Zeke: Of course.
Violet: I watched your match against Hassan tonight on ESPN.
Zeke: You did???? Wow. Seriously? I’m typing so fast right now, LOL
Violet: Yeah. I googled it and hunted down the channel.
Zeke: Well—what did you think???
Violet: I thought it was amazing—YOU were amazing. Everything about it was incredible. You’re so strong. I am so in awe of you.
Zeke: No one is more in awe of someone than I am of you, Violet. And no one is stronger. And when I get home and you’re ready, I’m going to come see you. There’s so much shit I want to say that makes being on this bus a fucking nightmare.
Violet: Hey Zeke?
Zeke: Yeah?
Violet: I’m ready.
Zeke
I sat on that damn bus for four hours and fifty-eight goddamn minutes with nothing to do but think. And think some more.
So when I step onto Violet’s front porch and give the wooden door a few short raps with my knuckles, I’m a ball of energy, body buzzing—not just from my win tonight, but from my text conversation with Violet.
I bounce on the balls of my feet nervously, hands stuffed into the pockets of my gray sweatpants. In a mad dash to get here, I didn’t bother to change into something decent, like jeans or whatever. Sweatpants and hoodie are as good as it gets and I make no apologies for it.
The door swings open.
Vi’s roommate Winnie glares at me through the storm door, scowling. “Can I help you?”
I scowl back, tempted to roll my eyes. “Is Violet home?”
“Why should I let you in?” She folds her arms, looking me up and down through the glass. “You look like a murderer.”
What the fuck. I sigh. “What would make me look like less of a murderer? So you let me in.” It’s fucking cold.
She taps her chin, thinking. Smiles.
“Well, you can start by taking your hood down. And take your hands out of your pockets where I can see them. You look shady.”
“You know damn well I’m not shady.”
Her pleasant smile turns into an evil grin. “Yeah, but I know you’re going to listen because you want me to let you inside the house. Am I right?”
I nod.
Remove my hands from the pockets of my sweats, reach up, push the hood of my sweatshirt down.
“Satisfied?”
“Almost.” She stares through the glass, crossing her arms. “I just want you to know, just because you think you’re hot shit doesn’t mean the rest of us approve of you.”
I cross my arms, mimicking her stance. “Is this where you threaten to kick my ass?”
“No. This is where I tell you…” She inhales. “This is where I say…I hope you know what you’re doing. Do you? Have any idea what you’re doing?”
“No. I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.”
“Hmmm.” She regards me through the window. “At least you’re honest. I can’t say much for your foul mouth though. You should work on not being such a total dick.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been hearing.”
“So, just so you know, if you hurt her—”
“You’ll kick my ass?”
Winnie stares me down until I clamp my lips shut and listen.
“Just so you know, if you hurt her, you’re hurting all of us. We’re friends, and we do this together.”
What the fuck does that mean? “Like, I have to date all three of you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, no. I mean, Violet is our best friend. If you hurt her, we’re all going to be hurt. Her pain is our pain. Do you want to make all three of us hate you?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Good, because Melinda and I will kick your ass if you do.”
I knew it, knew she was going to threaten to kick my ass!
“Uh…so…” I try glancing around her into the living room for any sign of Violet. “Can I come in?”
Her eyebrows rise. Chin tips up defiantly.
“Please Winnie, can I please come inside?” Jesus Christ, I cannot believe I’m begging to be let into a girl’s house, but desperation does some fucked up shit to a guy.
“Hold on a second. Let me check with Violet.” With another scowl, Winnie shuts the door in my face, disappears into the house.
A minute passes. Then another.
Then five.
Then ten, until I’m freezing my balls off.
Then.
The door finally opens, and Violet is standing on the opposite side of it, looking…
Like a breath of fucking fresh air, light shining from behind her, pale hair glowing ethereally. Long and wavy and I want to bury my fingers in it, breathe her in and sleep beside her.
Bare feet, jeans, and a faded yellow sweatshirt, Violet is the picture of light and sunlight and everything I’ve been missing for the past few days.
She unlatches the door.
Steps forward, pushing on the glass, so it opens all the way.
“I missed you.” That’s the first thing I say when she gives me room to step up into the house. I stop in front of her, gazing down into the hazel eyes that have been haunting my damn dreams for the past few days. “I really missed you.” My hands reach for her face, cupping her jaw, thumbs tracing her cheekbones.
“You smell good,” her pink lips reply.
“Oh yeah? Like what?” I lean forward so we’re close enough to kiss. So close I can taste it.
“Like…” She sniffs. “Shower and sweat. Strong.”
“I smell strong?”
“Yes.”
I bend, brushing my mouth across her lips. “I missed you so much.”
Somewhere from within the room, a feminine throat clears.
“Please go do that in her room.”
Winnie.
The plain girl with the death glowers.
Violet blushes, pulling on my wrists so my hands release her face. “S-sorry Win.”
“I do not want to hear you having sex,” her roommate makes a hmph sound. “Make him beg, Vi.”
“I will.”
Violet takes my hand, leading me through the living room to the hallway. To her bedroom door.
Leads me over the threshold.
I pause in the doorway, hesitating.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just…looking.” The room isn’t what I pictured in my mind; I’d imagined something more flowery and froofy. Fussy with knickknacks and posters and shit. Like, unicorns and crap.
This room is nothing like that. One double bed with no headboard, there’s a light gray comforter pulled over the top. Three white pillows stacked, one on top of the other. White blinds on the windows for privacy, no curtains. A wooden desk that probably came off the curb at the end of the spring semester. Small desk lamp. Chair. School supplies neat and methodically arranged into rows. Above that, a corkboard with small, instant camera film. Several movie tickets stubs. A red ribbon—from what victory, I can’t tell from here.
On the far wall is a narrow rack with some shirts I recognize, pants folded neatly and stacked on top. I make a quick count of the four pair of shoes lining the bottom. One pair of boots.
It’s plain and simple, and bare.
Confused, my brow wrinkles. “Where’s all your stuff?”
Her face turns pink, but she laughs. “I don’t have any stuff. I’m an orphan, remember?”
Oh fuck. Shit.