9. Violet
VIOLET
By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I am cranky, and ready for everyone to leave.
I was a little disappointed about staying here alone over spring break, but the closer it gets, the more I’m looking forward to blasting music, eating takeout, binge watching movies and hopefully coming up with a great idea for my project.
I’ve sketched no less than twenty designs but haven’t loved any of them. This design has to be perfect. I’m never going to have this kind of opportunity again.
I hug Daisy goodbye. She and Jordan are spending the weekend at his parents’ house before she goes with them to watch him play hockey. It’s a whole meet the parents’ thing that she’s never really done with a guy, and it’s adorable how nervous she is.
“They’re going to love you,” I reassure her. “And if they don’t, call me and I will come get you and you can hang out with me.”
I know she won’t need me. Everyone loves Daisy. And if they don’t, well, there’s seriously something wrong with them.
Dahlia and Jane already left. They’re driving to the beach for the week with plans to do nothing but lie in the sun and relax.
“Are you sure you want to stay here all by yourself?” Daisy asks. “You could come with us.”
“Oh, I bet Jordan would love me crashing his weekend plans of nonstop sex.” I can’t help but laugh.
She blushes. “He would be fine with it.”
He will do anything for her, so I know it would be fine if I really wanted to go with them.
“No,” I say. “I am really excited about this. By the time you get back, I will have a fabulous dress design.”
“I know you will.” She hugs me again.
With the house to myself, I bring all my design stuff downstairs. Fabrics, sewing machine, my bust, colored pencils, tablet—every single thing. I spread out in the living room and let out a slow breath. I can do this.
I can finally start my week-long Jane Austen marathon.
My plan is to watch all my favorites back-to-back as many times as it takes until I have a winning design.
There is no better muse than a Jane Austen hero.
Mister Darcy. Mister Knightley. Captain Wentworth.
The latter is my absolute favorite. His passion for Anne after eight years is the thing of truly great love stories.
I begin with Mansfield Park. It’s my least favorite, but that’s like saying it’s my least favorite of all my favorite foods. The bottom of the list is still fabulous.
Not a lot of sketching happens as I get pulled into the costumes and dialogue, and before I know it, I’ve crossed off the first movie and it’s dark outside.
My stomach growls. After a quick scan of our kitchen, I pour a glass of wine and order takeout.
I put on Emma next but mute the TV and turn on subtitles.
Maybe I need to go in a different direction for inspiration.
I pull up Penelope’s latest album on Spotify.
With my wine in one hand, I move around the living room, listening to the lyrics and occasionally watching a favorite scene from the movie playing silently.
She has a way with words. Her lyrics dive into your deepest, darkest insecurities and serve them up in a bold, fun way. She does have some slower songs, but what people love most are the catchy, upbeat tunes.
As the last song is ending, there’s a knock at the front door. I pull it open to a sweaty delivery guy. He hands me a brown bag with a heavy sigh.
“I had to park a freaking mile away,” he mutters.
I lean forward to peer around the doorway. As I expected, cars line the street in both directions. My car is blocked in, and someone even had the gall to park in the empty spot next to my vehicle in the driveway.
Music, along with voices and laughter, blasts from the backyard of the White House.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the delivery driver.
He hands over the brown bag with a frown, and I offer what I hope is an apologetic smile. I bet he spit in my food.
I take the bag inside and turn off my music. Apparently, I was blasting it pretty loud because now the party next door is all I can hear.
I turn on the next movie of the weekend and crank up the volume to drown out the noise next door.
I love historical romance films. All of them really, but there’s something about Jane Austen.
It’s the language and her strong heroines.
And the way they always know exactly what to say to cut the hero to the quick.
And, of course, he gives it right back while still being so very obvious to everyone but the heroine how much he cares for her.
Halfway through the food, my stomach cramps. I push it away and go into the kitchen for a glass of water. Staring out the window over the sink, I can see the lights in the backyard next door.
My mind goes to Gavin. Living next door to him has been hard. Way harder than I thought. He hurt me. I thought I was tough enough to just get over it and pretend he doesn’t exist, but that hasn’t been easy.
A sharp pain wraps around my lower stomach. Wincing, I walk back into the living room and lie on the couch. I curl up in a ball while staring at the TV, barely seeing anything happening on the screen.
Not long after, a cold sweat breaks out over my body and my mouth waters. I run to the downstairs bathroom just in time to empty my dinner into the toilet bowl.
“He definitely spit in the food,” I mutter as I walk back out to the couch. I don’t even have time to get comfortable before the urgent desire to throw up again takes over.
When there is nothing left, I wobble out of the bathroom. The movie has ended, and the music next door sends a new rage vibrating through me.
“This is all his fault.”
Anger and delirium push me out the door. I stalk across the yard toward the party. If I were thinking straight, I’d be aware that this is the first time I’ve stepped foot in the White House in over a year. Or that I’m knowingly walking into enemy territory.
But I’m not thinking straight.
I walk right in behind a group of people coming for the party. They shoot me a confused look, which reminds me I’m in cotton shorts and a tank top with flip flops. There’s also a good chance I smell like barf.
From the front entryway, I can see that the party is mostly outside.
I check the media room and kitchen on my way through the house, then do a lap around the yard.
Gavin is usually easy to spot in a crowd.
He’s taller than most, and there’s just something about him—I can always pick him out of a group of people.
But I don’t see him anywhere and my stomach is starting to ache again.
Finally, I spot Jenkins by the keg.
“Violet?” Both brows rise when he sees me. “Are you okay?”
I ignore the second question, aware that I look like a mess. “Is Gavin here?”
“Uhh…” He works his jaw back and forth. I can tell he’s holding back, but I’m not sure why.
I look to Taylor next to him.
“He went to his room,” she says, and shoots Jenkins a rueful smile.
I spin on my heel.
“Wait, Violet,” Jenkins calls. I don’t stop.
Back in the house, I take the stairs up to the second floor.
I’ve never been up here, but I know which direction to go since his bedroom window faces mine.
The door also has the number thirty-one on it—his jersey number.
It’s as I’m staring at those numbers on his bedroom door that I start to reconsider, but it’s too late to turn back now.
I knock twice on the door and wait. Nothing. I place my head closer and catch the faint sound of music playing inside.
That’s odd. Why is he in here listening to music when there’s a party outside?
I knock again and then turn the handle.
“Gavin?” My voice sounds reasonable and calm, considering I’m about to unleash my fury on him.
I push the door open farther and take two steps inside. I’m greeted with the sight of a redheaded girl straddling Gavin on his bed. She’s topless, but it’s his hands that get my attention. They’re splayed out on her naked back with his long fingers caressing her skin.
“Oh, shit.” I close my eyes and turn to flee, running into the side of the door on my way out.
“Violet?” Gavin’s deep voice calls to me.
“Sorry.” Ouch. I rub my arm as I try to get out of his room, but my head spins and my stomach rolls. Boy am I sorry. Of course, he was with a girl. Stupid, stupid.
If I didn’t already feel sick, seeing that would have done the trick.
Bile creeps up my throat. Oh no.
Panic-stricken, I hold my breath and will myself to get it together and get home before I lose whatever’s left in my stomach.
Gavin comes to me. He ducks his head, and those dark eyes scan me from head to toe. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good, Vi.”
“Gee thanks.” I flail a hand in front of my face. “I’m fine. Sorry to have interrupted. So sorry.”
I wave awkwardly to the girl, holding an arm over her chest.
“You’re not fine. You’re pale and sweaty.”
My stomach cramps and sweat beads up on my forehead. I try to leave, but his fingers circle my wrist.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to yell at you.”
“O-kay.” He flashes me a half smile. His lips are swollen from kissing and his hair is messy. I hate him so much. “What about?”
“The delivery guy gave me food poisoning and it’s all your fault.”
I double over in pain and my legs wobble.
“Woah.” His grip tightens.
I rip my hand free, but the movement sets me off balance and I have to hold on to the doorway to keep from falling.
“Ignore me. I’m just going to stand here for a minute until the pain subsides.”
“Come on.” He slides one arm under my legs and the other around my back to pick me up. I catch a whiff of perfume on his shirt.
“No,” I mumble, squirming in his hold, “I don’t need your help.”
“You’re sick.”
“I already told you that. It’s all your fault, by the way.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” I realize he’s moved farther into his room. There’s no sign of the boobalicious redhead. Nothing like vomit to ruin the mood.
“I’m just setting you on the bed. You need to chill for a minute and drink some water.”
“Oh no, I am absolutely not getting in your bed.”
“Vi—” he starts, exasperation in his tone.
And then I throw up on his chest.