Avenoir

Avenoir - John

John

I decide to swing by and see the baby before I try and find Doc. I am not sure yet what I want to say, and honestly, I am afraid of what she might say in return. My hope, like my love for her, is a smoldering ember that I keep damped down with regular helpings of reality checks. But this latest interaction has that ephemeral emotion hope flaring brightly in my heart. Like a firework that might explode into a thing of unparalleled beauty, all noise and light and sparkle. Or, it might flare briefly and then die, burning itself out with barely a person noticing.

Except me. I don't think I even realized that I've been harboring small glimmers of hope, like butterflies fluttering inside my chest and head, alighting ever so briefly as she flashes me that brilliant smile, her hazel eyes glittering in a way that reminds me of so many years ago. I feel the flutter of their wings as she touches my hand, holding it for what feels like a moment too long to be just friendship. Or the way she whirls around when I enter the room, before I even say her name, her cheeks glowing a soft rose and her mouth curling into a smile that makes me want to kiss her senseless.

Every so often, those butterflies are captured and pinned in a place where I can see them, can see what they were. Where they taunt me with the hope that was, and the reality that is. Like the night I was all set to tell her the truth of my feelings. The night when she told me that she wanted nothing more than friendship. The night she pushed me back into Kristen's arms.

And in that moment I think, the butterflies are all gone. They are like the memories. Pinned in the past where I can look back at them as they recede into the distance. Their wings shimmer in the half-light and I grieve for how beautiful they were when they were alive and dancing in the sunlight. And I long to bring them back to life even as I watch them fade away.

And then... then I realize months later that there are new butterflies.

Today, there are a multitude. And they flutter and sing their tempting siren song in my head, their wings feeding the flame with oxygen. So, I am hopeful, and I am absolutely fucking terrified, and I think maybe a moment or two watching my son won't make too much of a difference.

When I round the corner, I find Laura standing in front of the nursery window. But she's not looking at the babies. She's staring down the hallway with a sad expression.

"Hey Laura," I greet her and nod at the babies beyond the window. "You heard Kristen had the baby?"

"Oh, hi John," she turns to me and nods her head sharply without a smile. "I did, yes."

I move alongside her and pick out my boy in the field of pink waving arms and legs. "He's a beauty, isn't he?" I say as I allow myself a moment of calm reflection. In my uncertainty over the situation with Marlena and confusion over Kristen's mumbled dream revelation I have let my son slip to the back of my mind and I feel immediately guilty. I already love this little guy so much; I want to give him the world.

"He is," Laura looks at the baby and then at me. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Yeah," I look at her sideways. Her tone is anything but congratulatory. "Thanks. I think."

"I heard you married Kristen in the delivery room." Her tone is downright acerbic now. "Really John, what on earth were you thinking?"

"Excuse me?" I lift my eyebrows in surprise, turning to look at Laura. I can feel my heart thumping hard in my chest. I know it seems unorthodox but really, what kind of a response is this to a wedding? "Kristen is the mother of my baby, why wouldn't I marry her?"

"Do you love her?" Laura asks spikily. "Because you didn't marry the mother of your last baby, if I recall rightly."

I feel an acid barb of pain lance through me.