Violet’s hand trembled as she extended it to the elegant older woman standing in front of her. Without the weight of Shep’s comforting arm around her shoulder, she felt small and intimidated facing his mother, not to mention incredibly embarrassed to be caught kissing Zach.

“Why, Violet, dear, we’ve come for some leaf peeping this year. We never open the house in the fall, but Shep Senior said we should, so there it is.”

Violet smiled politely. Mrs. Smalley’s eyes were the same clear blue as Shep’s, and it made Violet’s chest constrict with genuine grief and regret. If Mariah Smalley noticed the hitch in Violet’s breathing, she didn’t let on. She flicked her eyes to Zach, arching her eyebrows.

“I couldn’t be more surprised to see you here.” She gave Zach a full once-over, then looked back to Violet.

“Oh, um, yes, this is an old, I mean—”

“Zachariah Aubrey. Violet and I went to Yale together.” He put out his hand, and Violet’s stomach flipped over when she noticed his rings, one with a large skull that had ruby eyes, and another that looked like a black metal serpent. As he extended his arm, his sleeve shifted up a little too, showing a good portion of his tattooed arm under his seen-better-days Iron Maiden T-shirt.

“Mariah Smalley,” said Shep’s mother, her nose pinched in distaste as she looked at Zach’s arm then back to his face. She took his hand and shook it quickly before pulling away and taking a step back from him. “You say you went to Yale?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So did my son,” she said, offering an approximation of a smile that made Violet cringe. She knew the one—it had been offered to her often enough. “You’re very . . . colorful. I guess you must be talented? At something or other.”

He laughed lightly (or was it a snort?) through his nose. “I guess I must be. I’m a songwriter.”

“Oh! A musician!” She smiled benevolently now, as she would at an infant or an idiot. “Well, that explains it.”

She turned back to Violet. “Are you and Mr. —” Her eyes darted to Zach.

“Aubrey,” he supplied, terse.

“—Aubrey a pair, Violet?”

“No,” said Violet.

“Yes,” said Zach.

At the same time.

Violet gave Zach a look and was startled to see his face flushed. I’ve hurt him. She almost reached out to him, but instead she looked back at Mariah Smalley, who smiled thinly, looking amused.

“Still some kinks in the works, I think.”

Violet swallowed nervously, composing herself, taking two steps away from Zach, toward Mrs. Smalley. “Mrs. Smalley, I think of Shep all the time. I wish—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Smalley, stepping back from Violet and smiling at the floor. “Does no good to dwell, of course. What’s done is done.”

“I miss him.”

Mrs. Smalley’s eyes narrowed briefly before she managed a tight smile. “Well, it seems you’ve found someone infinitely more suited to you, dear. How clever of you, really, to find another Yale man.” She glanced derisively at Zach again, indicating he was anything but the sort of man of whom she approved. “Ah! I see the Thompsons are here. You’ll excuse me, of course, dear. Mr. Aubrey, nice to . . .”

She gestured awkwardly with her perfectly manicured hands.

“Of course,” whispered Violet, leaning forward to hug the older woman good-bye, only to be smacked lightly in the face with the trail of her silk scarf as she pivoted, hurrying away to greet her friends.

Violet stared after Mrs. Smalley in stunned silence, her fingers cold and still, her palms suspended facing up in front of her, waiting for a hug that was not forthcoming. She finally lowered them to her sides.

The last time she’d seen Mrs. Smalley was at Shep’s funeral fourteen months ago. She hadn’t seen or heard from the Smalleys since, but she was suddenly flooded with memories of her years with Shep, attending various events with his family, vacationing for a week every summer in Bar Harbor and staying in the small guest cottage adjacent to the Smalley mansion. Mariah Smalley had never fully accepted Violet into her inner circle, referring to her as “Shep’s friend” until the very end. She wondered if she’d still have been “Shep’s friend” if they’d actually gotten engaged.

She asked Shep once what it was about her that his mother objected to, and he laughed and said, “Oh, the old girl’s just a big snob.” Violet had taken this to mean that the daughter of a divorced nurse from Portland wasn’t good enough for Mariah Smalley’s boy. Didn’t matter that she’d gotten into Yale. Didn’t matter that she’d changed her clothes and hairstyle to better assimilate into Shep’s world, in an effort to please him and his mother. She’d overheard Mrs. Smalley once ask her husband, years into Violet’s relationship with Shep, “Why in the world can’t Shep find someone appropriate? It’s not that I dislike her, per se. But must he settle for some artsy little urchin from nowhere? Really, now. We all know ‘writing her novel’ is code for living off Shep’s trust fund.” That had told Violet all she needed to know—she’d never be accepted by the Smalleys. Not that it had kept her from trying her best.

Zach’s narrowed eyes followed Mariah Smalley to the front of the restaurant where she greeted her friends.

“Wow,” he said. “That was fucking unpleasant. Not every day someone calls me trash, in so many words. Talented trash, but . . . Talented, right? That’s the word she used? Oh, and since I’m so well suited for you, apparently she thinks you’re trash, too. And you know my favorite part? Your sweet little sellout. Apparently, we’re not together, according to you, which is weird because I’m pretty sure that was you flat on your back in my bed this afternoon. Remember that, baby?”

The way he called her baby felt dirty, and tears sprang into her eyes as he regarded her with ice and fury. “Zach . . .”

He held up a hand to stop her, exhaling from his nose, and it reminded her of a bull on a wintery morning. She almost saw the steam.

“Is she the sort of person you’ve been spending the last decade of your life with? Sincerely, Violet? I don’t know who to be angrier with—her for saying those things or you for taking it and just about asking for seconds.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Actually, I was standing here, and I was smart enough to get into Yale, even though they let in all kinds of riffraff. I think I understand.”

“That’s just how she is.”

“Obviously.”

“She was really upset when Shep—”

“No. No, that’s not fair, and it’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about her as a mother who lost her son. That’s terrible, and she has my sympathy for that.” The unflinching steel of anger in his eyes made his rocker persona even more intimidating. “She just took you down, Violet. She leveled you. Just stood there and disrespected you and me, and you were totally fine with it. You were about to hug her good-bye, for chrissake! You going to tell me that she didn’t do that when you and Shep were together? He let her treat you like that, didn’t he?”

Violet thought of Shep’s heavy, warm arm around her, the way he’d squeeze her shoulder when his mother started up with her suggestions and criticisms. It was true. Zach was right. Shep had rarely stepped in to defend her, preferring to let his mother say whatever she wanted to, and comforting Violet later instead. He had avoided conflict with his family, even when it was at Violet’s expense. Violet tried to remember one instance when he told his mother to back off or shut up, and she came up dry.

She wiped away the tears in her eyes. Once again, she was faced with revisionist history, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like what Zach was implying—that Shep, who’d been so bright and shiny, may not have loved her as much as she wanted to believe. She didn’t want to change her memories of him. She owed him more than that.

Zach’s knuckle brushed the underside of her chin gently, tilting her face back up, and she was surprised by the tenderness there after he’d been so angry a moment before. “Hey.”

She swallowed, trying to control the downward curve of her lips from dropping into a full-blown, trembly frown.

“You wanna get out of here?”
She nodded, looking away from him as her eyes filled again. He took her hand and pulled her out a side door, into an old-fashioned garden, likely left over from colonial times. There was a white-pebbled path that led around the back of the old tavern, and Zach tugged her hand gently, leading her down the dimly lit path until they found a moss-covered bench looking out at a river. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his strong, warm, muscular arms around her. And Violet, whose carefully bland life was feeling more and more out of control, buried her face in his neck and wept.

***

Zach knew he’d been hard on her in the restaurant, but what the fuck? Seriously. What. The. Fuck? These are the people with whom Violet had spent the last nine years of her life? Had Shep ever stood up to his parents? Had he ever defended her? Because that woman had afforded her no respect. Zero. And it made Zach’s blood boil.

Violet didn’t deserve to be treated like anyone’s whipping girl, and that rich old bitch had made her cry. And not that he really gave two shits, but he wasn’t crazy about the way she’d looked him up and down either, like he wasn’t fit to touch the hem of her garment, let alone her hand in greeting. Why? Because he wasn’t conservative enough for the high-and-mighty Smalleys?

Fuck them. They don’t matter.

Concentrate on her. Because she does matter.

Violet sniffled, and he tightened his grip around her. He ran his hands up and down her back as she cried. “It’s okay, Vile. It’s okay,” he whispered, losing any respect he’d once had for Shep Smalley by the second. No wonder she’d changed so much in her appearance, gotten so skinny and preppy and conservative. She was probably trying to live up to some image of perfection perpetuated by the Smalleys.

Zach had been honest when he told her that Me and Then You was a good book. It was. Good. But for anyone who had known that insane, visceral Violet of nineteen? It was fluffy. Safe. Superficial. Entertaining and good, but not great. It merely tapped the surface of her potential without showing the rolling, undulating, fire underneath that had, once upon a time, singed her words on his soul.

My spot. It belongs to me.

He sighed as her sobs dwindled and her breathing returned to normal. She laid her cheek on his shoulder. He slipped his hands under her blouse, resting them on the warm skin of her lower back.

Had he been the unintentional catalyst for Violet backing away from life? Had she taken a chance on him only to be pushed away, only to be pushed into Shep’s milquetoast, unspectacular arms? It hurt his heart to think that she’d stopped taking risks, buried her sharp, saturated vibrancy away. It made him wonder if the person who’d made it run for cover could possibly coax it out again.

“Violet,” he whispered into her ear.

“Mmm?”

“You okay?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You want to talk about it?”

He felt her shake her head against his shoulder. “Nope.”

“You want to go write a song about it?”

She leaned back, and he looked at her face in the moonlight: red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, puffy lips. He bit back a groan as he remembered that he had no more condoms and wondered how totally insensitive it would be to make a pit stop on the way home. There was no fucking way he was making it until morning without having her again.

She bit her top lip and flattened her hands on his chest. “You were serious about that?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said.

“I haven’t written poetry in a long time.”

“Really? I could have sworn you wrote me a poem at the bar twenty minutes ago.”

Her smile widened a little, and it made his heart happy.

“Good poetry,” she said.

“The one you told me today, ‘My Spot.’ We could start with that.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. That one’s really—”

“Awesome? Amazing? Heartbreaking?”

“I was going to say personal.”

Too personal. Just as he had suspected, she was scared to put herself out there, to really put something genuine and intimate and instinctive out there. Once again he wondered if it had been he who’d crushed her spirit. Or the Smalleys? He hoped, with every fiber of his being, that it hadn’t been him, but his gut throbbed with the truth. His thoughtless response to her sharing her feelings had changed her – made her cautious and frightened where thumping, throbbing, painful, exquisite life had once flourished.

“Personal’s good, Vile. Personal’s what we need. It’s what people want to hear. Something personal. Something real. Something beautiful.”

“You thought that poem was beautiful?”

He was shocked by the incredulity in her voice. Her brows creased like she wasn’t sure if she believed him.

“I think that poem was the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in nine years, Violet-like-the-flower.” He drew her hand to his face, touching her finger to the little mole under his eye. “And I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. In my whole life.”

“How is this happening?” she murmured.

“You and me?”

“You and me. Again.”

“Fate.”

“Maybe.”

She searched his eyes, then tilted her head, moving forward to touch her lips to his. His hands tensed on her skin, sliding up her back, thumbs stroking the underside of her breasts as she nipped lightly at his lips before slipping her tongue into his mouth. She tasted like wine and tears and Violet, like second chances and old feelings and new feelings and sad endings and hopeful beginnings. His thumbs kneaded the silky, warm skin under the seam of her bra as he sucked on her tongue, and she leaned her body closer to his. Her hands wound through his hair, and his thumbs reached up, dusting lightly over her lace-covered nipples, which beaded for him, making him groan into her mouth. She drew back, breathing heavily.

“I don’t know how many songs we’re going to be able to write,” she said, resting her forehead against his.

“We’ll write them in bed,” he sighed, his voice deep, his body rigid with need. “Before and after.”

She sniffled one last time then leaned back, grinning at him.

He wasn’t lying. She was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. In his whole life. And he had it so bad for her, it should have scared him. It should have scared him because Violet wasn’t a sure thing. Because she could still walk away from him. Because, based on their history, she probably would.

She slipped off his lap, and then, as though she’d felt the fierce tremor of protestation at the loss of her warmth on his lap, she took his hands in hers. She pulled him up off the bench, toward the car. Zach had two thoughts as she looked back and smiled at him with those puffy eyes and red, swollen lips.

The first was this: if he did nothing else over the next two weeks, even if she walked away from him in the end, he would do this one, crucial thing—he would help Violet remember who she was and help her own it again.

The second was this: there were a hundred good reasons to stop by a gas station at eight o’clock at night. He had only one that mattered, and he wasn’t going home empty-handed.