But the wedding...shit, we’ve had caterers, bakers, stylists, and more inside the house. I hate it. I want to firebomb the living room whenever I walk in. No wonder Violet’s snapping at people. I would too. They’re violating her safe space.
She would never say anything. She already feels too guilty about developing agoraphobia. No matter how many times I tell her that wanting to feel safe at all times is not wrong, she has it in her mind she’s a burden. I don’t know how to get around it.
“Welsh said y’all got a new shipment of guns in the other day,” Dad says over dinner that night. “I was thinking about coming over and trying them out.”
“B&T has a new pistol they’ve sent around. It’s a bolt action with a magazine of 6. Smooth and very quiet. You’d like it.”
Mom clears her throat until we both look at her. “I would really appreciate it if we did not talk about guns at the table. It’s very unappetizing.”
“What’re we going to talk about then, Betty? Flowers? Knitting? Let the boys have some boy time.”
“Not flowers.” She shudders.
“Mom,” I warn.
“What? Did I say something wrong?” She blinks innocently but I know that was a dig toward Violet.
“You riling Bach up intentionally?”
“His name is Sebastian David.”
“Those are some weak fucking names. Bach’s a real name. Has a hardness to it.”
“Bach was a pianist.”
“World class too. Think he diddled himself with his fingers? Like being with someone who plays that piano thing would be good at that?”
“Why are you talking about masturbation at my dinner table?” The pitch of Mom’s voice is reaching the point of no return.
My parents can’t stand each other. Dad was in the Marines for twenty years, and when he retired, Mom almost divorced him because he was around too much. She got a job at a local retail store, not because she likes working but because she’d rather hear customer complaints than listen to my dad. Dad spends most of his time watching the golf channel and coming down to the range to shoot all my guns, which works out for everyone. The problem is family dinners. Every Sunday night, we sit down and pretend like we three aren’t the most dysfunctional collective around. If Violet spent one meal with us, she’d shove her foot into my ass and boot me out into the street.
“What’s this about flowers anyway?” Dad tries to drag me into the fight.
“She means Violet. She doesn’t want me to spend time with Violet.”
“Who’s Violet? What kind of weird name is that? Her parents on drugs when they named her?”
I close my eyes and pray for patience. “No. Dad. It’s just a flower. It’s a pretty name.”
“So she’s pretty?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Don’t encourage him, Cash! Violet is not acceptable. She won’t leave her house, and she’s not interested in him. We will not have any grandchildren if he keeps sniffing after her!”
Dad puts his fork down. “Is your mother right?”
She won’t leave her house. She’s not interested in me. They won’t have grandchildren if I keep pining after her. “Depends on what your definition of acceptable is. Under mine, she ticks all the boxes. She’s smart, pretty, kind, and sexy as hell. Can’t ask for anything more in a woman.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “What’s this about her not leaving her house?”
“She’s agoraphobic. Developed it after she was subjected to some intense stalking.
Dad points a long finger toward Mom. “You better put an end to this.”
She slams down her knife. “I’ve been trying. Maybe you should get involved.”
He turns to me. “You’re not dating her. End of story. Move on.”
“I’m not eighteen, guys. I’m thirty-five. You don’t get to dictate to me who I do or do not see.”
“You want to keep coming to this house, having dinner with your family, then you will listen to me.” He glares.
As a kid, I would’ve pissed my pants at that look, but I’m not, so I push my chair back from the table, grab my jacket, and walk out. And I don’t look back.
Chapter Eight
Violet
If I wasn't so annoyed this might be a bit of fun. Mom put together some bridal shower thing. There are about twenty ladies scattered about on the back patio. Mom has gone all out for it. She didn't miss one detail. Even the napkins have been monogrammed. Too bad the food blows.
“I can’t believe he’s actually getting married.” I hear someone say a few tables away from me. Lucky for me she clearly has had one too many glasses of champagne and has no idea she’s not whispering. Jealousy and envy are running rampant at this little shindig.
It’s fun to watch these women try and smile when really they want to throw tantrums over the fact that someone finally landed Miles. Not to mention that she’s an outsider. That’s really got them all in a tizzy. It’s marvelous, if I do say so myself.