“I did something wrong,” she sobs, rocking back and forth.
“Please, just let me go, Mom,” I practically beg, because her grip is hurting me.
“Lukey, I can’t let you go. I need you.” She hugs me tighter and there’s blood on her clothes. It’s warm and feels wrong as it seeps into my clothes.
“Mom,” I say, my voice trembling as I feel so weak inside because I don’t want her holding me right now but I’m not strong enough to get away. Everything feels wrong. Her. Me. The blood on her clothes. “Why do you have blood on your clothes?”
She sobs hysterically, pressing her cheek against the top of my head. She starts singing under her breath, one of the songs she wrote for my dad when he was leaving her.
“Lean into me. Lean into me. Take. Help me. I need to understand. Help me. I can’t do this without you.” She sings it over and over again, all night, refusing to let me go, and I feel smaller and smaller with each word until I’m so small I barely exist.
Chapter 15
Violet
I wake up the next morning, not gasping for the first time, but my head is throbbing and my dry throat burns with the need to hack. I start to get up to go to the bathroom, when I realize I’m weighed down by an arm. I roll over and find Luke sleeping beside me in the bed with his arm draped over me. Well, this is… interesting.
I sift through my memories, wincing at the protesting pain, and slowly it comes back to me in sharp images. I wince at one in particular, Luke’s fingers sliding inside me, but then as I remember how it felt, my stomach somersaults, and I remember how content I felt. I could try to blame it on the alcohol—it wouldn’t be the first time—but with the positive way my body responds to the memories, I’d only be bullshitting myself.
Lying beside him isn’t so bad, either, which is confusing to accept. All these years, never letting anyone get that close to me, never feeling anything for anyone on a deep level. I don’t know what to do with myself. Give in to the feeling or bail out.
Carefully, I lift his arm off me and duck out from under it. Then I climb over him and leave him sleeping in the room. I need to clear my head. Breathe. Think about what all this means and decide what I’m going to do when he wakes up.
I quietly pad across the kitchen, make myself a coffee, then cross the living room littered with garbage, chips, cards. I head for the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony, slide it open, and step out into the morning sunlight, a gentle breeze kissing my skin. I climb up onto the thick wooden railing with the cup of coffee in my hand and sit down, relaxing against the beams with my feet hanging over the edge. I stare down at the ground, not thinking about jumping for once, but thinking about the past.
I remember the first time I had to switch foster families. I was seven and didn’t understand why at first. Yeah, I knew I was acting a little crazy and I cried a lot, but people weren’t just supposed to give up kids, right? It’s not like I wanted a lot, just someone to help me feel safe from the darkness that was living inside me, the memories that haunted me, the loneliness.
The look on their faces as I packed my suitcase and headed out with my social worker was one I never would forget. They weren’t sad to see me going, they were relieved. They didn’t want me, not like my parents did. The painful, brutal, harsh reality of life struck me in the chest that day and nearly crippled me. From then on I refused to get attached to anyone, knowing eventually they’d hand me back. It was easier not to feel anything than to feel all the bad. And I’ve been doing it ever since, refusing to feel anything except the one thing I can control. My adrenaline rushes. So easy to start. To endure. Much better to feel than the harder stuff, like heartache.
I shut my eyes and let the sunlight spill over me as I sip the coffee, warm my skin, knowing that what happened with Luke last night wasn’t just an adrenaline rush. I felt stuff with him. Even drunk. I’ve been feeling stuff for him since the day he helped me get to class. He’s helped me out so much and never asked for anything in return. He makes me feel safe and sometimes when he looks at me, touches me, kisses me, it feels like he wants me. All of me. The cranky, erratic, Violet that falls out windows and kicks him in the head. Who relies on him a little too much, yet he never seems that bothered. He goes against my theory about people and I just cross my fingers that I’m not wrong.
I hear the sliding door glide open and I don’t open my eyes, holding my breath as I set the cup down on the railing.
“Violet, what are you doing out here?” Luke asks.
I keep my eyes sealed shut, wondering if he can remember last night or if he was too drunk. “Just thinking?”
“About what? Is it… Are you thinking about last night?” He seems nervous and I hear the door glide shut, so it’s just him, me, and the open ground below.
“You really want to know?” I ask softly.
“Yeah… I do,” he says, sounding strained and I open my eyes and twist around to look at him.
He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his skin pallid, almost green, and his clothes are wrinkled. He was sleeping with his head turned and his hair is flattened on one side, not the most attractive look, yet I can’t seem to look away from him.
“I’m thinking about my life.” I have to catch my breath because I just told the truth and the raw realness of it nearly smothers me.
He scans me over and then joins me on the railing, sitting next to me with his feet on the deck. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about mine, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because… you go against everything I’ve built… for myself.”
“Yeah, you, too,… for me…”
We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, the sun beaming down on us as we refuse to look away, but not because we’re challenging each other. Because we’re trying to figure something out.
“Look about last night.” Luke speaks first, leaning against the beam and drawing his bare foot up onto the railing. “I think I should explain myself… I had no right to bang on that door like a f**king controlling, obsessed lunatic… I’m not usually like that.”
“Actually you kind of are,” I say, bringing the coffee cup up to my lips. “I’ve thought you were intense even before we officially met, Mr. Stoically Aloof.”
“Is that why you gave me that stupid nickname?” he asks, massaging the back of his neck.