Chapter 13
Something’s wrong. I thought last night with the Russos went fantastically, better than we’d hoped. But toward the end of the night, I could feel the tension weaving through Violet, even though she kept the warm smile on her face.
When we got home, she claimed exhaustion and went to bed immediately.
When I’d lain down next to her, she hadn’t so much as made a peep, and I’d slept fitfully, worried about what was worrying her.
This morning, she’d been all smiles, thanking me for her smoothie but swirling out the door for a client meeting before I could ask her a thing or we could talk about the dinner.
But I can read her like an open book. She’s hiding something, nerves and second thoughts and probably a fair amount of stress at our rushed timeline.
All things I can help with. I wish she’d ask me for help, but that’s not who Violet is. She’s independent, likes to handle her own shit, and is used to taking care of herself.
But I’m here for her now. Not to do it for her, but to do it with her. Because fake or real, we’re in this together, and we need to be able to lean on each other, for the wedding and for however long we decide the marriage needs to last.
So after a long day at the office, I escape home early to make some preparations. First up, my Versa Climber.
I slip my headphones in, listening to my workout mix as I pound my way up imaginary stairs. My record for a half hour workout is just short of a mile, but I’m expecting to do a little extra cardio tonight so I take it a bit easier.
As my arms grasp the main handles and my legs pump up and down, I try to mentally go over my checklist. My mind returns to all the things to do for the wedding and then to Violet.
I try to imagine what it will feel like to stand at the front of her family’s church and see her walking down the aisle to me, taking my hand, and repeating vows to me in front of everyone.
I’m not a dreamer type of guy. This is the first time I’ve ever imagined what my wedding might be like, and I’m not surprised that the image Violet’s created in my head is what plays out. Perfect and beautiful and . . . us.
As I reach the fabled 1776 feet, I’m not thinking of how my body’s covered in sweat or that my arm and calf muscles are pumped. I’m thinking about Violet and the look in her eyes when she said yes to my proposal. I think we’d both felt a bit of something in that overwhelming moment.
But tonight is about not being overwhelmed. Not by deadlines, not by families, not by pressure. Not by anything.
Tonight’s about us. Two frenemies in a really weird situation who are going to make the absolute best of it. ‘Embrace the crazy’ is going to be our new motto.
I rinse off and pull on grey sweat shorts and a tank top, comfy and casual so she doesn’t suspect a thing when she gets home.
And then I get to work.
The phone rings and then hangs up, the signal I worked out with the doorman to warn me that Violet’s home. I light the candles and slide the plate and glass onto the small table.
“Ross?” I hear her call as she opens the door.
“In here,” I bellow down the hallway.
“Did you just get home? What are you doing . . . ?” Her voice trails off as she sees what I’ve been up to.
The bath is drawn, fresh rose petals floating on the surface and scenting the air. There are several candles on the vanity, giving the marbled room a soft blurriness it usually lacks. And there’s fresh, hot pizza and wine on the side table by the tub.
Her mouth drops open and her hands rise to cover the O of surprise. Behind her hands, I can hear the muffled, “Oh, my God! Ross!”
I smile, glad that she’s pleased. “I know last night was a lot, and planning the wedding is stressing you out. I thought you could use a bit of a break. Take a bath, eat dinner and drink wine, then get comfy. I’ve got a surprise for you when you’re done, but no rush. Take your time and relax.”
She shakes her head, and I think her eyes are bit glassy. “I can’t believe you did all this.” The shock seems to give way just a bit because she looks at me with that spark I know so well. “Did Kaede help you?”
I let my jaw fall open, feigning insult.
“Of course not. The only help I had was the pizza place on 4th. They make the best fresh mozzarella, and their thin crust is crispy perfection. Oh, and I bought the roses from Abi. But don’t tell her I mutilated them for your bath or she’ll probably kill me.
She was talking about heirloom this and boutique that.
I just wanted some roses, so I nodded and took what she recommended.
Long story short, those roses are some fancy-bougie stuff, so you should probably get in. ”
She bites her lip and says gently, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Violet,” I say simply and then leave her to it. In the living room, I sit down and wait for her. She doesn’t take nearly as long as I expect. After less than an hour, I can hear the water draining and her soft footsteps around the bedroom.
She appears in a spaghetti-strap nightgown that hits mid-thigh, nothing too risqué, but seeing her soft-skinned and bare-faced is one of the sexiest visions I’ve ever seen.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing her with her guard of power suits and icy glares gone.
This softer side of her, with no barriers, calls to me and makes me feel like a lucky bastard to see her with her hair down, literally and metaphorically.
I pat the couch next to me, and she willingly comes over and sits beside me. Progress, I think, but I don’t dare tease her about it.
“Okay, now what? I feel like you’re buttering me up to rip the rug out from underneath me.” So distrustful and suspicious, especially of me, and that needs to change, starting now.
“No buttering. Just teamwork. Like my old football coach said, ‘Alone, we can do little. Together, we can do much.’ So that’s what we’re doing.” She tilts her head, not sure at all what I’m talking about.
I hand her my next offering, Cherry Garcia ice cream and a spoon. Violet smiles a little, her eyes clearing as she undoes the plastic seal and takes off the lid. “You know, Ross, you’re not always an asshole.”
“Thanks.” I admit with a chuckle, “I try not to be.” I shrug. “Well, sometimes, I try not to be, if we’re being honest.”
She laughs at my self-deprecation.
I watch with amusement as she stabs the ice cream with her spoon. I’ve learned from watching Abigail that there are two kinds of ice cream eating. If she’s running her spoon along the top, sort of gathering a layer of softer ice cream, things are good.
If she’s stabbing the ice cream like a villain in a horror movie . . . “So, what happened at dinner last night?”
She shrugs one shoulder but says, “You were there. You know.”
“Denial and avoidance? C’mon, Vi. You can do better than that. Talk to me. In for an ounce, in for a pound, so lay it on me.”
She eats another bite, flipping the spoon upside down onto her tongue to eat the creamy goodness as she thinks.
“It was just a lot. I wasn’t ready when you got there and had planned to tell them first. And then it was this whole out-of-control scene, and then dinner was going so well, which was great. But it was just . . . a lot.”
I nudge her knee with mine. “Why, Violet Russo, it sounds like you’re a control freak or something.
I planned . . . out of control . . .” I throw my voice into a high falsetto that sounds nothing like her, and she grins.
In my own tenor, I reassure her. “Vi, it was fine. They loved me, and by the time we left, they were naming our children. They totally bought it and are looking forward to the wedding. That’s what you wanted. ”
Violet pauses her ice cream eating. “I know. But it’s like they’re all ready, all settled about it, and this is all just one big party, a family event. Come see Violet get hitched and Stefano get planted. Two for one!”
Her lip trembles, but the fire in her eyes says she’s not done fighting yet. She won’t be curling up in a ball and giving up on Papa just yet. And if she’s not, I’m not.
“Violet, in some ways, I think your grandparents are being incredibly brave with it. Too many people hang on for no other reason than they’re afraid of what’s on the other side, or maybe they’re just too stubborn to give up.
If there’s a reason, like your grandfather has, that makes sense, but .
. . I think most of us hope to reach that point where we’ve done all we wanted with our life, every item on that bucket list checked off.
And it can be a blessing to leave on our own terms, happy and secure in the legacy we leave behind. ”
“But he’s still got so much to live for!
” Violet pleads. “And now . . . everyone acting like this is going to be some big party . . . Ross, I know what the Russo clan’s like.
Even the ones I’ve never met and only heard about.
And when I say a big party, I mean if we’re not careful, it’s going to end up one police call short of Spring Break in Cabo. ”
“Sounds like fun.”
Violet stops and gives me a double-take. “What?”
“I said it sounds like fun,” I repeat. “Violet, in talking with your grandparents, I get why you want to do this. And if they want to turn this into a big party, so what? I mean, if you’re going to go out, go out with the biggest, happiest bash you can. Go out in style. You’re giving him style.”
“The party alone is probably going to be enough to give him a heart attack,” she says gruffly, and then her eyes widen in horror.
“Oh, God, I didn’t mean that.” She looks up to the ceiling.
“If there’s anyone listening, please, I’m begging you with everything I’ve got, don’t let Papa have a heart attack at my wedding.
” She crosses herself, something I’ve never seen her do, so that must mean it’s a serious prayer.