Chapter 28
twenty-eight
. . .
Violet
It’s been a week since Rowan left, and the beginning of May has settled in around me. Longer days, greener trees, and…loneliness. It’s not that I wasn’t used to being alone before, but now it’s like there’s an actual piece of me missing. He calls me once a day, but it’s not enough.
Bramble’s been a comfort, though. She’s curled up on the couch beside me at my condo, her head nestled in the crook of my arm.
“Violet, get your ass up. We’re going out.”
Whitley’s voice is bright and demanding, full of energy as usual. Her heels click against the floor as she storms in, Bramble’s ears perking up at the sound, tail thumping against the couch in excitement.
“Violet,” Whitley’s voice closes in on me, and there’s a teasing lilt to it. “You don’t get to lie around looking all cute and forlorn while I’m out here living my best life. We’re hitting the town today. You, me, and maybe some tequila. No excuses.”
I can’t help but laugh a little, shaking my head. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“Damn straight.” She reaches out, pulling me up from the couch. “Come on. I could really use my wing woman today.”
I roll my eyes. “Am I going to need to crash at Rowan’s later because you’ll be loud enough that the whole building will call the cops?”
She laughs, the sound rich with confidence as she tugs me toward the door. “Maybe. I’m on the lookout for someone intense, who knows when to shut up and is good at fixing things.”
“That’s…oddly specific,” I say as I pull on my shoes.
She shrugs. “I know what I want. Bonus points if he actually knows what a clit is.”
“Okay, so a strong, silent type who’s also…good with his hands. And…mouth, maybe? I’ll keep an eye out.”
I get ready as quickly as I can. The place we show up to is packed by the time we get there. Whitley pulls me through the door, her grip on my wrist unrelenting as we weave through the crowd toward the bar.
“Two tequila sunrises,” she tells the bartender with a wink, then turns to scan the room, her eyes narrowing like a predator searching for her prey.
I’m about to suggest we find a table when I spot Beau and Jake tucked in a corner booth.
“Oh,” I say, nudging Whitley. “Look who’s here.”
She follows my gaze, and I swear I see her posture straighten a fraction. “Well, well. The brooding bodyguard and a sidekick.”
“Be nice,” I warn, but there’s no real force behind it. Whitley’s version of “nice” is subjective at best.
We collect our drinks and make our way over. Jake spots us first, his usual grin spreading across his face when he sees us.
“Violet Larkin,” he calls out with that playful grin, his voice carrying over the chatter in the bar. Then he turns his attention to Whitley, sizing her up with that same cocky look he always gets when a new face appears. “And who would this be?”
“Whitley,” she replies smoothly, extending her hand, giving him a look that says she’s already sizing him up right back.
He grins wider. “Well, Whitley, it’s a pleasure.”
“A pleasure, indeed. How have we not met before? This town has a population of, like, twelve,” she teases before her attention drifts to Beau sitting on the opposite side of the booth. “And Beaumont, how lovely to see you again.”
“That is not my name.”
“Oh, sorry. Was it Beauseph? I always mix those up.”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
Whitley snorts, and I suppress a laugh as I slide into the booth next to Beau. Jake pats the bench next to him, and Whitley takes a seat.
“We were just discussing how Beau here desperately needs to learn how to have fun,” Jake says.
Beau’s jaw tightens. “I know how to have fun.”
“Watching the History Channel in your underwear isn’t fun,” Jake retorts.
Whitley laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained. “Oh, I don’t know. Depends on the underwear.”
Beau’s eyes flick to her for a split second before returning to his beer, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“How’s Rowan?” Jake asks, his tone softening as he turns to me.
I take a sip of my drink, the sweetness of the orange juice barely masking the burn of tequila. “Called last night but the signal wasn’t great. He sounded like he’s doing alright.”
The truth is, I miss him so much it physically hurts, but I’m not about to admit that in front of everyone. Our calls have been brief, mostly him assuring me he’s safe and me pretending I’m not counting the days until he returns.
“Good,” Jake nods.
Whitley leans forward, elbows on the table. “So, Beaumont,” she says, completely changing the subject. “What exactly do you do when you’re not scowling in corners?”
Beau’s eyebrow twitches. “Still not my name. And I’m a mechanic.”
“Hmm.” She takes a deliberate sip of her drink, eyes never leaving his face. “And do you enjoy it? Fixing things?”
Oh lord. Here we go.
“Mmhmm.”
Jake snorts, and for a second, I think the conversation might die there, but Whitley is nothing if not persistent.
“So, good with your hands then?” she asks, and I nearly choke on my drink.
Beau’s eyes narrow slightly, but there’s a glint of something that wasn’t there before. “I manage.”
“He’s being modest,” Jake chimes in. “This beast can fix anything with an engine.”
Whitley’s smile turns appreciative. “Is that right?”
“Jake talks too much,” Beau mutters, but I notice he doesn’t deny it.
Whitley shoots back without missing a beat. “I don’t think he talks enough.”
I swear, the tension between those two could knock over a drink if it were any thicker. I share a glance with Jake, and we both try to hide our amusement.
“Are they gonna fuck?” Jake mouths silently to me.
I blush and try to cover a laugh, shaking my head at Jake. He’s impossible, but I can’t deny the electricity crackling between Whitley and Beau. This is either going to end really well or in absolute chaos.
It’s been two and a half weeks now, and I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at my phone. Rowan was supposed to call at eight last night, same time as every other day, but my screen remained stubbornly blank. No missed calls. No texts explaining why.
His calls have gotten shorter and more distracted. Sometimes he sounds distant, as if his mind is somewhere else entirely. I try to keep everything light and make it sound like I’m okay when we do talk, even when I’m not.
It’s almost that time again, but I place my phone face down on the counter. Staring at it just causes fear to creep up my spine.
“Maybe he’s just busy,” Whitley offers from the doorway, her voice gentler than usual.
I force a smile. “Yeah. Probably.”
But we both know it’s more than that.
When my phone finally buzzes an hour later, I nearly drop it in my rush to answer.
“Rowan?”
“Hey.” His voice is tired, stretched thin. “Sorry about last night.”
“It’s okay. I figured you were caught up with something.”
There’s a long pause, the static of the connection filling the silence between us. “I’ve had my hands full out here.”
“That’s okay. I understand.” I twist the hem of my shirt. “How are you? Is everything going well?”
“Fine.” His response is clipped, distracted again. Voices sound in the background, and someone calls his name. “I can’t talk long. Just wanted to check in.”
Check in. Like I’m an item on his to-do list. My throat tightens.
“Okay… Well, I miss you a ton, and I can’t wait to see you.” I force a smile into my voice, trying to sound light, easy, like this isn’t the hundredth time I’ve swallowed a pit of anxiety about him being gone. I don’t want to admit how much his absence and my worry is starting to consume my days.
Another pause. “Actually, I do have something to tell you. The assignment’s been extended. Another two weeks.”
The floor drops out from under me. “What?”
“It’s good money, Violet. Really good.”
It feels as if the air has been punched from my lungs. I grip the phone tighter. “Two more weeks?”
“Yeah.” He sounds exhausted. “I’m sorry, Violet.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “No, it’s… That’s okay. It’s work, right? I understand.”
But I don’t understand.
“I’ve gotta go,” he says, and I can hear the voices getting louder in the background. “I’ll try to call tomorrow.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
“Always. Love you.”
Click. The line goes dead before I can say anything back.
I stand there in my kitchen, phone clutched in my hand, staring at nothing. Two more weeks. On top of the three that already feel like an eternity. I slide down against the cabinets until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor.
“That didn’t sound good,” Whitley says as she slides down beside me with two glasses of wine.
I take the glass she shoves in my direction. “He’s staying longer.”
“How much longer?”
“A couple weeks.” I take a large sip, welcoming the burn.
“And you’re not okay with it.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.
She gives me a look. “Violet.”
I stare into my wine glass, watching the liquid catch the light and swirl in tiny circles. “What am I supposed to say? That I want him to drop everything and come back?” My voice cracks. “That I’m scared this is the start of him being away more than he’s here?”
At first, I was afraid this was history repeating itself, but this is not the same at all.
This is history…mutating. Back then, I didn’t know the risks.
I only knew the emptiness he left behind.
Now I know the dangers he faces, and it’s not just about his absence—which is part of the issue, yes.
But it’s also the not knowing if every phone call will carry something I can’t fix.
Her voice softens. “Have you told him any of this?”
I shake my head, staring harder at the glass, willing it to give me answers. “I don’t want to be that girl.”
She tilts her head. “Which girl?”
“The needy one,” I say, the word sour on my tongue. “The girlfriend who can’t handle her boyfriend having a career. The one who makes him choose.”
Whitley exhales slowly. “Violet, having feelings doesn’t make you needy and telling someone what you need isn’t forcing them into a corner.”
I’m fighting back tears at this point. “What if what I need is more than he can give?”
“Then you deserve to know that now,” she says gently. “Before you’re in any deeper. I don’t like this, V.”
The truth is, I’m already drowning. Every day without him is like holding my breath, waiting for the moment I can surface again. What if that moment never comes?
“I’m just…scared.”
“You know what, babe?” she says, her tone deadly serious. “You’re thinking too damn much. You’re getting all tangled up in your head like some kind of emotional pretzel. You’re so busy trying to be the passive girlfriend that you’re not being honest with him or yourself. That’s bullshit, Violet.”
I flinch, not expecting her to come at me like that. “Geez, Whit.”
“And you know what else?” Whitley continues, setting her wine glass down with a sharp click. “I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re not asking for the moon here. You’re just asking for basic consideration.”
I blink at her, taken aback by the edge in her voice.
“Don’t give me that look,” she says. “You’re sitting here worrying about being ‘that girl’ when all you want is for him to actually talk to you for more than five minutes a day. That’s not needy—that’s the bare minimum.”
“He’s out there making decisions about both your lives, and you’re letting him.”
Good lord, she isn’t done yet.
She takes a gulp of wine. “Five weeks away when you just got together? That’s not nothing.”
“I don’t—”
“Uh-uh.” She holds up her hand. “You need to have a real conversation where you tell him how you actually feel instead of pretending everything’s peachy when it’s not.”
“What if he resents me?”
“What if he does?” She shrugs. “Better to know now than waste years of your life with someone who can’t handle your feelings. That’s not love, that’s convenience.”
Her words echo in my head. My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I swallow hard, trying to sort through everything she’s just thrown at me.
“Violet?” Whitley’s voice suddenly softens. “You okay?”
I shake my head as the first tear slides down my cheek.
Her arms wrap around me, pulling me into a fierce hug. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles into my hair. “I didn’t want to get all harsh on you like that. I just couldn’t watch you shrink yourself anymore.” She pulls back, searching my face. “I feel awful, but did it work? Did any of that actually help?”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I think so. I guess I needed the verbal slap across the face.”
She gives me a sad smile. “Your feelings matter, okay? And this isn’t Therapist Whitley talking. It’s your best friend.”
I lift my glass, managing a small smile.
“That’s right,” she says, picking up her glass and clinking it against mine. “Drink up, bitch. You can spiral again tomorrow. Tonight, we’re choosing denial.”
I snort despite myself, the laugh breaking through what’s left of the heaviness.
Therapy session adjourned.