by M. Leighton
Jet smiles, but it’s not as bright as it should be, considering that his dreams are coming true. “Yeah. I didn’t think they were going to.”
“Why? You’re very talented.”
His expression softens even more. “Thank you. But while we were in the shower on Sunday afternoon, Rand had called and left a message saying that they were going to pass. That’s why I was a little . . . distant on the ride back. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to play with the band anymore, that I’d finally be able to take my career in the direction that I want it to go, but . . .”
His words, his unwitting explanation, wash over me, run through me. An overwhelming sense of relief floods me, and I actually let out a deep breath, a breath that I think I’ve been holding all week.
I close my eyes against pleasure, pleasure that there was a rational explanation for the way he acted on the trip home, one that had nothing to do with me. But then, before I can take a step toward forgiving him, I remind myself that his actions that afternoon aren’t the only reason we are where we are tonight. In fact, now, they have nothing to do with it.
Jet being a deceitful, heartless bastard does.
“Someone must’ve called back then,” I say mildly, settling back against the door. “Good for you.”
“Yeah. I got the call from Paul on Monday morning. Rand had made the decision unilaterally. Evidently, he has a problem with me personally. But he was wrong, and they do want me. I spent most of the day in talks with them, and then they flew me out to California to sign the paperwork and go over all the particulars. It was so nuts, I really didn’t get back and settled in until Wednesday afternoon. I slept for a couple hours, met with my lawyer, and then had that gig Wednesday night. I didn’t want to call and tell you all of this until I knew it was concrete. By Wednesday night, I knew. That’s why it was my last night with the band. I’d made reservations at La Petite Maison that night. I was going to surprise you. I wanted to take you out so we could celebrate, and I could tell you everything.”
It feels like my heart is flopping around inside my chest like a fish out of water. He’s saying all the things that I wanted to hear, all the things that I needed to hear.
But that was before. Before I found out that I was part of a bet.
“That’s great, Jet. I’m really happy for you. Now if that’s all . . .” I say, curling my fingers around the cool doorknob.
“Will you at least listen to them?” he asks, nodding toward the flash drive in my hand.
With my eyes on his, I give his request genuine consideration before I answer. “Yes, I’ll listen.”
“Good. Because they’re all for you. I wrote every one of the songs on there for you. With you in mind. Since you came into my life.”
Jet might as well have handed me a knife and then asked me to drive it into my own chest. That’s how the songs will feel now—like finding the most amazing life and love in the world, and then watching it drift away. Destroyed. By Jet.
“I’m glad I could help you,” I say quietly.
With his cerulean eyes searching mine, Jet sighs. “I know I’m too late, but I want you to know that I was a different person when I took that bet. I’m not proud of who I was. In fact, I’m pretty disgusted. And I didn’t know it at the time, but I changed from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Every day after, I became a better person. Just for knowing you. You told me that you help people, that it’s who you are. And you were right. You helped me in more ways than I could ever tell you.”
“I’m glad,” I repeat, holding on to the reins of my heart as tightly as I can.
“I know it was never your intention to get involved with me. Definitely not to make me fall in love with you. So I can’t blame you for any of this. Or for being mad and hurt when you found out what I’d done. I’d hate me, too. But it kills me to think of you walking away from us thinking that everything that happened was just a part of some stupid, sick, juvenile bet. Because it wasn’t. When I made love to you, I did it loving you with the heart that you changed. Not the one who sang in a band and went through women like water.
“I like to think that I won’t be drowning my problems in every convenient person and substance now. The last thing I hid from, which was the truth of what I’d done, is a regret I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. I’ll go to my grave knowing that I lost the best thing that ever happened to me because I was so afraid of losing her that I lied to her.
“So don’t think I don’t blame you for not being able to forgive me. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”
His last words ring between us like a death knell, one that echoes in the silence for several seconds after he stops talking. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s waiting for me to say I forgive him or to throw myself into his arms, which would seem incredibly manipulative on his part. But I can barely finish the thought before he’s leaning in to kiss my cheek, whispering, “Good-bye, Violet.” And then he turns to leave, the black night folding in around him, swallowing him up as he walks out of my life.
But the night isn’t the only thing folding in. As I stand watching the last place I saw Jet, my chest aches with a pain so deep, it feels as though my ribs might implode. But as much as I wanted a future with him, as much as I’d love to call him back, I can’t think of a way to forgive him. I can’t think of a way to go forward after everything that has happened.
It’s with an abyss forming in the empty place where my heart used to be that I close the door and lock it behind me before I fall to pieces on my entryway floor.
FORTY-FOUR: Jet
There’s a burn behind my eyes as I slide behind the wheel of my car. I knew there was a good chance she wouldn’t even talk to me, hear me out. And, although she did, I can see that she can’t forgive me. At least not now. Just the thought of her never forgiving me is what’s making my gut churn, my heart ache, and my eyes burn. It’s eating me up inside, not being with her, thinking that I’ll never be with her.
But what are my choices? I can’t really see that I have any. I’ve told her the facts, apologized to her, and asked for her forgiveness. Even told her that I loved her in a roundabout way. But none of it mattered. I didn’t know if it would. I had hoped, but I knew it was a long shot.
Now, I should just walk away. She’s made her choice, and I ought to respect it.
Only I can’t.
I can’t live with her choice. I can’t live with her unforgiveness. I can’t live without her.
So what the hell am I supposed to do?
That question rings through my head all the way back to my father’s place in Summerton where I have to go to pick up some stuff I’d left there.
It’s when I pull into the driveway, thinking of Violet when I see the place where she was dropping off her dad that day, that I realize there is something I can do. I can love her from a distance. I can do things for her, make her life better and happier, without her ever having to know. But I’ll know. I’ll know that, somewhere, she’s smiling and feeling a little happier, and that I might’ve had a small hand in it.
And as long as I can make her happy, make her life better (even without me in it), that’ll have to be enough.
FORTY-FIVE: Violet
It’s been three weeks since the night Jet came to my house to apologize. I haven’t heard a word from him since. No calls, no impromptu visits, nothing overt. But he’s been around—at least I think he has.
Odd things have happened for weeks. They could be coincidence, of course. But they could not be coincidence, too. Maybe I just want them to be Jet-related. Or maybe they really are.
One morning, a few days after he’d visited me, I was walking to my car before work and noticed that there was a single rose on the ground in the grass. Had it been on my windshield, I would’ve been more suspicious, but it was just lying there, as though it might’ve fallen or even been blown over by the wind. Anything is possible, of course. But something inside me wants to believe that Jet put it there. To say what, I
don’t know. That he’s thinking of me? That he wishes me a good day? That he’s sorry? Again, it could be anything. If it’s even him.
Other things have been more blatant. One night, I got a knock at the door and my favorite pizza was being delivered to me. Anonymously, of course. That following Friday afternoon, a week from the night Jet visited me, I got a call confirming my appointment for a full spa treatment the next morning. It was scheduled and paid for anonymously, of course. One night, I even came home and found my yard mowed. It could’ve been Dad, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer, so I can’t be sure.
Chocolates in the mail, flower petals in front of my door, to me it all points to Jet. But does it change anything?
No.
Every day I keep hoping for it to hurt a little less, but it doesn’t. I only seem to miss him more and more. I only seem to be getting lonelier and lonelier, no matter how many other people I fill my time with. But I’m not going to stop trying. I can’t give up. I just can’t. And I can’t dwell on it. I have to keep busy. I’m afraid what little piece of sanity I’ve managed to retain will disappear completely if I give myself too much time to think.
Even now, I find myself looking forward to SAA with Tia, just as an escape, despite the fact that it only brings up painful memories.
That is until she calls and jerks the rug out from under me.
“You busy?” she asks when I answer.
“Just pulling the brush through my hair before I head out. You running late or something?”
“No. Ummm, I, uh, I’m not going.”
“What?” I ask, brush in midair, hovering over my head. “Why?”
There’s a long pause that makes me distinctly uneasy. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Vi, but seeing what you’ve been going through has made me realize that I need to make some changes. If I don’t, I’ll lose Dennis, and then I really will be miserable. It’s time for me to grow up and stop letting my past cripple me. You know, be a victor not a victim. All that shit.” I hear the smile in her voice at the last.
“Oh. Well, that’s good. That’s a good thing, Tia.” It’s all I can think to say.
“Please don’t take that the wrong way.”
“I’m not.”
“I think you are.”
“I’m not. How can I take it the wrong way? You’ve turned a corner. That’s great.” And it is. I have no idea why it doesn’t exactly feel that way.
“I just . . . well, I’m not cutting on you. And I don’t want you to think I’ve somehow benefited from your pain. At least not in the bad way like it sounds.”
“I know you don’t mean it that way, Tia. But the truth is, you have benefited from it. And honestly, that makes it a little easier—knowing that at least one of us has gotten something good from it. It makes what happened less of a waste.”
“Well, it helped me to see that Dennis is good to me. He’s good for me. And he really loves me. He forgave me when he didn’t have to. I know it wasn’t easy for him, but he loved me enough to look past my betrayal and see it for what it was. And he stuck with me until I could fix myself. I can’t risk losing that.”
Finally, I feel a genuine smile. “Tia, that’s awesome. I agree with all that, and I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Of course I’m not mad! Don’t be crazy.”
“I know you think I needed those meetings.”
“I did. But that’s because I wanted you to get some help. Now, it sounds like you’ve finally got a handle on things.”
“I do. I just hate it had to come this way.”
“Tia, as much as I wish I could erase everything that happened, I can’t. But it makes it more . . . tolerable to know that it helped someone I love.”
“I wish it hadn’t happened either. I always wanted you to fall in love, not be alone, but I never would’ve wanted you to go through something like this. Not even for me and Dennis.”
“Well, I brought it on myself. I’m a victim of my own poor decision making. No one else to blame. Now, I just have to move forward and be smarter.”
“Do you really think we can be smart when it comes to love, Vi?”
A knee-jerk answer pops into my mind—YES—but I hesitate to speak it aloud, mainly because I really don’t believe it anymore. So I give her the truth instead.
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I think the only thing we can control in love is how we act. I think the rest is all left up to the heart. Like Dennis. He chose to forgive me. Over and over and over because he loved me. And it paid off because his heart was in it. I think as long as your heart’s in it, everything will turn out just fine.”
“I wish I believed that, Tia.”
“Maybe one day you can,” she says simply. I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. When the silence stretches on, Tia continues. “Well, at least now you don’t have to worry about going to those awful meetings. You are officially free on Thursday nights.”
That sounds like a good thing unless, as in my case, you avoid free time like the plague.
“Yep. Free as a bird.”
After we hang up, I feel that freedom like a thousand-pound weight dragging at my feet, threatening to pull me under. Already this week, I’ve cleaned the house, washed all the curtains, rearranged the pantry, organized my shoes, and cleaned out the fridge. And I’m going to clean and polish my floors this weekend because I’ll have to move the furniture.
I look around my house and realize I have nothing to do. I can’t even invent something to do. It’s all been done. The only place I haven’t torn through like a tornado is Dad’s. But maybe it’s high time I take some of my constructive energy over to his place. That would benefit us both.
Without even stopping to give it more thought, I rush to my bedroom, change into cleaning clothes, and hit the door at a run. Free time is the enemy!
I hit the road as soon as I load the backseat of my car with chemicals, gloves, and brushes. It’s as I’m driving the couple of miles to Dad’s that I happen to think about how long it’s been since I’ve had a call from the tavern. I’m about due, it seems like. Maybe I can be there to keep him company and dissuade him from drowning his woes in a bottle tonight.
Because of my load of cleaning paraphernalia, I pull around back so I can go in the laundry room door. I cut the engine and grab an armful of supplies and haul them up the steps to Dad’s back door. I use my elbow to bang on the screen. I listen for the telltale sound of his heavy footsteps trudging to answer. Only the trudging never happens. My father never comes to the door.
Setting down my chemical arsenal, I go back down the steps and around to the front of the house. I had been so preoccupied upon arrival, I hadn’t even noticed that my father’s truck is nowhere to be found. With a deep sigh, I walk to the dying shrub to the left of the front door, fish out the spare key that’s tied to a string that dangles inside it, and open the front door.
I replace the key before closing the front door and walking through to let myself in the back, my enthusiasm dampened considerably by the likelihood that this night will end with me going to fetch my obliterated father from his favorite dive. With a sigh, I tell myself to buck up. I wanted something to keep me busy—well, I’ve got it. Between cleaning this giant man cave and then babysitting for the remainder of the night, I should have zero time to think about Jet.
I’m elbow deep in bleach when I realize fate had a different plan for the evening. I hear banging from the other room. That has to be my father.
Men are so noisy!
Holding my dripping hands up, I walk from the kitchen into the living room to greet Dad. He’s standing at the front door, banging dirt off his shoes, sending little particles of caked clay all over the tile of the entryway.
“Dad! Don’t do that in here! Do it in the grass,” I fuss good-naturedly.
“Oh, sorry sweetheart,” he says sheepishly, setting his shoes to the
side and tiptoeing away from the dirty zone, completely ignoring my suggestion. “What are you doing here?” he asks, walking past me to grab the broom and dustpan from the tiny closet just inside the kitchen.
“Cleaning. I hope that’s okay. I figured you’d be here.”
He doesn’t offer any kind of explanation, doesn’t tell me where he’s been, nothing. He just smiles.
“I guess I should’ve called,” I say, trying a different tack.
“You never have to call, Vi. You’re always welcome in this house, whether you’re cleaning it or not.”
I swallow my humph.
Mindful of my wet, gloved hands, I turn to head back into the kitchen, throwing casually over my shoulder, “What have you been into tonight?”
“Ummm, not much. Just . . . you know, a little of this, a little of that.”
I frown. That’s very vague. Not like my father at all.
“What’s this and that?”
“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,” he says cryptically.
“Of course I’m interested, Dad,” I reply, even more curious now.
“I hate to bore you. Hey, have you had dinner?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly eight, and he knows I never eat after seven thirty. Peeling off my gloves and tossing them onto the counter, I head back into the living room. I stop beside the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest.
“All right. What’s going on?”
My father looks up at me, his most innocuous expression in place. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting all . . . sneaky. What have you been up to?”
“I told you—”
“You told me exactly nothing. Now what gives?”
“Vi, I—”
I gasp, something just having occurred to me. “Oh my gosh! Dad! Were you on a date?”
His laugh is genuine, which gives me my answer before he speaks. “No, Violet. I was not on a date.”
“Why is that funny?”
“It just is.”