She was in a bikini in her front yard because Cal was washing his truck in his drive.
All of them were looking at the shiny, burgundy Jaguar in my drive. I knew this because I swung my head around to take them all in.
Then I looked at my Dad who was walking across the yard toward me, his face sharing the news before he said a word. My Mom, slower, unfolded out of the car, her eyes on my house, her face not communicating hideous loss like my Dad’s but registering dislike.
“Sweetie…” Dad said when he got close and it burst out of me.
It was loud, shrill, high, so much of all of those, it was a wonder all the windows didn’t explode in every house in the block.
“No!”
Then I turned, ran through my door and slammed it, locked it and stood with my back to it, looking around my living room.
I dropped the dust rag and, mindless, I ran to the shelves, picked up the photo of Tim, the girls, Sam, Mel and I that Tim and Sam took for—fucking-ever to set up on that stupid fucking tripod and then another fucking age to program the stupid fucking timer to take a picture of us all that Christmas day. Mel and the girls and I had laughed at them, laughed and laughed at their antics, how long it took, teasing Tim and Sam, giving them stick.
Good times.
The best.
I threw the frame across the room and the frame cracked, the glass shattered.
Then I grabbed the next one, me in my hospital bed, a newborn Keira in my arms, Tim on one side, his arm around me, he was holding a squirming Kate, Sam on my other side, his arm around me too, both of them had one leg on the floor, one leg on the bed. All of us scrunched up in that damn hospital bed. I looked tired but we were all smiling (except Kate, who was squirming). Sam had sat with Kate and Tim’s parents in the waiting room the whole time Tim was in with me and Keira in delivery. The whole time, he never left. Not for a second. He didn’t tell me that, Tim’s parents didn’t, I just knew.
I threw that too and the glass shattered.
“Violet!” I heard my father shout, pounding at the door. “Honey, let me in.”
I grabbed the next frame, Sam wasn’t in that one at all and still, I threw it.
More pounding at the door, more of my Dad’s shouts, pleading to let him in.
Then I threw anything I could get my hands on, stupid knick knacks, more frames. I didn’t even see what they were, I just grabbed them and threw them, trying to force out the feeling that had my heart and gut and mind in its grip, so tight, God, it was going to kill me.
Suddenly, the door popped open and Cal was in my house, he’d forced the door open with his shoulder.
I stared at him in his black t-shirt, his motorcycle boots, his jeans but he didn’t stare at me. He came at me.
I ran.
I ran over some glass, feeling it cut open my bare foot but I didn’t cry out. There was no pain. I felt it, but it wasn’t pain. The pain was in my heart, my gut, my head; there was no room for any other kind of pain.
Before I could take another step, I was swung up, finding myself in Cal’s arms and instantly I fought him. Out-of-control kicking, punching, bucking, if I could get my mouth on him, I would have bit him.
“Vi, baby, calm down,” he muttered, struggling to hold me and control my flailing limbs.
I didn’t speak, just grunted through my thrashing.
He sat in a recliner in the study, easily subduing my struggles with a big hand wrapped around both my wrists, he locked a strong arm around my waist and he yanked me to his chest, my hands held fast between us.
I snapped my head back and glared into his sky blue eyes.
“Fuck off, Cal!” I shouted in his face and watched him flinch.
I kicked out with my feet but I felt my ankles get caught in a firm grip and I looked that way.
Colt had hold of my ankles. He was in a squat, looking at my foot then he looked at Cal.
“She’s bleedin’.”
“The glass,” Cal muttered.
Colt looked to his right. “Baby?” he called, not letting go of my ankles.
“Gotcha,” I heard Feb say but I didn’t look her way.
“Violet, honey,” my Dad’s voice drifted to me.
I kept my eyes glued to Colt, not looking at Cal.
“Get him out of here,” I ordered Colt. “Get them both fucking out of here!”
Colt’s expression registered surprise, he looked to his right again then to Cal.
“That your Dad?” Cal asked me but I didn’t look at him so his hand tightened on my wrists. “Look at me, buddy.”
I looked at him and demanded, “Let me go.”
“That your Dad?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I spit out.
“What’s the deal here?” Cal asked.
“Sam’s dead,” I announced and I watched Cal close his eyes. I watched it and it was slow. So slow, it felt like it took a year for his eyes to close.