Chapter 6 – “Fuck it I love you” - Lana Del Rey
VIOLET
“FUCK IT I LOVE YOU” - LANA DEL REY
THREE MONTHS LATER
“Why can’t he do our piercings?” the young woman asks from the front desk, pointing at me.
I chuckle under my breath but pretend I didn’t hear them as I continue sanitizing the bench where I just finished a six-hour shin piece.
It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I’m ready to go home.
I opened at ten this morning, and I don’t foresee myself being able to go home anytime soon.
I don’t set hard-and-fast business hours for the shop.
I won’t keep the lights on when no one is around, but I don’t want to close up when the boardwalk is busy, and there is a chance of walk-ins.
I planned on leaving after my three o’clock appointment, but my drop-in artist, Lilly, just left, and the boardwalk is much busier than usual for this time of year.
Three women who can’t be over the age of twenty-one stand at the desk, asking about belly-button piercings. Luckily, Maggie stuck around this afternoon to help out when I realized how many walk-ins we were getting.
“You have to be careful with that one, anyway. He’s a heartbreaker,” she says.
The woman raises a brow, giving me a once-over and smiling like she doesn’t mind what she sees. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, you know. Broody and noncommittal.” Maggie tosses her head back, winking at me. “He’s one of those shy, broken, emo boys.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“Bet I could fix him,” the woman purrs.
That makes me laugh out loud. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
I toss my cleaning supplies in the cupboard behind the front desk before turning toward the hallway that leads to the back. The group of girls are beet red as I pass them, offering a smile. They definitely didn’t intend for me to hear that conversation.
I fall into my desk chair, shutting the door with my foot. I won’t leave until Maggie does—I don’t want to leave her alone this late at night, so I pass the time with an audiobook while I budget for the upcoming year.
January is the worst month for me. Winter is always hard, but people at least vacation during the holidays, and we maintain some business while schools are on break and people are off work.
When the new year comes along, seasonal depression hits, everyone goes back to work, and nobody wants to spend a dime following the holidays.
It’s well known that many small businesses struggle at the start of a new year, but as I compare numbers, I realize just how much my fucking mortgage is taking a toll on my finances.
I don’t need four bedrooms, a den, or a wraparound porch. I don’t need all this space I can’t afford, but after considering selling last year, I couldn’t go through with it. I can’t let go of one of the only happy memories of my brother I have left.
I’ve thought about getting a roommate, but the idea of living with a stranger wigs me out, and living with someone I do know wigs me out even more.
I considered asking Leo to move in last year when he was still staying in the studio above Heathen’s.
Though, it doesn’t matter now that he’s a married homeowner with a baby girl on the way.
I smile at the thought. That pure, unfiltered happiness on both their faces when they told us. Darby had a rough time getting pregnant, and I know she was close to giving up hope entirely, so I couldn’t be happier for the two of them.
It really goes to show how incredibly different lifestyles can look for those of us in our late-twenties.
Some are married and have families. Fuck, even Everett has a kid at home, when only a year ago, he was the biggest bachelor I knew.
Then, there are those like me: hardly able to pay our bills, emotionally unavailable, estranged from their parents, and likely to die alone.
The morbid thought is broken up by the sound of Maggie knocking on my door. “I’ve got my station all cleaned up. Register is closed too. You cool if I head out?”
I stretch, lifting out of my chair. “Yeah, go for it. I’m going to lock up, and then I’ll be out of here too.”
“We could just leave together, if you want?”
I know there are underlying connotations to that question, and like every time she’s propositioned me before, I maintain a professional boundary.
“Nah, you’re good. You can head out.”
She swallows hard, and I know that disappointed her, but I’ve made it clear that I’m not interested in her that way. Maggie’s sweet. She’s cute too, with her pixie cut and her pin-up look, but I’m not about to fuck my only full-time employee.
“Have a good night,” she mumbles before shutting my door behind her.
I wait long enough to know she’s gone before I leave my office and head toward the front of the shop.
I unplug the neon lights strung around the space, tie off the trash, and set the bags by the back door so I can toss them on my way out.
Just as I’m finishing up, I hear the bells on the door chime.
Fuck. I should’ve realized Maggie didn’t lock up the front before she left.
“We’re actually closed!” I call out.
I need the business, but I’m not staying here all night for some random, drunk asshole.
The response I get back is a laugh, loud and raspy.
My blood runs cold at the sound of it, my flesh turning to ice as it rakes across my skin. That laugh is implanted in my bones and stamped upon my soul; my entire body freezes as it echoes through my hollow chest.
I’m standing at the back door, staring at my feet because I’m fucking petrified to turn around. There is zero explanation for her being in my shop at eleven on a Saturday night, laughing. I’m not prepared to address this, so much as look at her.
I don’t fucking want to.
What’s worse is that the sound of her is accompanied by another.
A lower, deeper, male voice. An intense sense of déjà vu washes over me because this isn’t the first time I’ve hidden behind a wall, listening to her laugh with another man, and allowing her to wreak havoc on me.
In fact, I’ve been in this position so many goddamn times I lost count.
Sucking in a swift breath, I spin on my heel and head toward the front of my store. My business. What I built—alone, without her. She fucking left me. She does not get to show up whenever the fuck she feels like tormenting me.
“You cannot be here…” My words die on my tongue as I turn the corner and find her standing in front of me. It’s been months since I last saw her face, and even then she rendered me speechless all the same.
She wore a black dress to her brother’s wedding.
The kind that clung to every curve like it was painted on.
Her face was sad and withdrawn, she was thin and frail, but like every other time I’d looked at her throughout the duration of my life, what stood before me was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
This moment is no different.
Except, rather than a black dress that molds to her body like it was made for her, she’s wearing cut-off shorts, a black Glass Animals tee, and a worn pair of Vans.
Her hair is thrown into a knot atop her head, with wild, dark strands framing her like a lion’s mane.
The tail of the serpent I tattooed around her thigh on her twenty-third birthday peeks from beneath the hem of her shorts.
The septum piercing I gave her when she was nineteen catches the overhead lights, glinting.
If she turned her head right now, I’d catch a glimpse of the constellation on her neck—my constellation.
She’s covered in me, and yet she’s spent years pretending I don’t exist.
I want to fucking hate her for it.
She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—and I want to hate her for that too.
Time seems to suspend itself the moment her eyes meet mine, like the room warps around me at lightning speed, and completely freezes at the exact same time. I suddenly can’t make sense of the floor or the ceiling, of where I am or what I’m doing.
It’s all her. It all revolves around her.
I don’t know how to make it stop—especially now, because I can see the panic in her eyes. That’s what has my feet stuck to the ground and words lodged in my throat. Her eyes are moving too quickly over my face, a type of desperation I’ve seen in her most fearful moments.
Everything settles then. I clock the trembling of her bottom lip and the slight tremor in her hands. There is a lazy smile on her face as she stares me down, but I see the unspoken expression there, because I know her better than anyone else on this fucking planet.
She’s terrified.
I glance at the guy next to her. He’s tall, lean, and covered in tattoos.
Dark eyes, and what appears to be long, dark hair beneath his green beanie.
I almost laugh. Guess she has a fucking type, then.
He snakes a possessive arm around her waist, tugging her against him, and I don’t miss the way she flinches at the contact.
“Hey, man. Sorry, we thought you were open.”
He shuffles her sideways, and Elena opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but no sound escapes.
“Elena,” I say roughly, her name like acid on my tongue.
There is no way she’s been dating this guy for an extended period of time. Her brothers would’ve mentioned that, and based on the information they have shared, she hardly leaves the house.
It was only three months ago that Everett begged me for advice on how to get through to her.
From what I heard, he’d asked Elena to help with Dahlia’s bakery and was turned down.
After that, the updates from her family dwindled, almost as if nobody wanted me to know what was going on with her, but I’m fairly certain someone would’ve mentioned her having a boyfriend.
Both Elena and the man turn back to me, fear on her face and confusion on his. She tucks a stray strand behind her ear, eyes fluttering to the ground. “Yeah, hey,” she murmurs.
“You know him?” her date asks, glancing down at her.
“Well, I told you my brother owns the boardwalk, right? Augustus is a friend of his.”