Chapter 8
Simon
What the actual hell is happening right now?
In my defense, Violet looks just as confused as I feel.
“Okay, well…” I check my watch. “I know everyone would be excited to see you, and Mom’s cooking for an army, so adding one more person won’t be a problem. I don’t know if you want to meet me over there, or we could drive together, or…”
I scrape a hand over my mouth because oh my God, shut up, Simon!
Seeing as I had absolutely no idea I was going to ask Violet to dinner, I have no plan. And without a plan, I don’t have the first clue what to do next.
I sound like an idiot.
No, worse. I sound like an asshole.
Who goes to someone’s house to bring up a delicate topic and ends up inviting her to dinner instead?
Say it with me now: an idiotic asshole.
Violet laughs, the sound light and unexpected. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”
As soon as the words leave her lips, her cheeks flush pink, her brows knit, and she looks like she’s questioning her life choices as much as I am.
“It’s not something I experience all that often.”
“Believe me,” she says with a roll of her eyes that is so familiar and adorable it does something strange to my stomach. “I know. Simon Holiday plans every last bit of his life into oblivion.”
“A tactic which has served me well.”
Violet flares her hands and dips her head. I get the impression she’s quietly agreeing to disagree.
“Unless there’s a dress code for this evening,” she says, sucking in her lips, “I just need to freshen up a little and then we can go?” She looks as unsure as I am about how to proceed, but an almost silent voice inside me urges that this is right… despite how messy and strange it feels.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just hang out down here, and we can drive over there together when you’re ready.”
With an uncertain bob of her head, Violet disappears upstairs.
I wander the Sterling house. This place is a core memory of my teenage years.
Violet and I used to study in her room until her parents realized we’d become more than friends, and then we were relegated to the dining table in plain sight of her mom and dad.
Their house was always inviting. Fewer people and less noise than mine but welcoming in a way that mattered.
You could feel it in the bakery too. This sense that when you walked through the doors, you’d come home.
Family pictures still sit on the mantle, now covered in a fine layer of dust. That’s not like Violet.
None of this is like Violet. I may not have been a strong part of her life these last couple years, but people don’t change that much at their core.
Something inside screams that she’s in need.
Like sirens blaring, red flags waving. It’s not my place to do anything about it. Not anymore.
But I can’t just walk away.
Whatever the hell that means.
A few minutes later, I hear footsteps on the stairs.
The Violet I remember would come bounding down, almost skipping.
These steps are heavy, measured, like the joy that was always an essential part of her spirit has bled away.
Her russet hair is pulled back off her face, soft tendrils falling around her temples.
She’s changed into well-fitting jeans and a chunky sweater.
Black. Not festive at all. It swallows her, makes her look small, fragile.
But still oh so beautiful.
She catches me staring and pauses at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the rail and a question on her face. “You okay? Because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
And I kind of feel like I have.
Standing there, watching her come down the stairs, sent me back to every high school dance we attended. Violet radiant in her dress, me, so eager to take her hand, certain I’d been lucky enough to find my forever in my first love.
I see the girl she used to be, overflowing with bright energy, racing down the stairs to meet me before a double date with Robbie and Nora or an evening exploring the abandoned lighthouse with Cal Monroe and Russ Calder.
And I’m hit with everything I used to feel for her, a punch to the gut that takes my breath away.
So yeah. Ghosts.
“It’s just weird being here, I guess,” I hedge with a shake of my head. “It feels like home, but not.”
“I get that.”
Those three words are heavy, bearing the burden of so much more than she’ll say.
“You sure about this?” Violet asks, hovering on that last step like she’s afraid to move forward.
“No,” I reply on a laugh. “But let’s do it anyway.”
With a soft smile, Violet heads into the foyer, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her keys. I open the door and instinctively put my hand on her lower back as she steps through. Her focus shifts over her shoulder, storm-grey eyes meeting mine. I pull back my hand with an apologetic grimace.
“Old habits, I guess.”
She locks the door, twisting the key a few more times than necessary. I watch with curiosity. The lock isn’t stuck so I don’t know what that’s about. I guide her down the stairs to the rental in the driveway and Violet lets out a low whistle.
“Sleek and expensive. A massive upgrade from Ol’ Terry.”
Ol’ Terry was the name we gave the rust eaten truck I drove in high school. It looked like shit but ran like a dream. I adored that thing.
“It’s what they had,” I reply with a roll of my eyes.
“I don’t know…” Violet shrugs, watching me carefully. “From what I gather, your big fancy New York life is working its way into your veins.”
“I’m still the same old Simon.” I open the passenger door for her, but instead of sitting down she stares like I’ve grown a second head.
“The Simon I remember knew how to dress for the weather.” She picks at the hem of my T-shirt. “I know Florida isn’t New York, but short sleeves? Really?”
“Just looking at you in that sweater makes me break a sweat.”
She huffs a strange little laugh then sits. I close the door and jog around the hood. When I turn on the car, a playlist filled with Christmas hits starts up and Violet looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Okay, who are you and what have you done with Simon Holiday? First, you go off script and show up out of the blue to lecture me about my lack of decorations. Then, suddenly I’m coming over for dinner.
We’ll skip over the T-shirt because you and I both know you’re being ridiculous, but now there’s actual Christmas music coming out of your speakers? You never listened to Christmas music.”
She’s right. I didn’t. It’s not that I hate the holidays. I love them just like everyone else. All the nostalgia and warmth. But it was never my thing. It was hers. And seeing her now, it breaks my heart. Something tells me she needs a reminder of who she used to be.
“People change.”
“So you’re not the same old Simon.” She smirks, because she knows she got me and I poke the air like I’m pushing in a pin, our old way of saying a point has been made and received.
It’s not a long drive to my parents,’ but in the oddity of spending time with this woman I once loved with all my heart—this woman who was my whole damn life and isn’t anymore—every second stretches into infinity.
I catalog her movements, the paleness of her features, the tightness in her eyes.
And yet, it’s easy to be with her. Like the time, distance, and heartbreak that’s grown between us has no meaning.
When I pull into Mom and Dad’s driveway, Violet’s eyes go wide at the number of cars.
“Did the Holidays multiply over the years?”
“Oh, they did. My cousins have been dutifully making babies. But it’s not just the Holidays. It’s the Houlihans too.”
Violet’s jaw drops. “You were right. There are so many people here, no one will notice me.”
“They’re gonna notice,” I say, killing the engine.
She twists in her seat, looking at me with wide eyes. “This was maybe a bad idea.”
I suck in my lips, flashing forward to how Nana Holiday will certainly embarrass me as soon as she sees Violet. “It’s gonna be fine.”
And by fine I mean I’d rather face my family’s scrutiny than think of Violet alone in that house. Besides, maybe I’ll find a time to talk about Holiday Jitters. Not saying I will. Just that a moment may arise.
“If it gets weird, don’t take it wrong if I leave.”
“I won’t hold it against you. Promise.”
We meet at the hood of the car, and I offer her my elbow. After a moment’s hesitation, Violet threads her arm through, and we head up the walk.