Before I left to pick up Mom, Eli promised me he’d keep Violet safe. I trust him, but there’s a hole inside me since she left my bed at the hospital and I’m damn cold with the wind blowing through it.
The trees circling the log cabin and the clubhouse have messed-up shadows. Half of the trees still bushy with leaves. The other half skeletons extending their spiny branches like fingers into the night.
The porch light to the log cabin isn’t on, but the windows have that warm glow I used to associate with Olivia. If she was in the house, the lights were on. She told all of us a hundred times that the light would be left on for us whenever we decided to return home. I always thought that meant she would be there when I stepped past her threshold.
Olivia died this summer. Her death still makes my chest hurt.
Two prospects stand guard at the bottom of the porch steps. They aren’t there to keep Violet in. They’re there to make sure no one takes her again.
It’s a family party, and if she entered that clubhouse, she’d be hugged and worshipped by almost every guy there, but Violet’s not into club parties. Most people think it’s because of her father’s death, but I know better.
I climb the steps, and as I reach for the door, a silhouette down the wraparound porch catches my attention. Violet sits on the bench, her leg propped up on a wooden crate. She stares out onto the field, the crowd, the chaos, the bonfire closest to the cabin.
I grew up with Violet. Played in the mud with her, caught fireflies with her, even got into a few shouting matches over bad calls at kickball. But I’ll never forget the first time Violet stole my breath.
Razor, Oz and I sat on this porch, holding welcome-home signs Olivia forced us to make, when Violet’s mom pulled up in the minivan. We were about to start high school and Violet had spent the summer at the shore with her mom and brother. The back door to the van slid open and I felt like I had been born.
Until that moment, the world had been black-and-white and I had never known color. And then a vibrant explosion. Her hair was longer, a deeper red than I had remembered, and the ends were curled. Her blue eyes were bright, like a calm sea, and when she saw me, Violet smiled.
Smiled.
The type of smile that men drive all night in a blinding rainstorm on their bike to see. The type of smile that keep men fighting brutal wars for years in the vain hope of seeing it again. The type of smile that made me come to my feet, because if I didn’t, I’d fall to my knees.
She smiled.
Not much I wouldn’t give to see her smile at me like that again. Hell, doesn’t have to be at me. Just for her to genuinely smile.
The firelight dances across Violet’s face and highlights her hair. She’s still the most beautiful girl on the planet with those long lashes and perfect red lips. Just right for kissing.
My blood runs warm with the thoughts of all those nights we had kissed. Some nights were sweet. Some nights we could lie in bed holding each other forever. Then there was the night after our big homecoming game last year. In the backseat of the Chevelle, rain pattered onto the hood, her body was nestled under mine and we both moved, kissed and gasped to the point every window fogged.
Since the night the hospital staff forced Violet back into her own room, I’ve felt lost, and with each step toward her, it’s like returning home.
Violet glances up at me, then at the open spot next to her. I ease down beside her, and the moment my shoulder brushes against hers, I close my eyes and take a deep breath as if I’ve been underwater for hours.
I extend my arm, hand up, and she laces her fingers with mine. Our thighs are locked tight and I lower our hands so that they rest on both my leg and hers. Peace. This is the closest I’ve felt to peace in months.
Are we together? I don’t know. I’d bet Violet doesn’t know either. Her father’s still dead. I’m still on track to join the club. All the problems we had before the kidnapping still exist.
“How’s your mom?” she asks.
The back of my head hits the wood of the house. “Fine.”
“Really?”
Violet was the one person I didn’t have to lie to. Even when telling the truth broke us up. She’s the type of person who demands bullshit be checked at the door. “No. She’s pissed.”
“Want to trade moms?”
A smile spreads across my face. This conversation is familiar and familiar feels good.
“They’re waiting on you,” she says. “Lots of guys ready to buy you beer. Pat you on the back. Tell you how wonderful you are.”
“They are.”
“You should go to them.”
“I will.” But not now. Especially since Violet hasn’t let go.