by Sara Ney
A few stadium personnel are already in the process of unloading our bags by the time I hop off the last step, dragging the black hood of my sweatshirt up over my head. Spot my duffle immediately. Swipe it off the ground and head toward my truck without a shower, head down, thumb brushing over Violet’s text.
A few things occur to me then: I don’t think she’s ever been the one to text me first. It isn’t much of a shock, since she’s generally more reserved, the least pushy girl I’ve ever met.
I wonder what she’s been up to since the fundraiser—since she kissed me in her driveway. That kiss kept me awake longer than it should have and had me watching Tumblr porn when I should have been sleeping, not jerking off my rod.
I wonder if this means I’ve actually missed having her around?
Or just that I like jerking it to porn gifs?
Or both?
Regardless, Violet is the only person that’s texted me since we left for Ohio State; the team’s been gone for thirty-six hours.
My thumbs tap out a reply.
Zeke: The team just got back into town from an away meet in Ohio. Literally just pulled into the stadium, which is where we park our cars during away meets. What are you doing right now?
I briefly wonder if she’s drunk.
Violet: What am I doing right now? Nothing because its wild and crazy Friday nigh, juts me myself and I.
I yank the ball cap out of my backpack, sliding it on under my hoodie, twisting it left, then right, then squeezing the bill so it’s tighter. My fingers work fast.
Zeke: Violet, is everything
Hit send. Oops.
Zeke: Vi, is everything okay?
Long pause.
Violet: Do you want me to be honest?
Violet: No, it’s not. Everythng i not okay.
Movements in my peripheral catch my eye and I glance up, propping one foot on the running board of my truck. Oz is approaching with all his shit, duffle bags slung over his broad shoulders.
He raises his arms. “What the hell man? You couldn’t wait five minutes?” His blue eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “You weren’t gonna leave me here, were you?”
“Nah, just had a few texts messages that couldn’t wait.”
“Oh really—what kind of messages?”
My gray eyes flicker over him. “Dude, aren’t you going to shower?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I was going to hit it at home.”
He pulls open the passenger side door, hefts his shit inside, and climbs in behind it. “Let me guess: you’re texting Violet and don’t want to waste another second fucking around inside the building. Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest.” He leans over the center console toward my door, bellowing, “Zekey has a girlfriend, Zekey has a girlfriend,” like a fucking moron.
Jesus, why does he have to be so goddamn obnoxious?
I ignore him, but it’s hard with the incessant shouting.
Not to mention, now he’s grasping for my cell, wiggling his fingers. “Come on man, put the phone down and let’s go. I told Jameson we’d—”
I throw up the middle finger. “Would you shut the fuck up for like, five more seconds? Thanks.”
His back plops against the seat and he starts buckling his seat belt like a good boy scout.
Zeke: What’s wrong Violet?
Zeke: Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need me to come get you or something?
Violet: No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just, god—I’m so embarrassed I texted you. It’s going to sound so dumb, but both my roommates are gone and I’m alone and I’m crying and can’t see the keys on my phone
Well that explains the shitty typemanship.
Zeke: You can tell me what’s wrong.
Violet: Today was the anniversary of parents’ death, and I hate being here alone. There’s this movie on and for some reason it just…made me want to talk to a human and not sit here wallowing in front of the TV. And I feel so…
Violet: I hate being alone.
Well. Shit. Not what I was expecting.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I climb into the driver’s side of my truck but make no move to buckle my seat belt. No move to turn over the engine. No move to do anything but send her a reply.
Zeke: I know what you mean. Is there
My roommate’s bitchy whine causes me to hit send too soon.
“Uh, hello, why are we still here?” Oz intones dully, rapping his knuckles against the window. “Are we just going to sit here all night, because if we are, I’ll have James come get me.”
“Dude.” I take a calming breath so I don’t explode. “Just—give me a minute, okay? I’m thinking.”
“Dude, what the hell is going on? Did you get some chick pregnant?” His bark of laughter dies when I look over, expression stony. “Shit. Did you?”
“No, Jesus Christ. It’s Violet, she—”
It’s not my place to spill her personal shit, so my lips clamp shut.
“Give me one more second to text her, all right numb-nuts? Just…climb down out of my asshole so I can shoot her a note. She sounds like she needs some—”
Shit. I was about to say She sounds like she needs some cheering up. Good thing I caught myself, because seriously, the last thing I need is Oz asking me a shit ton of personal questions.
He raises his eyebrows when I tell him, “First we’re running home—I call dibs on the shower. Then I’m running to Violet’s place.”
If Oz is shocked by this news, he—well shit, he’s showing it.
The dumb fucker has his mouth hanging open, eyes wide as saucers. “It’s Friday night, dude—aren’t you coming out with us? Nothing crazy, just a few beers?”
“No.”
My phone pings, and we both look into my lap, down to where my cell sits nestled between my legs.
“I’m going to her house to see if she’s okay.”
Violet
“Zeke! What are you doing here?”
He’s standing on my front porch, hands stuffed in the pockets of a black quilted jacket. Jeans. Brown leather boots. Hair wet from a recent shower.
His wide shoulders slouch uncomfortably then shrug.
“I thought you could use some company.” His mouth is set in a straight line, and if he hadn’t just shown up voluntarily and unannounced, I wouldn’t have believed he came willingly.
“You did?”
He shifts on the balls of his feet. “I thought we could go do something, uh…Fun.”
Is he wincing?
Yes. He definitely is.
I pull back the storm door so he can step through, up into my tiny living room and into the house. Zeke Daniels is in my house, platinum eyes scanning the room. They take inventory of the twenty-year-old couch Winnie’s parents bought us at Goodwill; it’s gold and scratchy, but it’s something to sit on. The dinged up coffee table we found on the curb last semester. There’s a lamp in the corner, our only source of light in the room.
Winnie, Melinda, and I, we’re like the Three Musketeers—or the Three Blind Mice, but poorer.
Zeke’s large frame fills the doorway as he stands rooted to the spot, having not removed his boots. Unless he takes them off, he has nowhere to go, and from the looks of him, he has no desire to go stalking across our brown carpet.
“So,” he begins. “Want to get the hell out of here?”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice.
“Go do what you have to do to get ready; I’ll keep the truck warm.”
When he steps off the front steps, retreating to his giant black truck, I scurry to my bedroom. Yank open my closet, pull out a fresh pair of jeans. A solid black t-shirt; it’s tight, hugs what little curves I actually have.
A silver necklace gets clasped around my throat, its delicate V dangling from a thin metal chain. Slide a few bangles on my wrist. Then I dash to the bathroom to check my reflection. Comb through my long, silky hair and decide to leave it the way it is. Add a few coats of black mascara. Pink
lip gloss.
Eight minutes from start to finish, and I’m locking the door behind me, trudging down the front sidewalk toward Zeke’s waiting figure.
Four seconds later I’m sliding in beside him. Toasty warm.
“Where are we going?”
He taps the steering wheel. “Where do you want to go? It’s totally up to you.”
I bite down on my lower lip, undecided. I remember giving him a list once before, remember him shooting down everything when trying to figure out which play dates would be fun for Summer and Kyle.
Nonetheless, there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to do…and maybe he’d be willing to do it with me tonight, since this was his idea in the first place.
And he did tell me I could choose.
So I go for it.
“You know what would be really fun?”
His engine revs, obviously waiting for me to buckle up. “What?”
“I want to paint pottery.”
Zeke’s head hits the back of his seat, big palm combing through his wet onyx hair. “Please don’t do this to me.”
Giggle. “It’s not going to be horrible. Besides, you said it was totally up to me, and this is what I chose—to paint pottery.”
“Fine.”
“Do you know where it is?” He’s taking a left at the stop sign, toward downtown.
“Yeah, I know where it is.”
“You do? How?”
“My idiot roommate and his girlfriend came to this place for one of their dates. I had to pick shit up for them.”
“Oh! That’s nice of you.”
“If you want to call it nice, knock yourself out.”
“I’ve never done this before, so I’m pretty excited. I figure I have about twenty bucks to spend, so—”
“No.”
“No?”
“This is my treat.”
“Are you sure?”
Great, now he’s irritated. “I invited you out, it’s my treat.”
“All right, but only if—”
“Violet, my mom might be absentee, but she always makes sure I act like a gentleman when she’s around.”
There’s nothing else to say I guess, except, “Thank you Zeke.”
It means a lot to me, more than he knows.
He might think this is a simple night out, at a place he can afford to take me, but to me, it’s more. I hardly ever get to indulge in anything frivolous—every penny I earn goes toward books, tuition, and housing.
There just simply isn’t ever enough to blow on…stuff. I don’t go to the bars often because spending ten dollars on drinks is ten dollars I don’t have to make rent or buy groceries.
Of course, I don’t say this, because a guy like that wouldn’t understand. Zeke Daniels doesn’t look like he’s seen struggle a single day in his privileged life. I don’t fault him for this; it’s merely an observation. He can’t help having parents with the means to support him any more than I can help…not.
I shift in my seat.
“Crap.” His gaze darkens, moves up and down over my torso. “Have you eaten anything yet?”
“No, but…I think you can eat food at this place. Sandwiches maybe?”
He grunts.
I stifle a smile, hiding it in the collar of my winter jacket. Watch out the window the rest of the way to the pottery place so he doesn’t catch my grin.
“For the damn record,” Zeke is saying as we walk into the place, “we are not painting matching anything. No mugs with hearts and shit, got it?”
Mugs with hearts and shit? What on earth is he talking about?
“Got it.”
“And none of that holiday bullshit. No way are you getting me to paint a pumpkin plate or a holly jolly Santa Claus.”
“What am I not getting you to paint?”
“A holly jolly San—” He sees me smirking. “Dammit Violet!”
“Paint whatever you want. I’m going to check out the plates and cups.”
He trails along after me.
I remove a ceramic pitcher from the wooden shelf and hold it up. “Now what would I do with this?”
“Nothing.”
“I could put flowers in it, or juice if I had people over.” I set it back down. “Hmmm.”
A few feet down, Zeke takes a shot glass off the shelf. “What about this?”
My brows shoot up. “Do you do a lot of shots?”
His shoulders sag and he huffs, “No. Not really.”
He puts the shot glass back. Takes down a flat paddle with a slight curve at the end. “What the hell is this thing?”
I glance over. “I think that’s a spoon rest. For the stove.”
“That’s fucking dumb.”
Ignoring him, I meander over to the glasses and goblets. “Hey, what about this mug? This is fun.” It’s huge and has plenty of surface for painting.
Zeke makes his way over. “I said I didn’t want to paint matching mugs.”
“So go paint something else.” I flip the heavy cup over to check the price. Eighteen dollars, plus the studio fee.
Ouch.
I bite my lower lip, debating, not wanting to spend twenty-five dollars of his money.
“Fine,” he complains again. “But there is nothing else.”
I chuckle. “Then paint a mug.”
Long silence. “Okay, grab me one.” Pause. “Please.”
I grab two and head back to the table where a cute brunette girl who looks like a high school student has us set up with brushes, water, and paper towels.
She’s been watching us walk around the entire time we’ve been here, both intrigued and surprised by the sight of the massive Iowa wrestler. He’s a stark contrast to the colorful and bright surroundings, and stands out like a sore thumb in all black.
I guess we both do, because I’m wearing black, too, to match my earlier mood.
“What are you going to paint on yours?” I ask Zeke. All we have left to do is choose our paint colors.
“No fucking clue. What about you?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe something purple? Or…my initials?”
“What about your initials in purple? Add some flowers and shit.”
“Hey, that’s a great idea!” I beam up at him. “You know, you could paint something having to do with wrestling. What about painting it black and yellow?”
“That’s not a bad idea.” He’s definitely warming up to the idea of being here. Together, we collect our paint—black and bright yellow for him, lavender for me. Lime green. Dark purple.
We take our seats and work in silence…at least for the next fifteen minutes.
Until, “So, do you want to tell me about them?”
“Who?”
“Your parents. What were they like?”
I sit back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, pausing with my paintbrush in the air, a blob of lavender dripping off the end. “From what I remember, they were fun. My dad was shy and kind of a huge book nerd, and my mom was this beautiful, fairylike…” I swallow. “She was blonde. Beautiful.”
Zeke nods, cleaning his brush in a jar of water. Blots it dry on the paper towel.
“Anyway, they were young when they had me, but really in love. They met in a law library where my dad worked, just out of college, just barely. He wanted to be a lawyer.” I resume painting my mug, focusing on the curved leaves I’m making around the handle. “My mom was still a student, but she was only taking one or two classes because they had me so soon after they got married. My aunt told me she wanted to be a teacher.”
“I’m…” Zeke starts. “I bet she would have been a good teacher, just like you.”
“I’m not going to be a teacher. I’m going to be a Social Worker.”
“I know, but you love kids. You must get that from her.”
“Yes.” I don’t know how to broach this next part, so I just blurt it out. “What about your parents Zeke? You hardly mention your family.”
His brush pauses too, but he doesn’t loo
k up. “There’s not a lot to tell. I’ve always been more of an afterthought.”
“What does that mean?”
His cold gray eyes look into mine. “It means they don’t give a shit.”
“How can that be?” I whisper as the festive and upbeat top forty music beats through the sound system above us. It’s loud, but I know he can hear me. I know he’s considering the question.
“They’re selfish, that’s why.”
“Where are they?”
“They travel. I don’t know, Violet. They don’t tell me where they’re going.” He dabs at the mug with his brush.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Dab, dab, dab. “Nope. Just me.”
“I already told you I’m an only child. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I had a sister. Or a brother, you know? To share this burden. So I wouldn’t be alone.”
God, now I sound like a one-person pity party. “Thank god I have my friends.” I’m smiling as I say it.
“Speaking of which, what’s up with your roommates?”
I look up. “What do you mean, what’s up with my roommates?”
“Are they around a lot or what?”
“Yes and no. We all work a lot. None of us really go out because—not to sound pathetic or whatever—but that costs money none of us have. Although”—I dip my brush in the water jar and tap it against the edge—“we are going out tomorrow night to the bar where Melinda’s boyfriend works since neither of them could be around tonight, and honestly, it’s been forever since we’ve done anything fun.”
“Fun?”
He says the word out loud; it’s the one word he’s picked out of my entire diatribe, his paintbrush slashing through the air toward me, tracing the small silver V on the necklace hanging at my throat.
“V.”
I raise my fingers, grasping the small silver letter dangling around my neck.
“My aunt gave it to me when I was little, for my fifth birthday, the last one I celebrated at home.” I swallow. “The V is for Violet.”
He snickers quietly, tipping his head back. “Or V for virgin.”