TWENTY-THREE
Violet
Now that it’s mid-October, the Raptors are heading to semi-finals, and both Hart and Boone broke tons of records in the regular season, colleges and local media are bombarding the coaching staff and administration with phone calls and meetings. This means that there have not been any more chance encounters with Cullen through windows, accidental run-ins in the hallways, or unexpected sightings on detours to the parking lot.
Cullen’s presence has been missing from my life for a couple weeks. When added to the purposeful avoidance of my family, my afternoons are silent and my evenings are like death. I stopped checking my phone when it became painfully clear that the darkness of the screen didn’t matter anymore because it wasn’t going to change. Not where Cullen is concerned anyway. So, I focus on science and early help sessions for the AP exam during school hours. I have some control back over my daily job and wait until I get home to fall apart.
My ringtone echoes outside as I yank open the storage door and pull out my bike. I haven’t been on it since Cullen and I rode together on the pancake day. I ignore the last few notes from my phone and instead smile to myself, remembering how I was so mad that he didn’t call me the night before so he just showed up here to talk about it. He was always so willing to talk, and I just shut him out and made excuses for why it was better to just bury everything. Maybe if I had told him about Anden that day at the pond instead of smoothing over it with a bunch of bullshit about how I’m fine, we’d be together now.
Anden’s voice rings in my head more frequently now that Cullen is absent. You ruin everything. You’re worthless.
“No!” I grit my teeth. I determine to shut him up for good.
I hop on my bike. I don’t care that again my phone is ringing because soon enough, I start pedaling towards the main road that eventually leads out to neighboring country towns and the sound bleeds away just like everything else. The tangy smell of exhaust fades into the pungent aroma of manure as gas stations and convenience stores turn into partially harvested cornfields and browning cow pastures.
The sidewalk widens along a two-lane road designed for horseback riders and scooters. I slow down my pedaling; my turn is coming up. A huge white sign, embedded in brick, soon comes into view and I veer left down the gravel path. Following the line of poplars, I push harder to move forward. Dirt and rocks spit out behind me and my bike swerves slightly from side to side in my haste. I mind the curves in the path, finally arriving at my destination.
I park my dusty bike beside a tree and place my hands against the rough bark. They are numb from the chilly air blasting them on the ride here and the anticipation of who I’m about to see. Scraping them against the tree’s texture, life slowly returns to my fingers and they begin to feel alive again. I’m alive, I remind myself. I’m alive and Anden’s dead. He can’t hurt me anymore.
I push off the trunk and tentatively start walking. My feet must have a mind of their own because in only a few minutes, I’m where I’m supposed to be. Two rows up, three stones in, Anden’s marker is now in place. It’s a pretty headstone—simple and refined. It’s enough.
I cross my arms and just look at his name for a minute. Heat burns behind my eyes and ears as I think about his body in the ground, how he got there, and why I’m not sad at all. Then I rewind a bit and think back to the beginning of our relationship.
And draw a blank. Not even small snips play back in my head.
I search my memories for what drew me to him in the first place so that I can leave here with something positive, something not so horrific as his final days. All I have, though, is an eerie void of anything but deep, dark eyes framed by long lashes, a strong square jaw outlined by a soft, coffee-colored beard, and a delicious frame of muscles encapsulating me and keeping me safe. Anden’s been pushed out, replaced by Cullen who is real and true. I don’t need to be here any longer to be rid of Anden; he’s already gone.
I stifle a cry at how cool satisfaction feels running through my veins. The nervous energy and anxiety that drove me here earlier has disintegrated into quiet sadness over my true loss, the one who isn’t buried here.
I wrap my arms around myself and use my shoulder to soak up a stray tear. Quietly, I speak to the earth in front of me, “You can’t hurt me anymore, and I’m relieved you’re in the ground. You didn’t deserve me in life, and you don’t deserve me in death. I won’t be back.”
Turning, I aim for my bike and crunch across the drying grass, then gravel. I hastily pull it from the bark of the tree it’s resting on, and start down the lane again. Charlotte was right; I needed to come here and finish with him.
I don’t feel like going home yet, so instead of turning right out of the cemetery, I make a left. I push my bike forward towards the small town marked by one stoplight and a grocery store. On my way past the store’s parking lot, I catch a glimpse of short dark hair sliding into a Silverado. I do a double take and slow down. My heartbeat is immediately erratic. Is that Cullen? Maybe I’m digressing into hallucinations. I squeeze my handlebar brakes so hard the back tire fishtails. I practically get whiplash with the impact. I don’t care.
I just have to see.
The truck backs out of its parking space, pauses, and slowly creeps forward. The windows are tinted, but the driver’s side is halfway down, letting in the cool evening breeze. I want to run in front of the grill, make it stop. Inch my way around to the door and see for myself. My eyes are starving for a glimpse.
Everything I know pauses. My thoughts, my breath, my heart. I want it to be him. I crush my handlebars, waiting.
I stare like a creeper in an alleyway as the truck rolls by, but as it gets closer, I note that the hair is too long, too shaggy around the tops of the guy’s ears. And the sunglasses are wrong. Cullen’s are copper, not black. The truck, too, has peeling paint. The kind that’s seen more years and country roads than Cullen’s upgrade and city streets. More telling that I’m eyeing a stranger is the casual wave of gratitude he has as he drives by me—the crazy lady on her bike with a staring problem.
My heart sinks from where it used to be pounding in my ears so that I nearly gag on it. In yet another instance today, I choke back a sob, though this time it feels as if my lungs are collapsing. Through blurred vision, I pick up my pace and continue biking along the main road until I’m out of town.
Eventually, I see the brown park sign for Otter Pass Wetlands and turn in. My legs are tired, but I push on towards the only other place I can think of besides my townhouse and school where I feel close to Cullen. We weren’t here for long by any means, but this trail seems uniquely ours. Already, I hear the familiar chirps of crickets and calls of water birds that we mimicked and sang to together on our other visits, laughing wildly, and then punctuating with kisses. The memories make me pedal harder, despite the burning in my thighs, until I end up at our pond.
Finally, I stop and let my bike fall to the ground. I step towards the vacant bench that faces the silvery water and sit; grass frogs peep as they escape into the pond at my approach. Purple light tints the air and sky as the setting sun sinks lower and lower behind the trees. The tranquil beauty here only adds to the sadness of the moment. Tormented by my stupidity and loss, I use my arms to hold myself together, pull my knees into my chest, and lay my head on the soft cotton of my pants. The tears come silent and steady.
Cullen
“Razor 88! That was a slant void, Jackson! What the hell are you doing?” I blow my whistle and I swear my brains are going to shoot out the little hole at the top. I march out to the thirty-yard line where the offense stands slouching, panting, and leaning over. My phone vibrates in my pocket for the fourth time, and I silence it by squeezing the whole damn thing.
We’re only two hours into practice.
“This isn’t our first week, gentlemen!” I roar. “This is semi-finals. Semi. Finals. Do you know what that means? Anyone?” I look around at the sweaty faces, flushed and dirty behind the scuffed cages of their practice helmets.
Hart puts his hands on his scrawny sixteen-year-old hips and answers for the bunch, “Yeah, Coach, we know.”
“Really?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Then why aren’t you running the right play? I want the fade post. Fade. Post.”
He takes a deep breath and looks at his line. They shift looking at the grass. “I changed the play, Coach.”
I cross my arms, “Is that so, QB? And why is that?”
Someone mutters “Oh, shit” but my eyes are locked on Hart.
Hart holds his ground, “Slant voids are killer, and I feel that in an important game like this one, we need a play that leaves everyone standing around scratching their balls, wondering what the hell happened because we just scored.”
I take a step closer to him. I can smell the sweat and grass ground into his jersey. It’s one of the most exhilarating parts of the game; it gives life to football and Hart is owning the essence right now. They all are. It brings back memories of being a smart-ass quarterback with a shit-eating grin. If I was even remotely happy right now, I’d enjoy it.
Instead, I humorlessly smirk, “I appreciate that, Hart, I really do. It’s precious. But run the damn fade post and whatever else I tell you to run. Got it? Scratch your balls later.”
There are snickers across the group. My phone vibrates again. Maintaining my glare, I pull it from my pocket.
He nods, keeping his glare, too, and re-snaps his chinstrap, “Got it, Coach.”
I turn my back to check the message while they line back up for the fade post. There are five voice messages and half a dozen texts from Charlotte. What the hell?
I listen to the last one she left and stop in my tracks.
“Fuck!” I yell loud enough that the boys break their stance and stare at me.
I’m running my hands through my hair when Coach Roarke runs over, “What’s up, Metz?”
My phone slips into my pocket after typing out a quick message, and I tuck my whistle into my sweatshirt.
“I gotta go, Elliot. It’s Violet. No one can get ahold of her. Her family can’t find her.”
“Ok, man, go. I’ve got the last half hour.”
“Alright, thanks, Elliot,” I look back at my offense, scowling, and point to them. “Those jokers run 10 huddle sprints on top of whatever else you have planned. They know why.”
He frowns at the lot, and I get the feeling they’ll be doing more than my assigned task as an extra. “Will do—Go!”
I sprint off the field to my truck. Why would Violet disappear? I know that she’s hurting. If she feels anything close to what I’m feeling without her, then there’s acid eating a hole in her chest. The last three weeks have been agonizing torture. More than once I’ve snuck past her room, peered in her classroom window like a fucking creeper, but I have to see if she is as ok without me as she was before me. She only caught me that one time and I couldn’t look away. She looked so beautiful and so tortured, like it was physically painful just to see me. My feet were anchored to the floor, too, like they wanted me to stay, wanted me to be stuck sharing the misery. Then I had snuck away like a coward when she turned back to help her student. I rolled away from the window, cowering against the wall. I needed to grit my teeth to face reality. The haunted, phantom cast of her eyes when she saw me looking at her was the part I played in all this. I put that look there. Shockwaves wracked my body after seeing her like that.
I feel continuously tormented, too. An arrow of pain shoots deep into my chest every time I think about her, hear her voice trailing down the hallway, smell her on my clothes or in my bed. Every. Fucking. Time.
I push on my sternum trying to rub the poisonous burn away, but it’s useless. I want her, I need her, I just don’t know how to move forward.
I crank the wheel and squeal into a parking space. My first stop is her townhouse. I know Charlotte or someone in the family has already been here, but I’m hoping that Violet has come home since. The door rattles as I pound on it repeatedly, but no one answers. In fact, the only person I see is a neighbor who jerks open his door at the noise I’m making. However, he takes a look at my size and the scowl on my face, nods, and shuts it slowly.
The blinds to her patio door are closed, so no luck there. I leave in a huff. The sun will be setting soon, and that’s going to make this all the more difficult.
My truck engine roars to life, and I shift into gear. Speeding and twisting through town, my second stop is the hardware store. After that, I’ll have to get creative.