Point of No Return

by Olivia Luck

  That elicits more laughs then someone I don’t know calls out, “Don’t be a prick. Let the lady talk.”

  Forcing out an unaffected laugh, I tilt back to my presentation and press ahead a slide. “Wren Alexander is cooking and hosting. Apparently, he loves the Scrapers and wants to support the Hope House.” There are some positive rumblings from the guys, and I forge on, explaining the location of the event, timing, attire, and the other finalized details.

  “Okay. How are we going to raise twenty-five grand? There’s going to be a silent auction.” I click forward rolling through descriptions of some of the prizes. “Lamborghini for a day, private jet for a trip to LA, Wren Alexander meal in your home, helicopter tour of the city . . .” Now I have their attention. Even sleeper in the back’s sitting up with dreary examination.

  “That’s my piece. Any more questions?” There are none, as I anticipated. “Here’s the most interesting part of this presentation. Ben lives at the Hope House. He’s going to explain to you why they need our support and why it’s an important fixture in our community. I can tell you all about the fancy food and unique auction prizes, but at the end of the day, all of this pomp and circumstance is to raise money and awareness for the Hope House. We’re throwing this exclusive black-tie event to, yes, be photographed for the society pages and blow up on social media. And, in the end, all this effort brings attention to the Hope House. I’m done blabbing. Ben, the floor is yours.”

  He stands slowly at first, hesitant. Then walks toward me with his head held high, albeit nervous. I squeeze his shoulder as I pass him then take his spot in the seat next to Dominic. My palms are damp with my nerves for Ben. He smooths a few pieces of paper on the podium then adjusts the microphone to his height. I’ve never heard this speech. Ben insisted that he wanted it to be a surprise and because I wanted to show him that I trusted him, I agreed.

  “Hello. My name is Ben Baccino and I want to thank you for taking the time to listen to me today.” The words start shaky then build in strength. “I am thirty-three years old and I have lived at the Hope House since I was eighteen. Violet asked me to speak to you today because I am the biggest Chicago Scrapers fan in the whole city.”

  At that I smile, my shoulders losing some of the tension pinching them up underneath my ears.

  Ben clears his throat, glances down at his papers, inhales, exhales, and continues. “I watch every Scrapers game. If I’m not with my family, I watch the games in the common space of my residence hall. Most of the time, I watch them alone because my friends in the Hope House aren’t really into hockey. I don’t mind watching by myself because no one knows the game as well as I do and it’s annoying to explain the rules.”

  The joke is rewarded with a few chuckles from the guys. My heart expands a little more with pride.

  “About a year ago, my best friend died. He was my cousin and he loved the Scrapers almost as much as I did.”

  The room tilts. I blink. Am I breathing? My heart squeezes viciously in my chest.

  “Max would visit me at the Hope House a lot and we would watch the games together.”

  A warm hand reaches into my lap and grabs mine. It grips my hand so tightly, the nails will probably leave little half-moon marks. Slowly, I lift my head. Dominic’s not looking at me, but he’s holding onto me as if he might sink to the ground if he lets go. I squeeze back.

  Ben keeps talking. “After Max died–” there. Ben’s voice trembles and one fat teardrop eeks out the corner of my eye. “After Max died, I kept watching the games because it brought me happiness in a time when I was very, very sad. And that’s where the Hope House comes in. My friends started to join me during the games. Then the staff showed up. Even if they weren’t working, they would sit with me and watch. That’s what kind of place the Hope House is. We are a community of people who love and care about each other in our times of need.”

  The shallow breaths I’ve been wheezing begin to return to normal and Dominic’s hand relaxes but still holds mine. The taut grip is a glaring reminder that Dominic’s still hurting, too.

  “Hope House lets me live independently. I learned how to write a resume, interview, and eventually, I landed a job. Every person is treated with respect and dignity. The Hope House staff are there as our guidance counselors and friends. Every day I am thankful for the life I have at the Hope House. So . . . so I want to say thank you for raising money for us. It will help fund our scholarships and all the activities that make the Hope House the greatest place to live.”

  The room erupts with applause and someone whistles. And Ben beams like he’s never been happier in his life. I swear my heart could burst with pride then. Still, my legs tremble when I push to my feet and join Ben at the head of the room. I snake my arm around his shoulders and share a smile with him. His eyes dance with the thrill of his speech.

  “If there aren’t any other questions . . . that’s all we have for you,” I tell the room. The players stand and begin exiting the room with a low rumble of voices. First, Coach Mason comes to Ben and then a few more players. Suddenly, he’s surrounded by Scrapers who want to talk with him. I fade into the background, letting Ben have his moment, and talk to Janet until she declares she has to go to another meeting.

  “That was a moving speech.” Cameron’s drawl sounds right next to my ear and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Yes, I think so, too,” I say quietly.

  “Think he’ll give me the time of day if I go introduce myself?” There’s a teasing note in his tone, but Cameron’s surveying Ben through serious eyes.

  “You’re probably still his favorite player, even though Tomas is a close second.”

  Cameron looks down at me. For a few seconds, I indulge in his undivided attention but not without consequence. Under his surveillance, I droop. A few minutes ago, I nearly burst into tears in the middle of Ben’s speech and yet, as soon as Cameron’s next to me, I’m soothed.

  It’s not right.

  “Excuse me,” I say stiffly. Cameron straightens, nods once, and extends a hand as if to give me permission to walk away from him.

  But the truth is that I’m not walking away from him. I’m sprinting from the reality that this man evokes a response I’d never thought I’d have again.

  For the next few days, the Scrapers are in town and Cameron doesn’t need me to take care of Rocky, except for walks during his games, and I’m thankful. I thrust myself into work and try desperately not to think of him. Because I don’t want my heart rate to pick up when I think of him. I don’t want to daydream about his lips on mine. I don’t want to wonder what would happen if we did kiss.

  Today there’s something more important to think about. At least, for the time being. As he promised, Blake arranged a meeting with his lawyer friend, Harris. I press the buzzer at Blake’s gate, shifting back and forth to try to ward off the frigid air threatening to sneak through my puffy jacket. A sharp buzz unlocks the gate and I scurry across the stone path to the front door. Stella pushes it open a few inches to allow me room to sneak inside without letting too much cold air in.

  “Hiya.”

  “You okay?” That’s Stella for you, always the mother hen.

  “A little bit jangly,” I confess when I shrug off my coat. She takes it to the closet.

  “Jangly?” Stella’s used to my weird use of language, but even she doesn’t always understand what I’m saying.

  “This whole situation is unsettling. Meeting with a lawyer makes things more official.”

  “Violet.” Stella places a flat palm on the top of my back. “You don’t have to do this. There’s no timer ticking somewhere.”

  “I know, I know. This is important to me. I . . . It’s a step, you know?” The pat on my shoulder could be patronizing, but Stella doesn’t have an antagonistic bone in her body. She gets what I’m saying. Presenting this piece of paper that renounces my claim on the Baccino family restaurant is symbolic to overcoming my grief of losing Max. I thought this would be harder, hurt
more, but really, I feel like I’m shedding a layer of unnecessary skin.

  “Come on, then. They’re in the office.”

  Blake’s behind his desk, twirling a tumbler with an amber liquid. There’s a broad guy sitting across from him with dark blond hair cropped close to his head. The anxiety building in my chest lessens when the guy turns around and looks nonthreatening.

  “Violet Harper, Harris Grant. He’s an old friend and a somewhat decent lawyer.”

  Harris scoffs. “Somewhat decent says the guy who trusts me with all his personal business.” He rises to shake my hand. “With that kind of glowing recommendation, no wonder she looks like she’s entering the lion’s den. Don’t worry. This will be painless. I promise.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harris. Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to meet with me,” I say.

  He smiles, though it’s like Blake’s smile. Sharp. All-knowing. I take the seat adjacent to his and place my purse on the ground next to me. There are an iPad and a pad of paper on this side of the desk. Blake’s laptop is closed, his fingers steepled together.

  “Blake’s given me a little bit of the background information. Do you want to tell me what you want to accomplish?”

  “Oh. Just jumping right in then?” I say, a little surprised by his abrupt nature.

  His face gentles. “The faster we can get this unpleasant business over with.”

  “Okay.” I cross my legs. Then uncross them. Shift around till I find a comfortable position on the cushion.

  “Violet, do you want something to drink?” Blake asks kindly.

  “No, I’m good.” I force a tight smile. Now or never. “My late husband’s family owns Baccino’s. It’s a restaurant in Little Italy. There are six cousins, my husband one of them, who have an equal stake in the restaurant. Their fathers opened the place years ago. This is not my restaurant in any capacity. It belongs to the Baccino family. I really don’t know if I even have any legal ownership of the restaurant. Regardless, I want to present some sort of document saying I give Max’s share of the restaurant back to the cousins to their family attorney. Does that make sense?” When I’m nervous or especially excited, I talk fast. The words are coming out one hundred miles per hour.

  “I understand.” Harris lifts the notepad and begins jotting things down.

  “Violet, are you sure about this?” Blake asks for the second time.

  “Absolutely. I’ve thought about this a lot. If Max were still here, I’d love to be part of the restaurant, but he’s not. And I can’t claim something to be mine when it is so clearly not. You know, I have to move on,” I say with a scratchy voice.

  “Okay. I’m not trying to convince you otherwise,” he relents.

  Harris asks me more questions, taking notes. Once he has all the information he needs, he sets his notepad down. “Blake mentioned you are starting your own business.”

  “Yes, it’s an event planning service called Expertly Planned. I’ve been doing my homework to start a small business, but I could use a little legal expertise to make sure I’m not breaking any laws or evading taxes or something,” I explain.

  Shifting in his seat, Harris pulls a black leather wallet from his pocket. He takes a card from the folds and hands it to me. “Why don’t you compile what you have and email it over? Either I’ll look at or my right-hand man, Luke, can.”

  I slip the card into my purse. “Thank you, Harris. And you too, Blake. Opening my own event service is a dream come true.” A new dream, but something I’m striving for nonetheless. “I’m grateful for your time; I know you’re both very busy.”

  “Come on, Violet. It’s nothing,” Blake says. Stella’s told me time and time again that he doesn’t take praise well.

  “Still, this means a lot to me. More than a lot. It means achieving goals I’ve set out for my life. I’m grateful.”

  Glancing down at my watch, I realize it’s getting close to the time I need to walk Rocky. As I rise, both men stand, too. Blake hugs me in his brotherly way and Harris shakes my hand. I leave the office and make my way into the living room, with the men walking behind me.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  I pause. Surely, that question wasn’t directed at me.

  To my dismay, Dominic’s standing in the living room with Stella, eyes narrowed suspiciously at me when I leave the office. “I was meeting with Blake and Harris,” I say slowly. “What’s the matter, Dom?”

  “You were ‘meeting’ with a lawyer and Blake. Tell me, Violet, does this have anything to do with my brother’s financial assets?”

  Heat starts building inside me. A hot poker of fury makes me stand ramrod straight. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours.”

  “What’s going on out here?” Blake’s voice is behind me, but I don’t need him backing me up.

  “Violet’s the one sneaking around. Tell us, V, are you trying to get your hands on our family business? Or is it something else? You use up my brother’s life insurance money already?”

  “You asshole,” I hiss the word, not caring I’m breaking a twenty-seven-year expletive free life.

  At the same time, Stella gasps.

  I stalk across the room, toe-to-toe with Dominic. Normally I’d see a glimmer of the man I once dedicated my life to. Fury taints my vision now.

  “I know, Dominic,” I say sharply.

  “Know what?” He scoffs. “You’re the one hiding things from the family.”

  “You’ve never liked me. From day one, you thought I wasn’t a good match for Max. And you were never afraid to tell him. Was it his bachelor party when you told tried to convince him not to marry me? No, that’s right. It was the night before we got married.” My voice trembles with rage and my hands clench into tight fists at my side. I don’t let him get a word in before barreling forward. “Don’t try to deny it. Max knew as well as I that you loathed me. Now that he’s gone, all of your interest in my life is bogus.”

  “Violet—” Dominic has the grace to look contrite, but I’m way past caring at this point. I’m saying things out loud that I’ve tried to avoid even thinking about since Max died. But it’s like spilling nail polish. Once the varnish slips out of the bottle, there’s no way you’re getting it back in.

  “On our wedding day, Max asked Blake to look after me in case anything ever happened to him. Tell me, why would he ask his cousin’s boyfriend instead of his own twin brother? Because you despise me. I get it. Do me a favor and stay out my business.”

  I whirl around then, nearly running toward the entryway. Stella follows me, calling my name. “Please,” I whisper. “Just let me go.” She chews her lower lip nervously then nods and grabs my things from the closet.

  “Call me.” It’s a plea. Stella never pushes too hard.

  “I will,” I vow.

  Later.

  Running’s become my new thing, apparently. I dash out to my car, telling myself that the tears are from allergies.

  In the dead of winter.

  Right.

  Cameron

  Restlessness chased me all week. After Violet’s chilly reception at the Scrapers meeting, I’ve wondered if I played this all wrong. Hell, I wonder if I’m playing my whole life wrong. It’s not like me to second-guess myself or even be dramatic, for that matter. Apparently, I’ve been in the reflective mood lately. Outside of hockey, what do I have to show for my life? No woman. No major contributions to the community around me. Violet, in the face of blinding adversity, finds every opportunity she can to draw service into her job. It’s inspiring.

  And still I can’t make her mine.

  With a frown, I push inside my house. The Scrapers won tonight. There’s that, if nothing else. Rocky doesn’t greet me at the back door to my surprise. I don’t hear him puttering around at all and it concerns me. I drop my bag and wander through the house, cursing myself for not going out with the guys to the bar tonight. I could use a drink.

  What the . . .

  All the second tho
ughts disappear in an instant.

  Violet lies on her side on the sofa. The television is on (the channel our game was broadcasted on, I note smugly). Rocky’s nuzzled up against Violet, and when he hears me enter the room, he lazily opens his eyes and shoots me a death glare for bothering them. I hold up my hands as if to acquiesce and quietly walk over to them. On my haunches, I notice that her cheeks are tear stained and there are dark circles marring her cheeks. As if drawn by a magnet, I lift my hand to the silky skin, skimming my thumb along the length of her cheekbone. This is right. Deep down, I know more than I’ve ever known anything, this is where Violet should be. With me.

  At my touch, her lids flutter open. She blinks a few times, looking adorably befuddled.

  “Oh! Cameron. I’m so sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Rocky and I were just going to watch the first period together and then . . .” She stammers and tries to sit up. But I won’t have anything of it. I catch her upper arm with one hand and murmur a soothing noise.

  “It’s okay. You’re always welcome here.” Her shoulders slump a little, and then she relaxes back on her side. My dog, the lucky bastard, snuggles his face against her collarbone. “Did something happen?” I ask carefully, not wanting to spook her.

  “I—yes.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I push off my feet to move so that I’m sitting next to her feet. I grab the remote and turn the TV off to show she has my complete attention.

  She pushes herself up into a sitting position, shifting Rocky into her lap. “No, I think I’d rather continue smothering your dog.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind. How about a drink?” I tug open the fridge and grab myself a beer.

  “I’ll take one. Please.”

  I drop onto the cushion next to Violet, extending her beer. She accepts the long-necked bottle without looking at me. She studies Rocky, his gentle snores the only sound in the room. “Did you win?”

  Leaning back into the sofa, I stretch my arm out along the length. My fingertips are dangerously close to playing with her silky strands of hair. “Come on. Are you really asking that?”