“You have a good time with your friends?”
“A great time. And I needed it. Haven’t danced in forever. And it was kind of a long week.”
“Oh yeah?” I head to the kitchen and reach into the cupboard to pull out two glasses. I then go to the dining area, reach into the sideboard below the wine rack, and pull out a bottle of scotch.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask.
“Got vodka?” she asks.
“I do.”
She reaches into the fridge and pulls out a quart of cranberry raspberry cocktail.
I saw her put it in the fridge with a few things a couple days ago on my app. My app that I spent way too much time watching while we were apart.
I bring her a glass with the shot of vodka to the kitchen island. She pours juice in it and then adds ice from the dispenser on the fridge door.
I reach into her glass and steal an ice cube with my fingers and drop it into my own glass.
She smiles and sips her drink, showing me dimples.
My front teeth skim my bottom lip and I move closer to her.
“What’s a frickle?” I ask.
“Hm?” She asks.
“You said you had nachos and frickles.”
“Fried battered dill pickles. They’re delicious.”
I give my head a shake, smiling.
“I’ll make some for you.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
“Tomorrow. When I’m not drunk. Though, damn, I wish I had some right now. I wonder if you have the ingredients here. Want me to look?”
I smile and finger one of her corkscrew curls.
“Forget frickles for tonight.”
“Forget frickles? Never.”
I stare at her mouth.
“Where have you been all week,” she asks, the dimples vanishing.
“Doin’ shit that needed doing,” I say. “Did you miss me?”
She sips her drink. “I’m used to keeping myself company. But yeah, I got lonely. Spending the whole week with my stress. So tonight I let loose a little. It was fun.”
“Good. Except that part where the bartender was trying to pick you up.”
She smiles. “Why would you care?”
I snicker. “Why would I care, Violet?”
Her eyes flash sober for a split second and then she ignores the remark. “The girls were trying to make a match. They told me I needed to get back on the horse. But I wasn’t gonna let him pick me up. I figure I need to make sure my ex knows he’s my ex first. At the very least.” She watches for my reaction to that. I think she likes that I’m jealous.
“You think he’s holding onto hope,” I say.
She frowns. “I mean. I told him more than once that we’re over, so in my mind, I’m single, but yeah. I think he’s stubborn like that.”
“He’ll learn,” I say.
She regards me thoughtfully for a moment, looking a little less drunk. And then she puts her glass to her lips and takes a big sip. And I’m glad she hasn’t again brought up questions about my plans for Raymond Iadanza.
“You looked good on that dance floor,” I tell her, unable to stop myself from thinking that she’d also look great in my bed right about now.
“Been a long time since I spent time on a dancefloor,” she says, a look on her face telling me her mind is trailing off to a time when she didn’t feel like she does now. Defeated. Beat down emotionally.
“What other things did you like to do when you used to dance?” I sip my drink again.
She smiles. “Laugh. Go to comedy clubs. Watch funny movies. Watch cheesy movies. Go to concerts. Plays. Musicals. Even bad ones. Well, especially bad ones and try to not laugh. Try new restaurants. Go on vacations. Go to zoos or museums. Play tennis. Go to sports events.” She shrugs. “Hang out with my friends. My family. Go antiquing and try to upcycle stuff.”
“What sort of stuff did you do with him?” I ask.
She swallows. “Nothing much. Not for the past year and a half, anyway. Stress about stuff. Scramble. Feel bad. Try to be invisible. Cry.” Her face falls and then she’s full-on sobbing. She stumbles forward, looking like she’s gonna run somewhere, likely her bedroom, but I side-step and we collide as I catch her in my arms. She completely falls to pieces. She has my shirt in both of her fists and she’s crying into my chest, her entire body bucking under the outpouring of emotion.
“I wish…” she mutters between stuttered breaths. “I wish it was you that asked me to dance that night. Not hi-him.”
My throat goes dry; I grind my teeth. She mumbles something unintelligible into my shirt as she sobs.
“Me, too, baby,” I whisper, and I don’t think she has any idea how much truth is oozing from those words.
She keeps crying into my chest.
“Fucking jerk just br-broke me. I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. I’m not who I was. I’m a pathetic mess. I’m sorry. S-sorry. I don’t know why he did that to me. For loving him? For forgiving him? I would’ve done anything for him. I loved him that much. It was eight months before the first big blowup, long enough for me to fall deep, and then it was like a waterfall, that just kept coming and coming. A waterfall of bullshit. And I just let it drown me.” She pulls away and staggers down the hall and I watch her go into her room and close the door.
I stand still, just seething for a minute, feeling my chest rise and fall, feeling my fists clench harder and harder before I down the last of my drink and then whip the thick crystal glass across the fucking room. It smashes against the top right-hand corner of my television screen.
After the racket of that, there’s silence. And the silence feels heavy.
Her phone lights up from the counter beside her drink. And there’s a text from Susanna.
Susanna: Get it gurrrl
But that’s not the focus of my attention right now. My focus is the wallpaper image on Violet’s phone. I clear the text message preview to get a better look. It’s a picture of her and I on the red carpet outside Numbers last weekend.
***
I sit on the edge of her bed. It’s been about an hour and I’ve managed to bring the temperature of my blood down some. Looking at her now in the moonlight helps. So did a half a bottle of booze.
She’s sleeping, curled into a ball, hugging her pillow. I tuck her hair behind her ear, lean over and plant a kiss on her cheekbone, taking in the scent of her hair, her warm skin. And I can still smell a bit of the alcohol on her, but I smell soap and toothpaste, too.
I listen to her breathe, fingering one of her ringlets for a long minute, before I slip back out of her room and go to my own bed. My big, empty bed.
And once I’m undressed and my head lands on the pillow, I start to think about the things I could do to him. The slow way I could fucking kill him.
And then I hear her voice in my head, telling me to let him go. Suggesting I threaten him to leave her alone. But not really hurt him. Because I won’t need to. Because he’s scared of me, he’ll listen. And she’ll pay his debt off over time. Not to help him, to help me.
Me.
This beautiful, broken creature would do that for me.
This beautiful girl gives me the benefit of the doubt as someone who will take her heartfelt request to not hurt him seriously.