My Butterfly

advice.”
    He smiled his proud, goofy grin.
    “But now, I have some advice of my own for ya,” Jeff said. “And it’s not like all the other advice.”
    “Oh, yeah?” I asked. “What is it?”
    “You love her?” he asked.
    I met his stare. His face was straight and serious.
    “Of course,” I said, as my lips edged up a little higher at the thought.
    “And you’ve loved her ever since you could spell your own name—well, the short version anyway?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I said, nodding my head.
    “And you lost her once?” he asked.
    My smile faded, and I lowered my eyes and nodded my head.
    “Yeah,” I said, eventually.
    “Then, Will,” he said and then stopped.
    I lifted my eyes again.
    “Don’t ever let her get away again,” he said.
    I felt a grin fighting its way to my face.
    “I won’t,” I said, shaking my head.
    “All righty,” he said, pushing me forward. “Now, let’s go get you two high school lovebirds hitched. It’s about damn time.”
    I smiled wider and then took the last few steps to the gazebo and planted my feet in front of it. The air was warm—almost hot in my suit. I adjusted my jacket and then spotted my mom and dad in the front row. They both smiled that proud smile that parents get sometimes. Then, my gaze caught a piece of the river behind the levee and fell onto the butterfly weeds that danced along its edges. I gently smiled as my eyes lingered on the flowers for a few more seconds and my grandmother’s words replayed in my head: They bring the butterflies back.
    Yes, they do, Grandma. Yes, they do.
    The song of a violin suddenly forced my attention back to the aisle runner, and what I saw there made my heart skip a beat. There, standing at its end, was a pretty girl—my butterfly.
    She was beautiful. The sun’s rays were cast against her silhouette, and her hair was down. And there was a veil over her face, but I could still see her pretty, green eyes and her pretty, soft lips. And I watched her lips now as they turned up into a soft smile.
    I smiled too and memorized the way she took her slow, perfect steps, each one bringing her closer to me.
    Her dress was simple but perfect. I noticed it now. It looked as though it was made for her. It was the kind that didn’t have any straps and that showed off her sun-kissed shoulders and arms—the kind that made me long to touch the places it didn’t. And in her hands were little, orange flowers—butterfly weeds. My smile beamed across my face, as my eyes made their way back to the green in hers.
    Finally, she got close enough that I could touch her, and I reached for her hand. She planted her eyes in mine and gave me that playful, happy look that always drove me crazy. Then, she handed her flowers to Rachel and placed her hand in mine. There was a second where my eyes were locked in hers, and I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. Then, I felt something soft nudging against the palm of my hand. My gaze darted to our hands and then back up into her eyes. She was still smiling, but that didn’t keep my heart from starting to race. I didn’t need any more surprises today. I just needed her to say I do and then to love me for the rest of my life.
    My gaze found our hands again. Then, I took the object and turned it over. It was a napkin, and there was writing on it—a couple of lines. I breathed in another slow, deep breath and then allowed my eyes to carefully follow over each word: Since my wish has come true, I guess I can tell you now. It was for you–for always. Love, Jules.
    When I finished reading the words on the napkin, I reached for her other hand. My mind was already rushing back to the hood of my old truck and a warm, starry night when I brought my lips close to her ear.
    “Thanks for marrying a country boy, pretty girl,” I whispered.
    I watched as her lips started to part and then form a soft smile.
    “I love you,” I whispered near her ear again.
    Her eyes found and searched mine for a second. Then, her lips fell open.
    “I’ve always loved you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you, country boy.”

Epilogue
     
     
    I’ ve only got one story—the only story I live to tell. It’s about a girl. She was my first love, and she was my last love. And she was every love in between. Julia Lang stole my heart probably from the moment that I first laid eyes on her. Yes, that moment when she was in pigtails wanting to ride the big tractor at my grandpa’s store—that same moment I