful butterflies.

To me they were a real, breathing thing. As real as you or me.

When I was a little girl, my head was full of beautiful, flying creatures while I slept. Soft touches on my face as they swarmed my body, enfolding me in their reassuring protection.

My mother used to tell me they were my guardians. That they looked over me while I slept. That to dream about butterflies was good luck. That I was destined to have a wonderful, amazing life. Pretty words filled with well-intentioned lies.

She decorated my bedroom in butterflies. Pink, blue, purple wings on my walls. Shimmering stained glass hanging in my window.

But as I became an adult and real life set in, my butterfly dreams weren't so benevolent. They became dark, twisted things suffocating and paralyzing me.

They weaved into my nightmares. An overwhelming press of bodies that I couldn't break free of.

And then one day, my once happy butterflies found their way into my waking world. But they weren't there to protect me. They filled my nose and put pressure on my chest. They rendered me blind and wrapped themselves tight around me, making it impossible for me to move.

I started to hate my butterflies.

They terrified me.

Breathe. In and out. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

I couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight and my throat constricted painfully. The all-too-familiar black spots in my peripheral started to bleed across my vision.

I was going to pass out.

This was my waking butterfly dream. The feeling that had once only lived in my dreams was now very real and very present. It was a scary, debilitating panic attack.

I felt my heart hammering violently in my chest. Fluttering madly in its attempt to break free from my rib cage.

My hands started to tingle. My extremities were going numb and all I could think was,
I'm dying.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out the sounds of traffic whirling past me. I stumbled blindly along the sidewalk, shoving and pushing my way toward sanctuary.

I'm having a heart attack.

I was going to die here, in the middle of town, wearing my ugliest pair of shoes and my ratty blue jeans that should have been thrown out three years ago.

Why hadn't I thrown out these jeans? The conspicuous hole below the ass pocket should have been the only sign needed to not wear them in public. Ever.

I made a strangled, gurgling sound and dropped to my knees, not caring that people were staring. Not caring that I was making a scene. I didn't feel the cold, wet snow beneath me, nor did I register the frigid wind cutting through my clothing on the late February afternoon.

None of it mattered because I was dying. There was no denying the truth that stared me in the face.

It was my time to die.

Goodbye, cruel world…

My overly maudlin inner voice was at it again. Eager to throw an added flair for the dramatic into an already overly dramatic situation.

I gritted my teeth together and clenched my hands into fists, digging my nails into the tender flesh of my palms.

Breathe!
I commanded myself.

I covered my face with my hands and started to rock. A full-body repetitive motion that soothed me in a way nothing else could.

Go to your happy place, Corin,
I urged myself silently. Panicked and desperate.

My happy place. Where the hell was my damn happy place?

Waiting at the DMV…no!

Standing in line at the post office…hell to the double no!

Running into Shannon Peters, my high school nemesis, and seeing that she'd gained forty pounds since graduation…maybe.

My mind was a whirling, discombobulated mess. It was like an out-of-control seesaw. Up and down. Frantic and scary.

The only thing I could really focus on was what would happen to my cat after I died. I had made plans for my sister to take Mr. Bingley in the event of my early passing. But I didn't particularly like my sister. She had elevated bitchiness to an art form.

I didn't want her to have Mr. Bingley! She'd never remember to feed him his special yogurt at six o'clock every evening. She wasn't the touchy-feely type so I knew she'd never let him climb on her lap and rub him behind the ears in the way that made him purr.

Her idea of being nurturing involved snotty looks and a healthy dose of ridicule.

Why had I left my cat, the only thing in the world I cared about, to my horrible, self-centered sister?

My mouth opened and closed in panic and I squeezed my eyes shut again, trying to drown out everything but the feeling of air whooshing in and out of my lungs.

I couldn't think about Mr. Bingley, or my sister, or the fact that I was wearing granny panties instead of something lacy and sexy. Because what type of underwear I had on
really
mattered in a situation like this. Here was clear proof that my priorities were in order. It was nice to know that even when facing my imminent demise, I could still hold onto my sarcasm. Some natural talents never let you down.

And right now my head was full of my threadbare, washed-so-many-times-the-white-had-turned-gray granny panties.

The last thing any twentysomething girl with an obsessive fixation on her own death wanted was for potential paramedics to get an eyeful of stretched elastic and tiny holes along the crotch.

That's how Corin Thompson was going to be remembered. As the crazy girl with the disgusting undies. Why oh why hadn't I worn my pretty pink bikini briefs with the bows at the hips?

My hands were shaking. My skin was coated in a fine sheen of sweat even though the temperature outside was barely above freezing.

“Are you all right?” a deep voice asked. Under normal circumstances I may have thought it was a nice voice. An appealing voice.

Not now.

Right now all I could do was focus on my imminent mortality.

This was it. The light is there, at the end of the tunnel. Should I go toward it?

I waved my hand in an agitated gesture. A clear nonverbal cue to leave me the fuck alone.

It's all over. The light is getting brighter.

“Come on. Let's get you to stand up.”

I felt hands underneath my armpits attempting to hoist me up and onto my feet. I squinted and realized that the bright light was actually the sun glinting off my unwanted rescuer's stupid sunglasses.

“Leave me alone!” I yelled, followed by a low, keening moan.

“Just let me get you off the sidewalk,” the voice urged in a calm, placating manner.

“Don't touch me!” I screeched, wrenching myself from the grasp that held me.

What part of
Leave me alone
was he having a hard time understanding? Had my speech started to slur? Was I losing motor control?

Shit!

“I can't breathe,” I gasped, pulling at the scarf around my neck, trying to get it free. My fingers scratched and tore at the fabric. “I. Can't. Breathe!” My words were broken gasps without substance.

“Here,” the deep voice said from somewhere in the void around me. Gentle hands touched my neck, slowly and gently releasing me from the confines of my scarf.

The frigid wind touched my skin and I felt better.

I shut my eyes and hunched in on myself, my fingers still curled into claws.

I tried to concentrate on anything other than where I was and what was happening.

Go to your sanctuary, Corin.

Where was my goddamned sanctuary?

“Just breathe. Slowly. In through the nose and out of the mouth,” the deep voice said from beside my ear.

I barely heard him because suddenly I remembered that perfect place in my mind that I could go to in times like this.

A beach. With crystal clear water. Waves lapping along the sand. I could almost hear the surf pounding in my ears.

There was the requisite shirtless hot guy feeding me chocolate and quoting Lord Byron while another muscle-bound pretty boy massaged my feet as I ogled his um…package.

Okay, so my sanctuary was overly self-indulgent and slightly on the pervy side.

I was a red-blooded twenty-five-year-old woman after all, dying aside.

Breathe. In through the nose and out of the mouth.

I nodded my head, noticing for the first time the feel of a hand rubbing slowly up and down my back.

Someone was touching me.

I felt my lungs finally able to take in air and I slowly, carefully blew it out again. My fingers began to tingle, once again getting the feeling back.

Soon I became aware of where I was and what I was doing. Slowly I began to brush off the snow from my knees. I straightened my scarf and pulled my hat down over my ears.

Run and hide, Corin. As fast as your skinny legs can carry you.

“There you go. Feeling better?” the deep voice asked, and I felt myself start to flush with mortification.

I couldn't look at him. I knew that if I did, this moment of humiliation would haunt me in my dreams from here to eternity. As it was, that voice with just the right amount of husk would be etched into my brain until I keeled over. Which would be pretty soon at this rate.

“I'm fine. Thank you,” I mumbled, ever polite, just as my parents had taught me to be.

Even if I wanted to scream like a banshee and dash away, arms flailing.

I didn't want to look at the crowd that had gathered during my freak-out. I didn't want to see the shocked and sympathetic expressions on the faces of total strangers. Or worse I didn't want to recognize the look of total disgust, which would undoubtedly be there. I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood.

It was one thing to melt down in the privacy of your own home; it was something else entirely to have a large audience staring at you as you channeled your inner nut job.

“Do you need me to call someone? I can walk you home,” the deep voice offered and I shook my head and tucked my chin down into the safe warmth of my coat, attempting to hide the red burn of my cheeks.

“Are you sure?” His voice was gentle and concerned. He didn't sound horrified or aghast. I felt a momentary relief in that.

I chanced a quick look before I made my escape.

My gaze hovered a moment on soft brown hair and kind blue eyes shining bright with his sympathy. And that's all I could handle seeing.

I averted my gaze, unable to look at him. Wanting to ignore his kind voice and naked pity that was in many ways so much worse than disgust.

“I can help you home—”

I didn't let him finish his offer. I couldn't stand there, drowning in his compassion, for a moment longer.

I tucked my chin down into my coat and all but ran away from the pieces of my crumbling pride.