TWENTY-ONE
Violet
I stare at the pomegranate-scented bubbles of my dish soap while I wash out my insulated coffee mugs collected from my desk at school. I think I’ve already washed this one, but I can’t be sure.
Guilt. I believe that’s what I’m supposed to call the gnawing, piercing pain in my chest every time I think about how many chances I’ve had to tell Cullen the whole story about my past but have misdirected him, changed the subject, or flat out lied instead.
“The arrangements were done…They were; it was fast…” Bullshit.
I had an opportunity right there earlier today. Lied. I could have explained the day we went biking. Misdirected. Countless other chances, wasted.
I bend over, putting my head on the edge of the sink, my hands still in the suds. Letting out a terrible, guttural yell of frustration at myself, I stand back up with resolve to fix this. I have to. When I told Cullen I needed him earlier, I meant more than at that moment. I have a fierce desire for him in my life. He’s my everything.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my head.
“Hey, Beautiful. Thinkin’ about me?”
I laugh, drying off my hands, “Yeah, actually. What’s up?”
“My parents just left. Thought now that you could avoid awkward conversation, you might wanna come over.”
“I wasn’t avoiding coming over.”
“Violet.”
“Ok, not really. Yeah, I’ll come by in a little bit. Anything in particular I need to plan for?” It’s one thing to camp out on the couch but a totally different story if we’re going somewhere or doing something outdoors.
He chuckles, “Nah, we gotta hit up the grocery if we want to eat anything but it’s been a long weekend and I thought we could just relax together. I’m going to work on lesson plans until you get here.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”
I run upstairs, pull my hair into a messy bun, and jump into the shower. After applying some light makeup and mascara, I slip into some yoga pants and a hoodie, put on my Converse, and head over to Cullen’s.
“So how far did you get with your plans?” I ask as he holds the door and I cross the threshold.
“Um, through tomorrow.”
“Oh my god, Cullen, you had over an hour.”
“I couldn’t concentrate.”
The door shuts. I stop walking when his hands tug on the back of my sweatshirt. Goosebumps awaken all over my skin as Cullen’s beard tickles my neck.
“Why not?” It’s an innocent question, I tell myself.
“All I could think of was you.”
My shoulders slump and I tilt my head to give him better access to the sensitive curve above my shoulder. He plays on my flesh with his tongue. I get chills, then streaks of heat from my chest to my knees. The scent of his soap is heavy, as if he’s just taken a shower, and it fills my head like a drug.
I twist in his arms and kiss him like it’s the last thing I’m ever going to do. Our tongues battle, our bodies collide. I’m overwhelmed by the imbalance of the terrible things I need to tell him still and the fact that I am deeply in love with him.
My back hits the wall with a thud; Cullen boxes me in with his powerful arms and body. His thick chest is pressing against my erratic heartbeat. My grip is on the front waistband of his dark wash, bootcut jeans.
“I missed you.”
The look in his umber eyes is heat and desire and…
I smile at him, “I missed you, too. It’s been a whole couple hours.”
“That’s a long time. It’s equivalent to what, practically seven days for a dog?”
I run the backs of my fingers along his stomach, “Wow, you put a lot of thought into this. You really seem devastated.”
“I am. So devastated.” His breath hitches as I stop below his belly button. His eyes are burning into mine. “You know we’re never going to get out of here if you keep doing that.”
“I know. That’s why I’m stopping.”
My hand lingers where it is.
“You don’t have to. I still have lettuce we can eat. And waffles. I have waffles.”
His eyelids droop; I’m still drawing on his skin.
“That’s no good, Metz. I need you to have your strength, and lettuce and waffles won’t cut it.”
I pull my hand away, to my own disappointment as well as his, and kiss his pouty lower lip, “Come on, Hot Stuff, get your list. The sooner we go, the sooner we can get back.”
***
So, Cullen’s method of grocery shopping can only be described one way: me hungry, me see food, me buy food. We’re laughing about his complete disregard for coupons, price-matching, and store brands while he tosses bags into the back seat of his truck. Since Cullen doesn’t think I should have to unload groceries from the cart, I’m standing with my hands warming in my hoodie pocket; the night air is a bit chilly for late September.
“I’m just saying that you can save so much more if you just buy the store brand or clip a few coupons,” I try my best not to use my teacher-voice to emphasize my point.
“I know,” he pauses with his hands on his hips. There’s sweat starting to bead on his forehead, probably because of those damn sexy jeans he’s wearing. “I save other places, though, and I don’t like to compromise on my food.”
“Mrs. Black?”
A voice I don’t recognize interrupts us from our discussion. We both turn towards the sound.
A woman aged to her late fifties in a grey pants suit with a light pink blouse has wandered over in my direction. She looks familiar, but I’m having trouble placing her. Insurance maybe? The bank?
“I thought that was you; I never forget a face. I just sent you a letter yesterday. How interesting that we’d meet at the supermarket.”
Confused, I look to Cullen then back to the stranger, “I’m sorry, my memory seems to have escaped me. Who are you again?”
She pats her silvering hair, tightly coiled into a bun. I have the feeling that my attempt to be inoffensive missed its mark.
“I’m Diane, dear, from Heartland Memorial Services. I helped you with all the final arrangements for your late husband.”
I feel the color drain from my face as all my blood rushes to my feet, the sudden heaviness anchoring me in place. I blink in rapid succession, then my eyes flick back to Cullen. His hands have dropped from his hips, and he’s just standing there, watching me. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are burning into me. A single shot of pain rips through to my heart.
I glance back to Diane. I swallow. Finding my voice, I respond, “Why would you send me a letter?”
“The headstone we ordered is finally finished and will be placed this week. The letter has another document in it that needs to be signed and returned once you inspect the stone.”
“I…I thought it was already done.”
Diane raises her brows in surprise, and I look to Cullen. His jaw is flexed. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. He knows I lied to him about being done with this, and he’s probably assuming there’s more that I’ve hidden. Everything stops and I think of all the different ways I could have prevented this scene right here. Diane is talking, but I’m not sure what she’s saying. My ears feel like they’ve been hollowed out. I just watch Cullen—heart pounding, body trembling, and bile rising in my throat.
Finally, she walks away and we’re left standing in the parking lot with an empty shopping cart. I’m not sure if I’m breathing; the air seems to be choking me instead.
“Cullen, I…”
“Not here, Violet. Come on, let’s go,” he shakes his head and says quietly.
My chest is burning the whole ride back to Cullen’s house. I want to sink into the seat and disappear. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t hold my hand, nothing. Ten and two the whole way.
Silently, I help unload the bags and take them to the kitchen. It would be easier to hide in the bathroom for a while, feign a headache and leave, but I can’t do that shit anymore. I love Cullen too much, and there is no easy way out if I’m facing a broken heart of my own making.
“Can I help?” I timidly ask as Cullen begins to take his purchases out of their bags.
“No, thanks. I know where it all goes.”
He buries his head in the refrigerator putting away butter and cheese.
“I could hand stuff to you.”
“No, it’s fine,” Cullen states simply.
Apples and raspberries, my favorite, finish the cold stuff.
“Cullen, we need to talk.”
“Ok. Talk.”
I can’t stand how busy he’s making himself right now. This flitting around the kitchen, going from cabinet to cabinet is making me crazy. Faster than I think possible on my shaky legs, I take the box of macaroni and cheese out of Cullen’s hand and drop it on the counter. He stands still but isn’t looking at me. Won’t look at me. It’s the second bolt of pain to strike my heart tonight.
“Cullen, please look at me. Touch me. Yell at me. Something.”
He’s holding his breath.
“You told me all of this was done. You specifically said that all of the arrangements were done and over. Why haven’t you been to his grave, Violet?”
I attempt to take Cullen’s hands but he carefully moves them away and puts them in his pockets. It’s like taking a poisonous bullet to the chest. I suck in a breath, blow it out, and try to steady my voice.
“Because I can’t, Cullen.”
“Why?”
I stand straight and tall in front of him at the edge of his kitchen surrounded by both empty grocery bags and half-filled ones, ready to confess my darkest horror. On the inside, my body is shuddering and quaking. I have to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering but it’s the only sign I’m not fully in control.
I tilt my chin up in false confidence, “Because one of the last things that Anden did to me before he died was rape me.”
Rage creeps up Cullen’s neck in a bright shade of crimson and his eyes are starting to water. He runs both hands through his hair roughly, then slams one into the box of mac and cheese on the counter, sending it sailing into the sink. Surprisingly, the little elbow shapes stay tucked safely in the confines of the cardboard.
“Fuck! Violet, why are you just now telling me?” he pleads as he begins to pace.
“I didn’t tell anyone, Cullen.”
“Charlotte? Renee?” He’s on his way to the other side of the room.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I repeat more calmly than I feel.
He stops and turns to face me. I expect a look of rage, but I get wounded instead. His eyes are still glassy and his brow is furrowed. He stalks towards me and stops at my feet. Loose strands of hair fall behind me as I peer up at him, my own eyes filling with tears. My heart knows this is it; he doesn’t want me anymore—defective and worthless. I know. I already know.
“You could have told me. You could have trusted me.”
Shards of glass rain down through my insides, cutting me into pieces.
My voice shakes, “I do trust you, Cullen.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t hide something like this from someone you trust. You don’t tell him that everything’s fine and there’s nothing to talk about. This is something to talk about! I guess you really are the Queen of Pretending, just like you said.”
A third jolt of pain slices through me like a hot sword. I wince as my words slap me back in the face, bruising and maiming. “That’s bullshit, Cullen, I never pretended anything with you.” He closes his eyes and turns his head away. I counted on the disgust, so I keep talking. I have to explain. “After being with you, I could let it go! I didn’t think it would matter! I guess I was wrong.” My voice wants to elevate in desperation and panic, but I tamp it down. “I’m sorry I lied.” I pause and breathe. “I love you, Cullen. I’ve loved you for a long time, even when I shouldn’t. I know you don’t want me now that you know how defective I am, but I have to tell you. I’ve meant everything I’ve said to you. Everything. I’m so much more when I’m with you. I love you.”
Tears are running down my face and neck, soaking into my sweatshirt. Still he won’t touch me. It feels like death.
Cullen scrubs his hands over his face, then through his hair again.
“You lied to me,” he barely whispers. “And you left out the most significant part about yourself. How do I know I can trust what you’re saying now?”
My hands shake as I slowly and silently reach for my bag. I blow out a musty breath, “The most significant?” He winces but stays silent. “Ok, Cullen.”
I wait a beat, but Cullen doesn’t move—not towards me, not away from me, not even to breathe as far as I can tell. The final crack of searing hot agony in my heart almost breaks me in half and collapses me to the floor, but I manage to pick up my feet and walk out of Cullen’s house and into my little SUV without a whimper or a lookback. It’s like I’m in a tunnel without sound or sensation.
Tightening all my muscles and gripping the steering wheel for dear life, I drive all the way home without incident or any variation from my side of the road.
I lock my door, wash my face, manage to find pajamas, and crawl in bed before my body gives out and my heart shatters all over every blessed memory I have of us together. My bed shakes as I sob in hysterical misery over my own stupidity and guilt. I knew better than to bury what happened and I knew better than to leave myself unprotected. Stupid, stupid, Violet.
Yes, I am stupid.
Cullen
While I know the cereal isn’t going to put itself in the pantry or the paper towels in the cabinet above the sink, I can’t get my feet to move. I’ve avoided blows by three hundred pound linebackers faster and easier than the hit I just took by Violet. Now I’m cemented to my kitchen floor by a lie.
She told me the arrangements were done. She told me it was finished. She told me she was fine. She told me—she told me a lot of things. Apparently, she didn’t tell me a lot, too.
I wipe my hand down my face and it comes away wet. There are tears in my eyes that I wipe with my sleeve. I sniff and clear my throat.
What the fuck just happened?
I shake my head to clear the fog. This is horseshit; I’m leaving.
Grabbing my keys, I storm out of the kitchen. In the breeze that trails behind me, empty plastic bags sink to the ground like parachutes. There’s gonna be a mess when I get home, but I don’t give a shit right now. Everything’s a mess. Why not the kitchen, too?
Vista’s not far away and I get there within minutes. I jump out of my truck, slamming the door with my bag in hand. As a coach, I have access to the weight room any time I want to use it and there isn’t anything I want to do more right now than use that fucking room.
Devastation fuels every weight I lift, rep I finish, and crunch I dig out but there’s no satisfaction, no relief the further I push myself. Even now as my shoes thud on the rubbery surface of the treadmill heading into my sixth mile, the wake left behind by Violet’s faithlessness in us—in me—carves ruts into my heart.
With sweat splattering the ground and keypad in front of me, I pick up the pace trying to leave this feeling of anguish somewhere in the imaginary distance behind me but I can’t turn off my brain.
She lied to me.
My thighs burn and my lungs gave up on trying to warm the air I’m sucking in a long time ago.
That fucker brutalized her.
Blood pounds in my ears. My fingers tingle.
She kept it hidden from me.
My hand slams down on the emergency stop button. The belt comes to a halt with a squeak and a groan; it smells burnt, like the motor needs a good cleaning and some grease.
Grabbing the sides of the mill, I bend over at the waist trying to catch my breath. I’m no stranger to running this far but my chest feels constricted as if it’s in an ever-tightening vice. Sweat rolls into my eyes and starts to sting, so I reach behind my head to pull off my shirt. I get it just past my chin before I pause and realize that I’ve gone and done Violet’s favorite move and a sinking sadness sweeps through me all over again. My shoulders slump with a sigh, and with resistance much like that of a hesitant child, I take the tee off my arms and use it to wipe my face.
I let her walk away.
Holding the fabric to my mouth, I let out a frustrated howl. Every single thought I have gets worse than the last. I stand, blood rushing to my head, blackness swirls into my periphery from too much movement too soon. My stomach rolls with nausea as I imagine Violet bearing all of that pain by herself and then it twists with madness at her for not trusting me to share the burden. Dammit! How many times did I open the conversation to her? How many leads did I give her?
“Fuck!” I whack the rails of the treadmill with my shirt and stomp down to the floor. Now I’ve lost her—or she’s lost us. Who’s to blame? Does it really matter? If she won’t trust me then there’s no relationship regardless. We have nothing.
The tourniquet on my chest wrenches again and I nearly hit the floor with the knife-like pain that catches me mid-breath. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I shower in the locker room and think of all the different ways this should have been different. Twenty minutes later, I drag my sad, sorry ass home to be miserable. I keep checking my phone, hoping there will be a message from Violet, but it’s silent. I wonder if I should call her—at least find out if she got home alright—but I suppose that would just make things worse. Renee or Charlotte would let me know if… I can’t finish the thought.
I roll my shoulders, toss my bag in the laundry room, and do my best to jog upstairs on aching legs. I think maybe I shouldn’t have pushed it so hard at the gym, especially since I’ll be dead-ass tired tomorrow, but I needed to think, get shit straight. Sadly, I’m still working on it. Everything’s still crutched up and crooked.
Ripping off my shirt, I flop into bed. Warm lilacs and sandalwood waft up from my pillow when I land on my stomach and curl it under my head. Violet. It lands with a thud against the wall. I launch the other one, too, for good measure and before I know it, the blankets and sheets have been shred from the mattress and I’m pounding down the stairs to throw them in the washer. All of them. Just in case.
With a sniff of resolve, I rush back to my room, ignoring the cramping in my calves, to remake the bed. Satisfied with the scent of only fabric softener, I rake my hands through my hair and stare down at what I’ve done to the bed with my hands on my hips. I should crawl in and get some sleep. I can think through how to manage the shit storm that is my life tomorrow. I can’t solve anything tonight. Dwelling won’t help and neither will handing out “what ifs”.
I pull back the covers.
I sleep on the couch.