Page 3 of Butterfly 6, Phase 1

What he said, she thought eagerly. She was grateful that at least Messiah had his voice.

“We really should let oncology start that conversation with you guys. We won’t know exactly what we’re dealing with until we have her set up on that floor. We’ve got a long road ahead of us. Let’s just focus on keeping her comfortable, keeping that fever under control, and on you and Mom remaining calm.”

Messiah knew there was no calm in this storm, but he nodded anyway. When they were alone, an awkward silence filled the space. It was sad what resentment did to lovers. There were times when their silence sounded like the sweetest melody. There was a time when their love screamed even when no words were spoken. Not today.

“Tonight, was a lot. I’m sorry for everything, shorty,” Messiah mumbled without looking her way. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from Yara. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She was clammy, and his lips stuck to her a bit before he pulled away. Her skin was pasty and pale.

Morgan put up her hand to stop him. “We shouldn’t even speak unless it’s about these kids, Messiah.” Her voice was almost unrecognizable. It was cloaked in disappointment and melancholy. Those ZZs he loved were dipped in regret.

“I want to explain. About Bleu…”

“Don’t.” It was a sharp warning, and Morgan prayed that Messiah took heed. “That isn’t where you want to go with me, Ssiah. Let’s just stay right here in this bubble and take care of my baby, because I’m going to go off if I hear you try to justify that shit.”

The need to offer an explanation plagued Messiah, but he knew now wasn’t the time or place. So, instead of offering clarity on a situation that he knew was wreaking internal havoc on them both, he heeded her warning, and they sat with unrest. The confusion and tension suffocated the room. Morgan and Messiah had never known discomfort between them. They had lived in each other’s skin once upon a time. Some days, they would talk and laugh all day; others, no words needed to be spoken because presence was enough. On all occasions, the luxury of contentment, of safety, of gratefulness was in their possession. Those days felt foreign today. It was like a buried history noted in some book somewhere that was being forgotten. M&M were mere remnants of their old selves, and the newness of who they had become to one another was heartbreaking. They felt like strangers.

Silence devoured the room as Morgan and Messiah sat in the gloom of their dread, disconnected for a thousand reasons, none mattering more than the one that still connected them: their children. Hours passed without words.

It was an awkward feeling to share space with your greatest love and greatest adversary, occupying one soul. M&M undoubtedly had cracked open a seam of life that few get to experience. Love in its rawest form, so potent, unstepped on, that the addiction to it was unshakeable. An addiction like that was dangerous. It came with its own set of symptoms when it was taken away. You had to wean a person from an addiction that strong. Morgan hadn’t been given the privilege of a slow absolution. Love had been ripped from her, and she had suffered. It had almost killed her, and the scars were raised, telling a story of adversity she hadn’t chosen.

“I love this girl so much, man,” Messiah whispered to himself as he hunched over onto his knees, fingers clasped anxiously, as he rested his forehead against his hands. Morgan heard him; she assumed he was talking about Yolly. Messiah was referring to her. He loved her so much it hurt, and it shouldn’t. He wasn’t naïve about the fact that he didn’t know what he was doing. He had no idea how to be what she needed, but he was trying. He wanted to learn, and not just for her, but for Yara and Messari. Messiah wanted to be someone Morgan could rely on, someone she was proud to claim when asked who her children’s father was. It gnawed at him that she had been ashamed to give them his last name. Even if love never returned to them, he wanted the family it birthed to be one she trusted and one his children could depend on. The revelation of his time with Bleu had set him back to square one, and his frustration was almost a third presence in the room. If Messiah could be measured by his intentions, Morgan could never say he didn’t love her, but intent without action was like running in place.

He could feel her disappointment. Her disgust was loud. Every woman had their breaking point. A woman could forgive and forgive, and it encouraged a man to doubt her ability to withdraw. When a woman reached the point where she no longer wanted to argue, it meant she no longer saw anything worth fighting for.

“I need some air,” Morgan whispered, standing abruptly because another minute next to Messiah would make her scream. She found the nearest bathroom and rushed inside a stall. She barely made it behind the safety of those steel walls before she broke down. She slammed two hands of frustration against the door, hitting it again and again before leaning against it and sobbing. It was one thing after another. The blows were landing back-to-back. She couldn’t catch a fucking break. She was so damn angry with Messiah that it was hard to stomach the sight of him, but at the same time, she needed him here. The helplessness she felt behind Yara being sick outweighed everything. She heard the door creak open as someone entered the public restroom, and she cleared her throat, stifling her cries down to a sniffle.

“Morgan…”

Morgan felt instant relief when she heard the baritone voice call her name. She pushed out of the stall and ran into his arms. She remembered these arms from when she was a child. This same embrace. This same sense of safety. Ethic had always rescued her. He had always been there when things went awry, and as he held her, she cried so ferociously that all he could do was squeeze her tighter. Morgan couldn’t even explain the events of the night. She couldn’t sneak words between her sobs. She just needed to get this out, and he let her.

There would be no judgment in her undoing, and she was unashamed as she let the fear, the aching, and the sorrow spill out freely.

“I know,” Ethic sighed. “Let it out.”

His embrace was like an alternate universe where nothing could touch her. She had grown up there. It was like a superpower. She had seen him use it so many times over the years. With Raven. With Eazy. With Bella. With Alani. Those arms and the safe space they provided were powerful. The belief a girl had in her father was incomparable. She didn’t know how, but with Ethic’s presence, she trusted that things would be okay.

“She has cancer,” Morgan cried.

Life was cruel. Ethic knew it. Morgan was learning it. His hold tightened.

“I can’t lose anyone else,” Morgan bawled. “She’s my baby. Ethic, please, do something.” She was so used to him fixing things, solving her every problem.

“I’ma do everything I can, Mo.” She heard the emotion in his voice. The uncertainty. The news had knocked the wind from him. She heard dread in his tone, and it was so foreign that Morgan held onto his forearms and looked up at him in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

It was more than worry. It was fear. It painted him, and Ethic didn’t color easily. “What is it?” she insisted, doom filling her.

“I need you to listen to me, Mo,” Ethic said as he pulled back. She could tell from his tone alone that something was wrong, something other than what she was already facing.

Ethic blew out a breath of frustration and swiped a hand down the bottom half of his face. Overwhelmed was an inadequate description of how he felt. He was drained. He was a man trying to keep it all together against the power of a devil determined to tear his family apart. His eyes burned with regret.

“The police need to speak to you, Mo,” Ethic stated. “About Bash. A royal can’t disappear without people asking questions,” he whispered. “And his ex-fiancée has to show a very specific level of concern.”

Panic filled her, and her eyes widened in dismay. It was the furthest thing from Morgan’s mind. Morgan didn’t know the details. All she knew was that it had been handled and that she was free. “I can’t,” Morgan protested. “Ethic, I’ll mess this up. My daughter is in the hospital. I can’t leave her. I can’t talk to the police. My mind is all over the place. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I do the wrong thing?”

“What do you know, Mo?” Ethic asked.

Morgan searched his stare for answers as she shook her head while trying to think of how to respond. It felt like a trick question. “I don’t know. I mean... I don’t know what to say. What do you want me to say?”