Chapter 6
six
. . .
Violet
The high of returning to my office space and getting my charger (and confidence) back is overshadowed by the nightmares I have that night. Or memories, really. Most people underestimate how much your childhood fears follow you, even subconsciously. Though the exact memories have gotten a bit fuzzy as I’ve gotten older, they never really go away. No matter how much I want them to. Tonight, my dreams take me back to when I was five. My dad had just gotten home and was already upset about something, which he handled by pouring himself a drink. We sat down at the table to eat dinner, and my dad was immediately displeased with what my mom made. His slurred words turn into hateful screams, and suddenly I’m in my mom’s arms as she slams the bedroom door shut. While we could no longer see the rageful fit he was having, the door was not able to block out the sounds of plates being shattered and a slew of curses on the other side.
Self-preservation from what came next jolts me awake, my entire body covered in sweat. The time on my alarm clock reads 4:55 a.m. and my heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest. In a feeble attempt to slow it down I take a series of deep breaths — in for five seconds out for seven, in five out seven. It’s been at least two years since I’ve had a nightmare like this. I had finally built enough confidence to start moving on from my past, but one visit from him sent that wall of confidence crumbling like a house of cards.
After two hours of tossing in bed, my alarm goes off. I groan as I drag myself out of the bed and head into the bathroom. Lovely. I look about as good as I feel. I force myself to take a quick shower hoping to jostle myself awake, but the exhaustion is settled deep into my bones. I feel like a zombie as I head out of my apartment and board the campus bus. I realize too far into my journey that I forgot my to-go cup of tea on my kitchen counter which means I will be hauling my dead body to the Beanery.
I make a beeline to the cafe as soon as I get to campus and let out a sigh of relief when I see the line consists of only five people. Soon, so soon, I will have my hands on pure caffeinated bliss — nothing like a warm cup of tea to soothe all my problems. The door behind me chimes as someone walks in and joins me in line. A chill runs down my spine as cool air from outside rushes in, followed by a waft of pine and soap. Fucking Mason.
I hadn’t seen him since last week. I tried to block out my poor attempt at seeming unphased in my office. I hoped he saw ‘twenty-five, flirty, and thriving’ and not a tortured soul looking at the last person who had owned her heart before letting it drop to the floor and shatter into pieces like it was made of glass. Did his body feel as thrown off its axis being in the same room with me as mine did? I suppose I should be thankful he didn’t speak. The remains of my heart would turn to ash at the deep silk of his voice.
“Hello Violet. Are you finally going to talk to me today?”
Shit. His deep voice was as chipper as it was smug. I feel goosebumps rise on my neck as he leans down and whispers into my ear. “Or do you want to keep pretending like we’ve never met before?”
While I may be an ash pile on the floor, the good news is I’m incredibly stubborn. And my sleepless brain has no words.
“Hmm, seems like you’re still feeling quiet today. I am curious how long you think you can keep this up.”
I keep my eyes forward and groan internally as the person at the front of the line requests a large, iced caramel macchiato with almond milk, no whip, light ice, and 2 pumps of toffee nut syrup. While I was sure my stubbornness knew no bounds, Mason had a knack for finding my limits…and pushing them. And if the patron in front of me had any say, Mason would have all day to do it.
I could feel him shift his body back away from my ear. Presumably, he had his arms crossed as he quipped.
“At first, I thought ‘That can’t be my Violet.’ Same height, same curls, same addiction to chai lattes, but you’re up and running at 7:30 a.m., and she would never. Not a morning person at all. But now, I see her. The Violet I knew really hated confrontation. So much so that she decided to cut me out of her life, even though she promised she wouldn’t. Just poof, excommunicado. Like I was nothing to her.”
The absolute nerve . As if he wasn’t the one who decided he couldn’t handle being in a relationship.
Mason continues to search for my limit. “You seemed to move on fairly quickly if my memory serves me.”
Congrats Mason, you found it . Now I’m pissed. I whip my body around to face him and whisper-yell.
“What are you talking about?!” If he was happy that he had gotten me to crack, he certainly didn’t show it .
This was the first time we had truly looked each other in the eyes in three years. We seemed to both take the opportunity to peruse one another. Mason’s classically clean-shaven face is long gone and is now covered in a short beard that’s a few shades darker than the medium-brown strands of his hair. Speaking of his hair — Mason had grown it out slightly, though it still sat on his head in that classic windblown-but-not-quite-messy kind of way. And though he may be retired from the NHL, it’s very apparent that he keeps up with his workout regimen. His dark gray Henley clings to his arms and chest, accentuating every muscle and leaving little to the imagination. Not that I’d have to imagine what was underneath, I had seen it with my own eyes. Who would’ve known a long-sleeved shirt could look so obscene on a person? From the corner of my eye, I see a hint of ink peeking out from under his sleeve, though I can’t quite make out the shape. Another part of him that’s new to me. A part I have no business being curious about.
I pull myself together to respond only to realize we had made it to the front of the line. Jesus, how long had we been staring at each other?
“She’ll have a medium iced chai latte, half sweet, and I’ll have a small americano.” He says this as if it’s three years ago, and ordering my favorite drink is something I would expect he do. He’s reaching out to hand the barista his credit card when I intercept it.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Buying us drinks. You have to pay for these ya know.”
“Well maybe I want something else.” I do not.
“Do you?”
That was entirely beside the point. I can’t tell if I’m irritated because of how predictable I am or because of he knows me so well even after all these years. Regardless, I want to wipe that smug look off his face no matter the expense. Goodbye my precious half-sweet chai latte, you will be missed .
“I was actually hoping to get a cold brew instead. With milk and sugar.”
The barista exchanges a look between the two of us, decides whatever is happening is of little interest to them, shrugs, and takes the card from Mason. I accept defeat and walk away toward the pick-up area. Mason follows.
“You know this could be considered stalking.”
“It's considered stalking to get a coffee at the cafe closest to my office?” He nods his head toward the hockey stadium.
My jaw finds residence on the floor. I was so thrown off by his drop-in a week ago that I hadn’t thought about why he showed up during my office hours, or even why he was here now. I look at him dubiously.
“You work here now?”
“Well, no. I don’t work at the Beanery. New assistant coach for the men’s hockey team. Provisionally, we’ll see what happens at the end of the season.”
The sheepish look on his face catches me by surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mason look self-conscious about anything in his life, especially not something related to hockey. I think that was the aspect of him that had attracted me the most. As a pathological people pleaser, I’d spent most of my life trying to fit myself into whatever box would make the people around me happy, often at the expense of myself.
Mason was the complete opposite — the wildest hurricane paled in comparison to his confidence, strength, and unwavering ferocity. He never let anyone tell him how he should feel or act or be. In a way, his energy had been contagious. There were few moments when I had stood up for myself when I was younger, and those moments were almost always connected to Mason.
“Oh. Cool.” I cringed slightly at my inability to string more than a few words together in response. Trying to have a conversation with someone who used to be the most important person in your life, who I now know nothing about, is one of the most uncomfortable and out-of-body experiences. It’s like, “Hey you’ve seen me naked. What are you doing for work these days?”
It seemed Mason was equally unsure of how to proceed now that we couldn’t pretend the other person didn’t exist.
“Since when do you drink cold brew instead of tea? I thought the extra caffeine gave you heart palpitations.”
“I had a rough night and it’s going to be a long day, so.” He didn’t need to know that the cold brew would be given to Maya, and I would sneak back to the Beanery afterward to right the wrong.
“Are you still getting nightmares?”
Gone was his usual happy-go-lucky expression, his eyebrows now scrunched together in concern. A few years ago, having Mason’s full attention was all I could have ever wished for. Now I wanted nothing more than to get as far away from him as possible before I found myself getting wrapped back into the storm that is Mason Hayes. I had already drowned in him once, and I had no intention of drowning in him again. And sharing vulnerable information was not going to do me any favors.
“They’ve stopped, for the most part.” I turn away from him and let out a visible sigh of relief when the barista places our drinks on the counter. I toss a quick wave over my shoulder as I exit the café. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Mason won’t take a hint. He trails behind me as I head to the psychology building.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“Well, I just feel like we have so much to catch up on, don’t you?”
“I can’t say that we do. You can go now.”
“Wow. I’m crushed, and also not that easy to get rid of. “
“You know you’re not as charming as you think you are. You’re actually quite annoying. Like a pest. Or a cream-resistant rash.”
Harsh, but necessary. I swear I had used the same words back in high school when we got in a fight over him scaring one of my boyfriends away.
“Charming. I really missed your sense of humor.” He deadpans.
“Is there a point to this, Mason?”
“I mean if it wasn’t clear already — I miss you. And I’m a little upset about the fact that you said everything would be fine between us one day when you never meant it.”
His words freeze me in place, and suddenly, I find myself interested in the cracks on the sidewalk. Was that hurt in his voice? It couldn’t be. Not when he found it so easy to push me away. I knew at the time that asking him for more than his friendship meant I would never be able to go back to being his friend again. It would hurt too much knowing that I loved him and he couldn’t love me back. But he did, or at least he said as much, but not enough to want to be with me. I didn’t want someone’s half attempt at adoration, I wanted to be their everything. And Mason couldn’t give me that, so I was done giving pieces of myself to him.
“I have to head to class soon. Is there anything I can actually help you with, or are you just here to rehash the past? Don’t you have some…coaching to go do?”
“Ah yes speaking of, I was hoping to talk with you about one of my players, Jake. That’s why I dropped by your office hours last week,” he offers.
Of course, that’s what all of this was about. It all made sense now. Mason was always very good at charming someone before asking for a favor. Remembering my latte order and pretending to care about my recurring nightmares were all part of his plan to butter me up so I would go easy on his players. For a moment, he had me convinced that he cared about repairing what was he broke. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
“I remember Jake. He came by my office to grade grub a few weeks ago.”
“Yeah, he told me all about that. ”
Mason pauses, realizing we’re standing a few feet outside the building. I turn to face him, curious as to what his request would be. Will he ask me to put together an extra credit assignment — which I had already offered to do — because he told Jake that grade grubbing is insulting? Or will he ask me to give the little shit an A+ because hockey players don’t need to understand research methods?
He lets out a small breath and bites his lip like he’s nervous. “I was hoping maybe you could take another look at his assignment?”
Aaaand we’re done here. “You can’t be serious.”
“Well Jake mentioned that he accidentally got marked off a few points more than he should and that he tried to get it fixed but his teaching assistant…”
Mason’s choice not to finish that sentence likely means he realizes how absurd it sounds. I take the opportunity to berate him anyway.
“‘His teaching assistant’ what? Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what I did, Mason? Misgraded his paper, and when it was brought to my attention told him ‘Too fucking bad’?”
I wasn’t proud of my anger in this moment but after all the challenges I had to overcome during grad school, I’d become particularly sensitive about how I was perceived professionally. I care about my research and my students. I was sick of feeling like everyone around me questioned my judgment and decisions. Unfortunately for Mason, he was just a drop in the bucket.
“I just…” He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a goldfish. “He’s one of our star players, but we have to bench him if he doesn’t get his grade up. And I’m his coach so it’s now my responsibility to help him out. I’m trying to help him—” I put my hand up to stop him.
“I tried to help him too. I double-checked to make sure the points he got off weren’t done mistakenly, and I even offered him extra credit to bring his grade up, but he turned it down and said he didn’t have the time for it. There’s only so much I can do to help my students, especially if they’re not willing to help themselves. It seems you and I have very different ideas of what ‘helping’ means.”
Mason’s pained expression matches his voice. “Vi, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have asked you to take another look at his assignment if I did.”
The remorse I see in his eyes makes me want to believe him, but I have learned the hard way how persuasive he could be. How easy it was for him to lie to me to get what he wanted. Putting our history aside, Jake was not just ‘our star player’; he was my student, and I cared about my students.
“Listen, maybe it’s best I set up a time to meet with Jake and the head coach so we can figure out what the next steps are together. Steps that don’t include me changing his grade just because he feels entitled to it.”
“Sure, that works. Except Coach Jameson put me in charge of handling Jake’s academics so it looks like you’re stuck with me.”
“Are you serious?” This comes out aghast, and for the sake of maintaining my angry exterior, I am grateful for that. But really my surprise comes from the teeniest bit of pride. He’s managing his players’ professional and academic careers. I never thought I’d see him in this leadership role. It looks good on him.
“I’m afraid so.” He gives me a sheepish smile.
“Fine. Whatever. I'll send you and Jake an email later today.”
I manage to enter the building and make it down the hall when I hear Mason calling my name. He jogs up to me and stands in front of me, blocking my path. “Violet, wait up for a second.”
Hello god, the universe, or whatever else is out there. Please put an end to this torturous conversation and I’ll never be lazy about dividing up my recyclables again.
“Yes Mason?”
“You didn’t get my email. You need my email to set up the meeting. ”
“I was planning on just looking it up in the Westchester staff directory.”
“Oh right. That makes sense.” He makes no move to get out of my way.
I raise my brows as if to say, ‘anything else?’
“I was hoping we could…um.” He looks down at his shoes for a minute before looking back up at me as he shakes his head.
“Actually no. That was it. Just wanted to make sure you had my email.”
“Great. See you around.”