22. Violet
Chapter 22
Violet
T he porch is quiet, the late-night air cool with the scent of pine and earth. We just had a relaxing thunderstorm, and I can still smell the dampness in the air. It’s the perfect sleeping weather. But I have a song I need to get down on paper before it leaves me.
The sky is a perfect shade of deep indigo. Stars scatter across it like someone spilled a jar of glitter all over. It reminds me of Walker. He's a mystery just like the night sky, but beautiful, dark, and comforting at the same time.
And here I am on the porch, with my notebook, his guitar, and a heart that finally feels like it has something to say again.
I strum a chord, then another, letting the notes hum into the night.
It feels good.Better than good.
For the first time in a long time, music doesn’t feel like pressure. It doesn’t feel like an expectation.It feels like mine.
My pencil scratches across the paper, the lyrics pouring out faster than I can keep up.
I hum a melody, tweaking it as I go, my foot tapping lightly against the wooden boards of the porch beneath me. The swing creaks as I lean over to my notebook.
And just as I hum the chorus, something shifts in the air.
I feel it before I see it.A presence. I glance up and there he is. Walker leans in the doorway, arms crossed, listening.
Rip’s tail thumps on the floor of the porch, and he tilts his head up when he sees Walker.
He doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything.
I freeze mid-lyric, the last note hanging in the air like an unfinished confession. He just stands there, leaning in the doorway with his broad shoulders, shadowed jaw, and those eyes. The ones that always seem to see through me no matter how hard I try to keep things light.
He watches me with those beautiful, sharp, and unreadable eyes like he’s trying to figure something out.
I playfully narrow my eyes at him. “How long have you been standing there?”
His lips twitch like he’s amused. “Long enough.”
I groan dramatically, tossing my pencil down. “Walker. Creeping is not polite.”
He smirks, stepping onto the porch. “Neither is stopping in the middle of a good song.”
He moves across the wooden boards with that easy, unhurried confidence of his—like the night bends around him instead of the other way around.
And suddenly, the night feels smaller. More intimate.
I strum another soft chord, letting the moment settle.
Then his voice speaks, low and even. “So, what do you plan to do now?”
I glance at him. “With what?”
“With music,” he says, tilting his head toward my notebook. “Now that you don’t have a label taking advantage of you. ”
I run my fingers over the strings, letting the question sit in my chest. I know the answer. I’ve known it for a long time.
“I don’t know,” I admit, shrugging slightly. “I just know I was put on this earth to write songs. And music will always be a part of my life, even if it’s just mine.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Something quiet and knowing. He understands. Somehow, I know he does.
I tap my fingers against my guitar, tilting my head at him. “What about you?”
He frowns slightly. “What about me?”
I arch a brow. “What do you do out at that cabin of yours?”
His shoulders stiffen, just barely. “What do you mean?”
I smirk. “I see you, you know. When we get home from the bar late at night. You head out there sometimes. And sometimes I hear music across the lake.”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”
“Not when they’re interesting.”
He gives me a long look, like he’s debating whether or not to tell me.
Then, finally?—
“I write,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
I blink. “Like… stories?”
“No.” He exhales, looking away. “Songs.”
The words echo like a sudden clap of thunder. Walker writes songs. My mind scrambles to catch up, memories flashing like snapshots—the way his fingers always drum the bar when a good song plays. The way he hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. All this time, he’s been holding on to music just like me. And I never knew.
Silence.
Then—pure, unfiltered shock bursts out of me that I can't hold back any longer. He's given me a piece of him right now, but I'm also completely shocked that I didn't figure it out until now.
“Walker. No way.”
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. I can tell this is a weird conversation for him to have and he says with a groan, “Red.”
“You write songs?” I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier? Like, I don’t know, maybe when I was sitting here writing songs?”
He grumbles something under his breath that I don’t catch. His jaw ticks. Just once. But I seethe way his shield going up, the careful distance settling back into place. He’s sitting beside me, but I can feel him pulling away like he’s bracing for me to push too hard, too fast. Like the music is something fragile he’s terrified to share.
But I see the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts slightly like this is a conversation he’d rather avoid.
And that’s when I realize—he’s serious about keeping this private.
It’s not just something he does. It’s something he protects. I press my lips together, softening. “You don’t play them?” I ask, quieter this time.
He shakes his head.
I let that sink in. And even though a million questions burn in my throat, I don’t push. Because I know what it feels like to lose music for a while. To love something and still walk away from it.
I know that instinct—the need to protect the pieces of yourself that matter most. So I don’t press. I don’t ask for lyrics or melodies or explanations. Instead, I strum another chord, soft and familiar, inviting him to stay without saying a word .
The night settles around us, the sound of crickets filling the silence.
Rip stretches out at our feet, snoring lightly.
Walker leans back on the swing, his arms resting along the top, his fingers almost brushing my shoulder.
I strum another soft chord, picking up the melody from before.
His head tilts slightly, listening.
And when I start to hum again, picking up where I left off?—
He stays.
Listens.
Doesn’t run.
And for now, that’s enough. Walker has his secrets. But tonight, he let me in. Just a little bit. I’m not going to push.
Walker writes songs.
I stare at him, the words circling in my head, refusing to settle.
Walker. Writing. Music.
It doesn’t compute.
Not because I don’t believe he’s capable of it. I do.
Hell, I knew there was something about him. The way he listens to music. The way his fingers twitch on the bar counter whenever a song plays in the background like he’s unconsciously counting beats, feeling rhythms.
But he never would tell me. He wouldn’t let me in. Until now.
And that?
It feels huge. Even if it’s just a little movement.
I glance down at my guitar, running my fingers over the strings, trying to process.
Music is… everything to me. It’s woven into my DNA, the only constant I’ve ever had. And for a long time, I thought losing my place in the industry meant losing music altogether. I thought I was alone in that feeling.
But Walker? Walker gets it. He knows what it’s like to hold on to music like a lifeline. And yet, he’s been keeping it to himself. That’s what hits me the hardest. This isn’t some hobby for him. This is something he protects. Something he keeps locked up, far away from the world.
Away from me.
And now I’m sitting here, wondering why. I look at him; really look at him. He’s got that closed-off expression again, the one I recognize now. The one that says he’s waiting for me to push too hard. For me to ask questions he doesn’t want to answer. And maybe a few weeks ago, I would have.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I let the knowledge settle inside me, warming me from the inside out. Because I get it now. Walker isn’t just a small-town bar owner. He’s a songwriter. A real one. A damn good one, I bet.
And suddenly, it’s not just my music that feels exciting again.
The night folds around us, the music filling the silence between breaths. His arm rests along the back of the swing, his warmth just close enough to make me aware of every nerve under my skin. And as I hum the chorus again, I feel it—the unspoken truth between us.
This music isn’t just mine anymore.
It’s ours.
I should have known better than to go along with Mack, Cami, and Poppy's plan. The truth is, I've been so happy to have friends and do fun things with them that I think I left my judgement behind somewhere.
“What the hell is this?” I screech, holding out my arm.
It’s not bronze. It’s not golden. It’s… Cheeto orange.
Poppy stifles a laugh from her spot on the ground where she’s sprawled out like a starfish, arms and legs airplane-wide, because Cami swore we had to “air-dry for optimal results.”
“You look like a traffic cone,” Poppy says, gasping for air.
I glare at her. “Don’t laugh, Oompa Loompa. You’re literally the color of a carrot.”
She sits up and looks down at herself, then shrieks. Her legs are streaked like a damn tiger. Dark orange lines running down her calves like someone finger-painted them.
Cami, standing in front of the mirror, groans. “I said light, even layers!”
"I did even layers!" Mack protests. "Y'all look ridiculous. I'm glad I didn't do it."
I throw my arms up. “We did light, even layers! The bottle said ‘tropical bronze’! Look at us! We’re like the cast of Willy Wonka.”
Poppy collapses into giggles, clutching her stomach. “I can’t—” she wheezes. “I literally can’t breathe. Violet, your knees… your knees are glowing.”
I look down. My knees are neon orange. Like Halloween pumpkin bright.
“Dear God,” I whisper. “This is how it ends. As an internet meme.”
We gather in front of the mirror, horrified but fascinated. I can't stop looking at all of us; we look so ridiculous.
Cami’s arms look like a human Rorschach test—uneven patches everywhere.
Poppy’s legs are striped like a tiger, and Mack somehow missed her left foot entirely .
My knees and elbows are so neon they might glow in the dark.
“Okay,” Mack says, wiping sweat off her forehead, leaving a tan stripe. “We can fix this.”
Poppy sits on the floor, still laughing. “Fix it? What are you gonna do? Power-wash us?”
Mack brightens. “Actually… yeah.”
Five minutes later, we’re in Walker's backyard, standing in nothing but old shorts and tank tops, while Cami uncoils the garden hose.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, arms crossed.
Poppy’s already giggling again. “What if someone sees us?”
I gesture toward Mack, who’s aiming the hose like she’s about to blast us off the planet. “We look like escaped circus performers. We’re practically a tourist attraction.”
"Even the horses look concerned," Poppy laughs as she points to them watching us, their tails swaying, curiously.
Mack twists the nozzle. “Hold still.”
The first blast of water hits me square in the face, and I sputter. “Mack!”
“Oops!” she says, not looking remotely sorry.
The next blast hits Poppy, who lets out a high-pitched squeal and drops into a defensive crouch. “It’s like being attacked by a fire hose!”
“Stop squirming!” Cami yells. “We have to get the streaks off!”
“I swear to God, if I die via hose attack?—”
Suddenly the water pressure surges. The nozzle flies from Mack's hands like a missile, spinning wildly, and blasts Poppy right in the chest.
She goes down like a sack of potatoes.
I’m screaming. Cami’s screaming. Poppy’s lying on the ground, soaked, orange streaks running down her legs like she lost a fight with a paintball gun.
And then we hear it.
A low, rumbling laugh.
We whip around and see Walker, Ollie, and Jack standing on the other side of the fence, beer bottles in hand, grinning like idiots. Jack covers his mouth with his hand sheepishly as Walker glares at him for laughing.
Then, Walker’s eyes lock with mine. He takes one look at my neon-orange knees and wheezing laughter spills out of him.
Ollie bends over, hands on his knees. “Oh… my God. What… did you do ?”
Cami groans and slaps her forehead. “We tried spray tans. Mack assured us it would be fine.”
"That's what you get for listening to a teenager," Ollie smirks.
Mack picks up the hose and aims it at Ollie, "Say that again, Ollie."
Jack chokes on his beer. “Y’all know no one here tans. We just burn and go back to flannel.”
Walker, still laughing, tips his chin at me. “Nice knees, Red.”
I point at him. “Laugh it up, Walker. One day, you’re gonna need my help, and when you do, I’m bringing this moment up.”
He grins even wider. “Oh, I hope you do.”
Cami lunges for the hose nozzle in Mack's hands. “I will spray you all!” she practically bellows.
Walker backs away, hands up in surrender. Ollie and Jack bolt. Poppy’s still on the ground, gasping through laughter. And me?
I’m standing in a puddle of muddy self-tanner, my pride long gone, my abs sore from laughing, wondering how the hell this is my life .
Maggie texts me later, saying, “Saw the video of y’all. Why didn't y'all invite me to the spray tan party?"