by Noir, Roxie
“It’s working out about as well as law school and moving to New York seems like it has for you,” I say.
She heaves the pot onto the drainboard, obviously pissed, and reaches for the last one. The ball of duct tape is clenched in my fist, bits sticking between my fingers, but I can’t unclench.
“I’m not the one who swore on his father’s grave that he’d leave Sprucevale forever if it took every cent he made,” she says, her back still to me, her voice placid with forced calm.
Something tightens in my chest. I clench the duct tape harder, knuckles starting to ache. I still feel bad about that particular oath, even though it was fifteen years ago.
I feel worse that Violet remembers it.
“What do you say to a man to make him leave in the middle of a date?” I ask, leaning against the door frame, pretending to be casual despite my death grip on the duct tape.
She doesn’t answer me. I snap my fingers like I’ve just remembered something.
“Did he order the wrong wine, so you called him a backwoods pigfucker who could barely add two and two?” I ask.
Violet ignores that, but I can see the muscles in her back tighten. I’m clenching the duct tape so hard my hand is shaking.
“Or maybe you told everyone on the debate team that you’d seen him drinking beers in the 7-11 parking lot with his brother so they would vote for you to be captain instead,” I go on.
“No, and I also never told him that the reason he got into college was a cute face and a trailer trash sob story,” she snaps back.
I ignore her.
“Or, you told him that he’d always be a moron who couldn’t tell Togo from Trinidad when you won the geography bee the day after his father died?”
There’s a savage delight in this. I know there shouldn’t be, but there is.
I’m enjoying seeing Violet Tulane, legendary know-it-all and the bane of my existence from ages five to eighteen, knocked down a peg or two.
Violet dumps the pot out violently, splashing water far enough that some gets on me, five feet behind her.
“I didn’t know he’d died when I said that,” she gets out between her teeth.
“And it’s such a lovely thing to say otherwise.”
“Fuck off, Eli.”
“No, thanks.”
“Great,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Glad I can entertain the guy who spread the rumor that he saw me making out with a golden retriever. Was being eighth grade class president worth it?”
“Hell yes,” I say, because honestly? It was.
She slams the huge pot upside-down on the sideboard, precariously stacked next to all the other pots, and whips the yellow rubber gloves off.
“Wonderful to see you again, Eli,” she says, already walking for the back door. “I had a super nice time chatting. Bye!”
Violet disappears. Seconds pass. The door slams. I’m vibrating with unreleased tension and the force of acting casual about this.
Slowly, I unclench my fist full of duct tape. There are red lines criss-crossing my palm.
It takes about twenty seconds before I feel bad about riling her up. I’m nearly thirty. I’m grown. I know better.
But I never could help riling up Violet Tulane. I never could help holding it over her head when I was in a better position than her.
We tortured each other growing up. Sprucevale’s a tiny town with one elementary school, one middle school, and one high school, so for thirteen years she was omnipresent.
She always had to be the very best at anything, and woe to anyone who stood in her way — usually, me. She was mean. She was petty. She was a bossy know-it-all who treated everyone like they were morons, and she always seemed to get what she wanted.
I had no idea she was still in Sprucevale. I have no idea why she’s still here.
I had no idea that she turned into a gorgeous, sexy-as-fuck bombshell.
I’d assumed she was gone, probably doing some big important pain-in-the-ass job in a city somewhere — D.C., New York, Philadelphia. I didn’t care where she was, so long as I wasn’t there.
After a minute, I follow her out the door and toss the duct tape and defunct torch into the dumpster. I don’t see her. Good.
I head back into the kitchen, grab the propane canister, and leave it on the counter along with a note. There, now it’s someone else’s problem.
Then I exit through the side door, slipping out into the night and the quiet parking lot.
It’s Violet-free.
Perfect.
Chapter Three
Violet
I don’t make it five feet outside before I tear my shoes off.
After standing in heels for five hours, lifting heavy pot after heavy pot, the cool asphalt feels like pure heaven on my toes. This parking lot could be a chewing gum, broken glass, and cigarette swamp and it still would be heaven.
I walk around the side of the building, pull out my phone, and hit the button.
Nothing.
I hit the button again.
You have to be kidding me.
Of course my phone is dead. Of course. That’s the day I’m having, obviously: bad date, Eli, repentant dishwashing, Eli, no ride, stupid Eli, dead phone.
Fine. That’s fine. I’m prepared, and I reach into my purse and fish for my backup battery, which I keep for exactly this scenario.
As I fish, Eli’s face appears like it’s etched on the insides of my eyelids. A tiny dark tornado erupts in the pit of my stomach.
Don’t let him get to you.
Don’t do it.
God, I didn’t even know he was back. The Sprucevale gossip machine hasn’t said a peep about Eli Loveless’s return, and the gossip machine normally has a lot to say about the Loveless boys.
I haven’t seen him since we graduated high school. I knew he went to college. There was a rumor he dropped out, but I never knew whether that was true, and by then, my mom was sick and I was too busy to find out.
Besides, I was happy enough to lose track of him because Eli Loveless is an infuriating, cocky, competitive asshole who would stop at literally nothing to one-up me my whole life and oh my God, where the hell is my phone battery?
My empty hand hits the bottom of my purse for the second time that night.
This can’t be happening.
In desperation, I rifle through everything in my purse one last time. My formerly-cute sundress is sticking to my back. There’s sweat trickling down my butt crack, and it’s grossing me out. I’m tired and angry with Todd and angry with myself and somehow, angriest of all at Eli Loveless for existing at the worst possible time.
“Fucking Eli,” I mutter to myself.
It does make me feel a little better.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I drop my stupid purse to the stupid ground, and lean my head back against the brick wall. It’s after midnight and I’ve got no money, no phone, and no ride.
I’ll just walk, I think.
It’s warm enough. The town’s safe enough and small enough. Home is close enough — Four, maybe four and a half miles.
Besides, I’d rather walk than hitchhike. Even if my phone was working, Adeline’s at work with her phone off. The cab company here has one driver and he’s probably drunk right now. This place is way too podunk for a ridesharing app.
I toss my shoes into my purse. I spent every childhood summer running barefoot on gravel. I’ll be fine. It’ll be an adventure.
I take off along Main Street, heading south.
Downtown Grotonsville is quiet, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlights and the lights of McMahon’s about a block away, but even that is pretty quiet right now.
I walk one block, then two. Grotonsville is even smaller than Sprucevale, the town where I actually live, so I’m already close to the edge of it.
I start to relax a little. It’s a nice night. The stars are out. The two traffic lights on main street change from green to yellow to red and back in a soot
hing, predictable rhythm.
And I do not think about Eli. Not even a little.
I don’t think about the fact that his stupid smirk is actually hot as hell, about the fact that I want to shut him up by putting his mouth to better use, or the fact that his thick, ropy arms make me want to climb him like a tree.
Of all the people to turn out hot, I think, stomping along the midnight sidewalk. I’d rather it were literally anyone else.
I’m so focused on being irritated at Eli that I don’t hear the engine until it’s right behind me, and then all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my sense instantly whipping into sharp relief.
It’s loud and guttural and someone’s revving it.
Has anything good ever come of loud, revving engines at midnight?
I steel myself, fighting the adrenaline rush and glance over my shoulder. There’s a huge pickup truck about a block away, and it’s got at least four people jammed into the cab and a couple more riding in the bed.
Don’t look scared, I tell myself as a vortex forms in my stomach. They’re probably just gonna shout at you and looking scared will only make it worse.
They’re drunk, hooting and hollering to raise the dead. They’re likely coming back from McMahon’s, the only place besides Le Faisan Rouge that’s open this time of night.
I steer my steps closer to the buildings. I stand up straighter and I act like I’m not scared.
I am.
The truck comes closer. I glance over my shoulder at it, hoping for nonchalant instead of lonely victim.
I’m practically hugging the closed cafe to my left when the truck comes up alongside me and slows.
“Whachu doin’ out here alone like this?” a voice says. “Come on, get in.”
“I’m fine,” I say, still walking. I’m scanning for exits, somewhere that I could go that the truck couldn’t follow, my heart pounding.
“Shit, she ain’t even got shoes on,” one of them says to another. I still don’t look over. “She done got kicked out with no shoes!”
I can smell the alcohol from here, and I scan the buildings faster, looking for any route of brief escape. I see it: up ahead, there’s a narrow passage between two buildings, too narrow for the truck.
“We can give you a ride if you want,” says the first voice.
Drunk men laugh.
“A real good ride,” he goes on. More laughter. I don’t look over.
Then: “Come on, sweetheart.”
“Where you walkin’ barefoot, anyway?”
“Awful late to be out here alone.”
I walk. I don’t look over. I pretend I’m alone, even though I’m trembling, knowing how badly this could end.
I can’t believe I thought this was an okay idea.
“Come on. Come on. Come on, I know you like this.”
I glance over. I don’t even mean to, I just do.
One of them has his dick out. The other three are laughing hysterically, slouched around the bed of the truck as the first guy waves his dick back and forth.
My heartbeat skyrockets, but I force my eyes forward again. I want to run but I don’t. I can’t show any sign of fear.
“Fuck off,” I call.
More laughter. They holler something I can’t even make out, and then the engine throttles. It might be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, because a moment later the truck is pulling away, down Main Street, blatantly running a red light.
“Bitch!” I hear one last, high-pitched yelp.
Then, sweet silence.
I stop. I take a deep breath, eyes closed, and get a hold of myself. I lean against a brick wall until I stop shaking and I can trust myself not to cry.
The hell was I thinking, a woman walking alone at night?
New plan: go back. McMahon’s, the sports bar, is at the other end of town but it’s still open, and I’m going to walk there, ask to use their phone, and call everyone I know until someone comes and gives me a ride home. Screw politeness. I don’t give a damn who I wake up.
Before I can turn my steps, I hear the engine behind me again.
Every muscle in my body tenses. The gap between the buildings is still up there, too small for a vehicle, and it probably connects to the alley behind this buildings where I can lose them.
The engine growls behind me, closer, the rednecks silent this time.
I run.
“Violet!” Eli’s voice shouts.
I stop, whirl around, and there he is. He’s driving an ancient Ford Bronco, the windows rolled down.
It might be the first time in my life I’ve been glad to see Eli Loveless. He rolls up until he’s beside me, leaning over the passenger side
“Get in,” he says.
“With you?” I ask.
My heart’s still pounding. My hands are still shaking, even though I’ve got one clenched around the strap of my purse, and even though I’m fully prepared to walk to a bar and call everyone I know for the next hour, I don’t want to show Eli any signs of weakness.
We lock eyes. He just gives me a look.
“You’re walking barefoot along main street at midnight with no shoes on like some redneck hooker because your night’s going well?”
I ignore redneck hooker and take a step toward the Bronco. My face barely comes up to the bottom of the window.
“Just get in,” he says.
“I know better than to get into cars with strange men at all hours of night.”
“Good thing it’s just me, then.”
“You’re plenty strange.”
“And you’re plenty stubborn. Get the hell in the car, Violet, you really think I’m gonna let you walk home alone at this hour? You’re not even wearing shoes.”
I clench my jaw and look away, down Main Street. He’s right and I know it, but Lord I hate admitting it.
“You know if you don’t get in, I’m still gonna follow you going two miles per hour because I can’t have your murder on my conscience, right?” he says.
I glare at Eli. He glares back. Handsomely, the most irritating way for him to glare.
Then I jerk the passenger door open and climb into the cab.
“Thank you,” he says, just a hint of humor in his voice as I buckle my seat belt.
His truck smells like like grease, leather, and old car. He wrestles the gear shift back into drive and glances over at me, the flicker of a smile on his face.
I feel that flutter in the pit of my stomach, ignore it, and double-check my seatbelt.
“This thing street legal?” I ask, looking around the inside of the car, because I really need to look at something besides him.
“Near enough,” he says, shifting back into drive with a clunk and a faint grinding noise. “Why, you worried about a few bumps?”
“If I lift up this floor mat, am I gonna be able to see straight through to the street?”
The Bronco shudders forward. From the corner of my eye, I see Eli smile. It twists my stomach again. I keep ignoring it.
“Sorry, the clutch sticks sometimes,” he says. “Actually, the clutch sticks all the time. Don’t touch that mat.”
I don’t touch the floor mat. For a few minutes we drive in silence, and I stare ahead through the windshield. There’s a long crack running half the length of it, about an inch above the dashboard, and I entertain myself by wondering what caused it.
You’re both adults, I tell myself. It’s been ages since you’ve seen each other. There’s no earthly reason that Eli should still get on your nerves like he used to. I’m sure he’s changed. You’ve both changed.
The window’s down and I lean into the wind, because my face is too hot. My whole body is too hot, the air in this ancient Bronco humming, vibrating. He shifts gears again and I try not to notice that he’s got rugged hands, scars across the back, the muscles in his forearm flexing in a way that makes me cross my ankles
“Where am I taking you?” he asks, his deep voice harmonizing with the throaty growl of the engine.
/> Oh, God.
I clear my throat.
“Same place, actually,” I say, forcing my nerves back down. I don’t look at his reaction.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Oh,” he finally says.
“It’s a right turn onto White Oak in about a mile and then a left at the sign,” I say.
I tense, despite myself.
Say it. Say it, I dare you.
He doesn’t say a thing. We drive out of town, his headlights swiping across tree trunks like a barcode in the forest.
“How’s your mom?” he finally asks.
I glance over, but he looks sincere. Serious. I swallow.
“Gone,” I say.
He looks over at me for a second, taking his eyes off the road.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know.”
There’s a raw note in his voice I don’t recognize, and my heart twists in my chest.
“Thanks,” I finally say. “It’s been a couple years.”
“What happened?”
“Lung cancer.”
I leave it at that. There’s more to it than she’s gone, lung cancer, but I still don’t know how to tell it. I don’t know if I ever will, but right now I sure haven’t figured out how to say now I just want another day with the mother I spent so much time resenting or sometimes I wished it would kill her faster and I still can’t forgive myself or I don’t know if I’ll ever stop blaming her.
“That’s a hard way to go,” he says.
“It was,” I say.
We’re quiet for a long time. What do you say after that?
“How are your brothers?” I finally ask, just to change the subject.
“Mostly staying out of trouble,” he says, making the right turn onto White Oak, trees flashing in his headlights. He sounds relieved.
“Mostly?”
“Mostly’s about all you can ask for,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Besides, I imagine you know better than I do.”
He’s probably right. The five Loveless boys are beloved by the Sprucevale rumor mill, who have deemed them simultaneously handsome, eligible, and unsuitable.