All the Different Ways

by R. J. Lee

  SIX

  Violet

  Moving is easy when you barely move anything at all. How long does it take? About two hours. Two hours to transport a few boxes of clothes, toiletries, work shit, important files, odds and ends, and two stunning hummingbird planters from what became an unnerving place to live to my new amazing sanctuary.

  “Why didn’t this Collin man help today?” Renee and I just get done jumping up and down in my empty living room like two preschoolers when Mom asks me the dreaded question. “I wanted to meet him.”

  “It’s ‘Cullen’, Mom, with a ‘u’. It’s not like I had a lot to move, and Dad, Aaron, and Ben got it just fine.”

  “Yeah, Laura, we didn’t need Mr. Muscles!” Renee flexes like she’s a body builder and I push her so that she almost falls on the floor.

  “Jesus, Renee, you’re so embarrassing.”

  Charlotte comes down the stairs with Hollyn and says, “Mr. Muscles? I thought he was Thor.”

  Renee giggles.

  “Thor? Really? That good, huh? Is he blond?” Mom leans on the kitchen counter and waggles her eyebrows at me.

  I roll my eyes. “God, Mom, you too? No. He’s got dark hair and coffee-colored eyes. When did I even mention him anyway? We’re friends. This whole conversation is wrong. Very wrong.” My voice is strained. I can feel my blood pressure increase behind my eyes.

  I wait for someone to agree with me or scold me for getting carried away—something to indicate that I should feel bad. About what, I’m not sure, but definitely bad.

  It’s Charlotte who changes the subject. “Hey, Vi, did you pick out new furniture yet or haven’t you had time? It’s cool you have two bedrooms upstairs and I like the patio. You can see outside from the little landing at the top of the stairs.”

  I love my sister.

  “Thanks, Charlotte, I like it, too. I ordered some stuff online for the bedrooms but the living room stuff is coming later today. Delivery, in case you were wondering.”

  Mom looks disappointed and Renee snaps her fingers in an old-fashioned, “aw, shucks” kind of way.

  I stare at her in disbelief, gaping, while she smiles at me. I roll my eyes and continue. “I do need to get all new kitchen and bath stuff, though, so Mom, if you want to grab some paper and a pen from that box there, you girls can help me make a list of essentials so we can go shopping. The guys can stay here and wait for the furniture.”

  If I can’t handle having “Thor” here for them, I might as well give them the mall.

  Cullen

  Music’s blaring, beer is flowing, and drills are whining. We’ve got a cool breeze and a hot sun baking our skin while plank after plank of hard, pressed wood lines up in perfect dimensions according to my plans. Dad and I have been at it all day and the floor to the deck is almost finished. He’s about to work on the stairs; I’ve got a handle on the fire pit.

  “You got something on your mind, Son?” Dad takes a long pull on his beer. Must be break time.

  Surrounded by stone and masonry tools, I look up at him from the space I’m occupying on the ground. Sometimes, it’s like looking in a mirror set twenty-five years in the future. No, he’s not as muscular as I am anymore, but we have the same genetic build—broad shoulders, wide hands, and angled jaw. I wonder if I’ll have the same silver dusting above my ears at fifty-five that he does…

  “Nah, I’m good. Can you hand me that hammer there?”

  “Sure,” he drops it lightly in the grass. “You’re full of shit, you know that right? You could never lie to me.”

  I roll my eyes. If he only knew the crap I got away with when I was younger.

  “Whatever, Professor X. Why do you think something’s bothering me?” I stand with my hands on my hips.

  “Well, let’s see. You’ve had a singular focus on building since I got here, you’ve said about six words since we’ve started working, and this thing got built in record time.”

  He waves towards the eight-foot boards making up the zigzag pattern of the floor he’s standing on.

  “So?”

  “So, you forget I work with troubled teens. A troubled thirty year old isn’t that much different… maybe a little taller.” He laughs as I throw a sawdust-covered rag from my pocket at him.

  “Ah, no, I was just hoping to be able to help a friend more than she’s letting me, I guess. It’s disappointing, that’s all.”

  “Hmm, interesting. You like her?”

  “Yep.”

  “You in love with her?”

  “Jesus, Dad,” I shift on my feet. “No, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “But you have feelings for her.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I can’t avoid it. Absentmindedly, my hand presses on my chest where the thought of Violet stings the most.

  “Yeah, but she’s going through some hard shit right now. She doesn’t want me like that.”

  Dad crosses his arms across his shirt. There’s sweat beading on his tanned forehead, much like mine, and the wetness around the arms and shoulders of his tee make stretching it to accommodate the action of moving difficult.

  “Did she tell you that or did you tell yourself?”

  “What? Oh, I guess I told myself? It’s just, you don’t know what she’s been dealing with, so—“

  He cuts me off and walks to the shade of the maple tree just off my brand new deck. Dad shakes his head at me and I feel about ten years old. He sits down for a minute.

  “Cullen, son, you can’t tell women what they want and don’t want. They make up their own minds. Half the time we screw up with them is because we either try to read their minds but get it wrong or flat out tell them what they’re going to do. The other half is because we listen to our balls first and those make us idiots.”

  “Damn, Dad, you sound like Mom.”

  “Your mother makes some very valid points,” he stands and slaps my shoulder. “So, are you ready to get back to this project? You’re gonna need stairs today.”

  “Yep, I’ll help you with those. The fire pit can wait.”

  SEVEN

  Violet

  I gape at the calendar thinking about how fast time has gone. It’s already the first week of August and school is about to start again. Other than checking on Pierre, I haven’t been at Vista much, haven’t run into anyone. I’ve thought about Cullen, though. I’ve thought about catching practice or going to the scrimmage game last Friday but I just couldn’t get myself to walk out the door. I don’t want to be seen as the bored widow or look like a stalker, so I just fantasize and play out scenarios in my head. Oh, and sneak peeks at the practice field when I’m feeding Pierre.

  I’m relieved that I sold the house so early this summer, broken porch and all, a week after putting it up for sale. My townhouse is perfect; it’s safe and it’s mine. The furniture is what I want. My clothes are where I want. The kitchen is how I want.

  Walking into the sized-just-right living room from my kitchen, I pause at the framed photos along the wall of the staircase. I smile back at the captured scenes of my family, my sister cuddling a drooling Hollyn, and Renee and I wearing cowboy hats at a concert for her birthday. All of these pictures are from new moments this summer, shared with the people that actually love me.

  A small sigh of contentment escapes because I’ve gotten a little stronger. I’m good at shutting down the upsetting thoughts that haunt me every now and then; memories hardly ever last anymore. Every once in a while, I get a piece of mail with Anden’s name on it and I go back to a time when he was breathing down my neck. But mostly, I’m able to block out history.

  Today, I need to go into school and start working in my room. I have new ideas for start-up investigations and research that I’d like to get moving on.

  I decide a shower is in order, and after cleaning up, tossing on some shorts and a modest tank top, I’m ready to go.

  Twenty minutes and some light traffic later, our giant high school stands in front of me. There’s a sign on the door that says to use the gy
m entrance and something about new wax on the floor. It’s a nice day, although a little hot, so I just go ahead and walk around the building to the door the custodial staff wants me to use. Deep voices yelling and grunting get my attention, and I look toward the noise. Ah, yes, football practice. On the football field. Right by the gym entrance. I adjust my sunglasses and pick up the pace. It’s one thing to drive by or peek out the upstairs window. It’s a completely different story to have to physically walk by the players…and the coaching staff. I’m not really avoiding our offensive coordinator, I tell myself; I just don’t know what to do with him right now.

  A shrill whistle blows for about five seconds and then I hear a bunch of guys talking. I have a little bit of sidewalk left, then, “Violet! Wait up!”

  Deep breath. I turn to see Cullen jogging up to the fence off the sideline.

  “Hey, Cullen, what’s up?” I slide my sunglasses up to my head and smile. My heart kicks up a notch and sweat beads up between my shoulder blades ready to make its descent down into my shorts.

  It’s just muggy out, I tell myself.

  “Oh, just practice. Our first regular season game is Friday. It’s good to see you; it’s been a long time. Are you good? I was hoping you’d come to our scrimmage the other day.”

  He has a whistle on a lanyard around his neck and I want to tug on it to see how close he’ll let me pull him. I put my hands behind my back instead.

  “I’m sorry I missed it; I’m good though. All settled in my new place. I love it; it’s happy.”

  I think, maybe, I shouldn’t have said this because Cullen frowns a bit. His forehead crinkles in thought and he squints his eyes a little. I shift from foot to foot and start staring at the ground.

  “Good,” he finally acknowledges, “I’m glad. It’s as it should be then.”

  That makes me look up again. I put my hands on the fence a safe distance from the whistle. Cullen matches my stare but then glances down and covers my left hand with his. I marvel at how it swallows mine up with its size and heat. Brown eyes meet brown eyes once more.

  “Violet, if…”

  “Hey, Coach! There’s a problem with this tight end over here!” All the boys start laughing in hysterics and slapping the shoulders of their teammates. We pull our hands away and Cullen coughs.

  “I guess I gotta go make them do laps or something. Clearly they didn’t work hard enough,” he rolls his eyes and grins.

  “Apparently not. Hmm, you must be slackin’, Coach,” I wink. “I’ll catch ya later, then. I need to get some work done anyway.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you at Friday’s game?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I wave and turn to go.

  He counters, “Are you going to be here late?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “Well, don’t walk out by yourself if it’s dark. Get a custodian or something if no one else is here, ok? You parked where? Out front?”

  “Yeah, I’m around the building. I’ll walk with someone.”

  He starts backing up towards the field. “Promise?” he asks, smiling. Damn that grin and those full lips.

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “Maybe you should text me, see if I’m still around,” he pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?”

  I cross my arms, “You already have it, Metz. You’re my department contact, remember?” I pull my sunglasses down just as my phone dings. I pull it from my pocket to find a winking emoji from Cullen.

  “Guess I do!” He laughs so that his whole body shakes, then turns and jogs back to his team. They’re giving him shit, I can tell by the slaps, cheers, and whistles.

  I just roll my eyes and shake my head. With a lighter step, I aim for the gym doors.

  Cullen

  Damn if I didn’t know she was flip-flopping on my stretch of sidewalk before I could even see her. Like a fly to a candied apple, I blew my whistle and let the boys have a break just so I could see for myself if the tight little body visible through the slits in the bleachers was actually Violet.

  I practically shoved past the prospective D-line and stopped dead in my tracks. Long legs disappeared into little blue shorts on their way into the school’s gym entrance and then there was that goddamn ponytail swinging back and forth. I wanted to tug on it and see if she would gasp…

  “See something you like, Coach?”

  “Yeah, Coach, go talk to her.”

  “Shut up, you two, or you’re gonna run ladders till you puke,” I rumbled out over my shoulder. I already knew it was Keegan and Jarrod, the two biggest boneheads in practice.

  “Come on, Coach,” Keegan whined. “She’s single now.”

  I whipped around, almost forgetting he was seventeen, and shoved my finger in his helmet. I had nothing to back it up with though, so I flicked the snap free on his chinstrap. The two little clowns high fived each other and went back to the cooler.

  Feeling like an idiot, I started jogging and called, “Violet! Wait up!”

  I wanted to ask her to our game, I wanted to ask her to have dinner, I wanted… Holy. Fuck. She was smiling at me.

  All that’s in the very near past, however, as I make my way into the building and start up the stairs. I’ve got it in my head that although Violet promised to text or let someone walk her out when she’s ready to leave, she’s not actually going to do it. I would literally kick myself stupid if anything happened to her, so here I am, heading in for a rescue… or, at least, to attempt one.

  Fortunately for Violet, I’m coming in fresh and showered from practice so she won’t be leaving with a mass of swamp ass. Of course, that’s assuming she’ll let me walk her out of here. Wait a minute. What if she tells me no?

  I stop just before the stairs and put my forehead on the wall to get a grip and think this over. What was it my dad told me? Half the time we screw up is by telling women what to do. But I’m not telling her to leave. I’m just letting her know I’m here when she’s ready.

  I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts. I don’t ever have this problem with women. Why does Violet get me so wound up?

  I think about when I placed my hand over hers on the fence earlier and how hers just melted into mine. I close my eyes at that familiar bite behind my sternum and wait for it to ease up.

  Pushing off the wall, I start up the stairs that will lead right to Violet’s room. Enough of this horseshit, I gotta move. I know she’s still here because I checked—like the psychotic stalker I am—for her eco-friendly SUV out front. If all goes well, I’ll hang out until she’s ready to go and walk her safely to her car. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll leave by myself and sit in the shadows to make sure she drives off ok on her own. Nothing creepy about that at all.

  Violet

  I’m standing on top of one of my lab tables at the back of the room hanging up some new posters to help organize a STEM project for Bio2 when I hear shoes squeaking on the stairs. Since it’s the only sound besides the stapler, I can tell that whomever owns the shoes is getting closer to my room. I’m facing the door with the stapler digging into my hand, ready to lay into someone creepy enough to try to scare me, but it’s Cullen who stands in the doorway instead of a masked murderer.

  I visibly relax, but my insides feel like sizzling powder kegs. He’s showered, probably in the locker room, and has a grey, dry-fit t-shirt pulled tight across his chest and arms. I can see all of his major muscle groups from this distance and would bet on the minor ones, too, if I could get him closer. He looks like dinner and I’m ravenous.

  “Checking up on me, Metz?” I ask playfully. He smiles just a little and I swear the air crackles.

  “I can stay till you’re ready to leave,” his eyes are on mine, but his voice trails off. He looks like he’s got more to say, but then he begins to move—more like glide—across my room, weaving between tables but never losing focus on me. All words are lost as he silently stalks towards me like a tiger. My heart speeds up with every step closer.

  “Oh shit,” I let out qui
etly on an exhale.

  He’s at the edge of the table I’m standing on, head tilted back, exposing his throat and the muscles of his neck. He’s tense; I can tell by the ropy tendons popping out of his skin. Still watching me, he reaches up, releases the stapler from my hand, and puts it on the table with a slight thud. I don’t even feel the metal go missing; all I know is the heat coming off Cullen’s skin and the vibration of his trembling hands.

  He tugs gently on my wrists and I take it as an invitation to come down off the table. Cullen doesn’t move, though, so I sit in front of him, my legs on either side of his bulky thighs. He lets my hands go and places his fingertips lightly on either side of my neck, right under my ears. I’d bet my new Jimmy Choo’s that he can feel the chaotic throbbing of my pulse there. I’m tingling with this new, gentle sensation of a man’s hands on me and my temperature has gone up at least a hundred degrees. I feel like I could slide off the table into a puddle of molten liquid.

  “Violet,” he whispers.

  “Just kiss me, Cullen.”

  “Are you sure? I can’t go back once I do,” his eyes search my face. “I can go slow, but I can’t go back.”

  “No, Cullen, there’s no going back.”

  My words hold so much more meaning than I think Cullen realizes, but we don’t have time to think about it because his hands move into my hair and he brings his lips to mine. There’s just a breath between us, a tiny pause. I lightly wet my bottom lip and tilt my chin up farther.

  Small fires ignite in my chest when his full lips brush over mine. It’s a light sweep at first, then he comes back for another sample, pressing a little harder, barely touching his tongue to my lip. His neatly trimmed beard is softer against my skin than I imagined, and I get little tingles deep in my belly at the thought of how it would feel trailing elsewhere.

  I grip the table until I feel like my fingernails might snap, and then I reach up to his sides and drag my hands along his obliques. Goddamn, the man is tight and fit; I have to feel his skin before I combust. My hands wander up his shirt to the small of his back and my fingertips trace the muscles I find there. He shivers and pulls back, but only for a second. Leaning back in, Cullen gently tugs on my hair and I gasp just a little, but it’s enough to part my lips and let him in to taste. His tongue is warm and sweet. I whimper and Cullen lets out a low growl. He places one more kiss on my slightly swollen mouth before releasing me.