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His opposite hand rises between us, and he crooks his index finger. A silent order to move closer. I feel my heart rattle around in my chest as I lean in like a total sucker. Like a moth to a flame. I expect him to congratulate me. What I don’t expect is for him to send me reeling into past mistakes. “Nice to see you again, Pretty in Purple. I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
Except today she cackles, all raspy and amused, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and whispers conspiratorially, “Have you run into the girl yet?” “What girl?” I’m intentionally playing stupid. She laughs again. “The one you can’t stop talking about.”
I hate myself for even going there. But I keep my eyes trained on them, because it’s less unnerving than looking him in those soulful eyes. Silvery pools, deep and haunted and swirling with so much. The ones full of anger, and pain, and sorrow. Those are a much bigger problem for me. And for my heart.
I’ve never really had the chance to admire him up close. And I am admiring him, because he’s flipping hot. The kind of man who has been—as they say—designed by women. Rugged and harsh, masculine to his core. He looks like he could manhandle the hell out of a girl. A thought that makes my pulse race.
“There are certain flaws I’m willing to overlook for a man like that.”
“I heard nothing!” he calls back a little too brightly as he heads upstairs. “And even if I did, I’m all for women taking charge of their sexuality!”
Life courses through her so vividly and almost tangibly—like I could reach out and touch it, bottle it up and drink it, or just keep it. Possess it, knowing I have the option to consume it whenever I want. Money can’t buy this brand of vitality. This is bone deep—soul deep. She shines like the sun, golden and bright. What a man like me wouldn’t give for that.
“I don’t think so.” Eyes on me, even appreciative ones, have a way of making me squirm. I’m terrified that if someone looks too close, they’ll see what I’m hiding. You’re half the man you were when you left. That’s what Hilary said to me that night. That’s the sentence that’s stuck with me, that’s made me want to hide myself away.
But I’m tired of nice. What I really want is for someone to manhandle me. Cross that consuming type of lust off my bucket list.
I’m met with Billie standing on the front porch with her palms cupping her eyes like blinders. “What are you doing?” “Open the door, Pornstar Patty.” “Ugh.” I groan and tip my head back. “It was one picture. One time!”
I should tell her she’s so much more. The thing that got me out of bed most mornings. My bright spot. My sunshine.
“Violet.” “Yeah?” My voice is weak, breathy. Cole leans closer, inhaling deeply, as his mouth hovers near my throat. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.”
Life is messy,
“Hop on over when you’re ready.” And then I leave him. Big tough Mr. I-Sleep-Outside needs my help? I scoff to myself as I crawl into the dark lean-to, leaves crunching underneath me as I come to sit.
“You are not weak, Cole. I said you were one of the strongest men I know, and I meant it. Your leg doesn’t matter to me, and if it matters to anyone else, fuck them. They suck.”
Yeah, I’m royally fucked. Because not only do I want to rip all her clothes off and use her body in every way imaginable, I want to cook her breakfast after, make sure she takes her vitamins and works out. I want to take care of her body once I’m finished desecrating it.
“You’re not broken. You’re perfect. And I’m a shitty fucking patchwork quilt. I’ve spent years picking up the tattered pieces of myself, every life event, every heartbreak, and slowly stitched it all back together. But I’m not good at sewing, Violet.”
“Evening the playing field. You need to know what this is between us? It’s fucking everything.”
“Would it shock you to know I’ve closed my eyes and imagined being fucked by you for two whole years? You’re my go-to fantasy, Cole.” “Violet.” She’s not dissuaded. Another step forward. “With my hands. With my toy. With other m—” “Violet,” I bite out. “I don’t want to hear about that.” “Jealous?”
“Cole. It’s a Sunday.” “I had sex.” That should change her attitude. The speakers are quiet for a few beats. “Real sex? Or internet sex?” Why does everyone keep calling it that? “Real sex.” She lets out a long whistle. “How was it?” “Jesus Christ, Trixie. Is that something therapists ask their patients?” “Ha! I don’t see why not. If you’re going to call me on a Sunday like I’m a guy friend, then I might as well ask the same questions someone like that might.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m just glad people will stop talking about my cabin being the love shack now. See you up at the barn, Pornstar Patty!”
“Maybe you’re not new. Maybe you’re just growing. Nobody stays the same. New goals, new experiences . . . they’re all building blocks that put a person together. Constantly shifting.”
“When I first met you,” she says, “I thought you were like Drew Barrymore in that movie, Never Been Kissed. Virginal and awkward, but you’re more like a secret freak. I respect the hell outta that. Channel that girl, and go make G.I. Joe pull his head out of his ass so I won’t have to keep avoiding the offices when I know he’s there.”
“I know you see yourself as dark. But you aren’t. You’re swirling color, all different shades, a mosaic. You’re complicated and beautiful. And I’m not quitting on you, so you better not quit on me.”
She’s like sunshine on my face. Warm and bright. I feel like I’ve been living in the shade, in a dark corner, and rather than dragging me kicking and screaming out of it—like so many people have tried to—she’s just shifted over a little bit to share her light.”
“But light is tricky. It slips through your fingers. It’s fleeting. It comes and goes. We never get to possess it; you can’t hold it in your hand. We just get to enjoy it. And if you can figure out a way to just let go and enjoy it, well, Cole, you’ll be one of the lucky ones.”
