Chapter 18
Violet
Something’s different. I can’t put my finger on it, but whatever this is between Simon and me has changed.
He’s more tender tonight.
More deliberate.
More intentional.
Before, it felt like he was constantly joking around. Like he was here because he was worried about me and doing everything he could to make sure I was okay. Tonight, he feels more serious. Like he’s here because he wants to be. Like he wants something…
Like he wants me.
Hearing about his life in New York clarifies a truth for me.
This is still my Simon. He’s older, sure.
He has experiences I wasn’t around for, but the way he thinks, the way he plans, the way he guides himself so deliberately toward his future—those are all the hallmarks of the man I thought I was going to marry.
The way he knew exactly where to take me tonight to make it feel special?
Classic Simon.
“How many nights did we spend here at the palm grove, sneaking around the lighthouse when we were kids?” I ask as we wander the magically lit boardwalk—the sound of the bay in the distance, the chill in the air causing me to burrow deeper into my coat, the moon rising over the water.
“I was trying to figure that out myself.” Simon wraps an arm around me, drawing me close and I nuzzle in, appreciating his warmth. “It feels like we were out here a lot.”
I nod. “The four of us—me, you, Robbie, and Nora—feeling so rebellious as we wandered the grounds. We always thought it would be like that forever, didn’t we? The four of us, together.”
Simon nods and falls silent, something unreadable flickering in those blue eyes. He leans in close and kisses the top of my head, a sure sign he’s feeling something he’s not saying.
And that’s okay, because I am too.
I’m feeling things I don’t want to mention.
Thinking things I don’t want to say.
I still wish he was my forever.
I still feel better with him than I have ever felt with anyone.
I can’t fathom what my life will be like when he leaves.
I look up at Simon and almost let those truths fly, but I’m not ready to face that reality.
I feel whole and real and true for the first time since my parents passed, and I don’t want to ask questions or open topics that will chase those feelings away.
I want to cling to this, to him, for as long as I can.
I want to wring every last possible moment with Simon out of the time I have left with him.
The inevitable sadness that will descend when he leaves?
That’s a problem for future Violet, because present Violet doesn’t have the strength in her to chase him away any sooner than he’s ready.
Mom would tell me to trust God’s plan, and Nora would agree without hesitation.
But I’ve never been sure where surrender ends and self-abandonment begins, how to let go without drifting so far I can’t find my way back. I mean, I still have to steer, right?
“You’ve gotten quiet on me,” Simon says, craning to meet my eyes.
“Just enjoying myself.” I smile because it’s true. “Enjoying the company. The atmosphere. The view.”
He stares down at me, his eyes glimmering, the twinkle lights reflecting in his dark hair. “The view is pretty spectacular,” he says, and I get the distinct impression he’s talking about me.
We finish our walk through the palm grove, my hand laced in his. The drive home is over in an instant, and though it’s late and baker’s hours are cruel, I’m not ready for the night to be over. When Simon pulls to a stop in my driveway, I shift in my seat, turning to face him head-on.
“Come inside with me? I have a bottle of wine I could open.”
I expect him to turn me down, to give me a litany of reasons why it’s better for me to go inside and get some sleep before a hard day at the bakery tomorrow, to put my well-being above his own wants and desires, because that is what Simon does.
…except for three Christmases ago. He didn’t put you first then, whispers a cruel voice in my head, but I quickly shove it away.
“I would love that,” he says, surprising us both.
One glass of wine turns into two. Stories of our past turn into existential discussions over our views on the world, small-town simplicity versus big city extravagance, how everything would be better if people thought less about themselves and more about the people around them.
Two glasses of wine turn into three, and our existential discussion falls away into long, lingering looks and fingers brushing and twining, foreheads pressed together, lips grazing as Simon leans close to kiss me.
His hand cups my cheek.
The kiss deepens.
My fingers find his hair, and his arm slides around me, tugging me into his lap. The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the sound of my own sigh breaking into the space between us.
“I shouldn’t—” I start, but he silences me with another kiss, gentler this time.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine. “But if you let me love you tonight, I swear I’ll treat it like the gift it is.”
Something breaks loose in me then. All the fear, all the resistance, washed away by the way he’s looking at me. Not like a man starved, but like a man home at last.
“Simon,” I whisper, the word trembling out of me. “I want this. I never stopped wanting you.”
As I speak, I realize just how true those words are. He’s carried a piece of my heart with him all these years. And now that he’s home, I’m finally whole.
We leave the half-empty glasses behind, hands tangled as he leads me down the hall. The air feels charged, my pulse tripping with every step, every brush of his shoulder against mine.
In the bedroom, the lamplight pools golden across the quilt. Simon pauses, searching my face one last time.
“I told myself,” he begins, voice rough with restraint, “that if I ended up in front of a half-naked Violet again, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. It was all I could do not to take you right there in the foyer this morning.”
I see what he’s doing, giving me a way out.
A way out I don’t want.
“Don’t you dare stop, Simon Holiday.”
With a wry smile, I pull my sweater over my head and let it drop to the floor. Instead of the utilitarian beige bra I had on this morning, I’m wearing black lace.
Simon’s eyes go hooded and hot.
The kiss that follows is urgent, hungry, but still threaded with that same tenderness—as if he knows this isn’t just about desire but about rewriting the ending we never got.
Clothes fall away in the soft shadows. His touch is reverent, mesmerizing, every movement a vow. My laughter tangles with his groan as I pull him closer, and then there’s no space left at all.
The world blurs to sensation—heat, breath, whispered names—and the ache that’s lived inside me for years is replaced by something so much fuller.
When the night finally slows, he gathers me against him, pressing his lips to my temple.
“See?” he whispers. “I’m still your Simon.”
And the part of me that isn’t afraid of tomorrow relaxes for the first time in years.