Chapter 4
VIOLET
LIVING IN brITISH COLUMBIA FOR a good part of my life, I’ve seen a lot of beautiful places. But Christmas Island is shooting pretty high up on that list, especially here at Alba’s bed and breakfast.
The circle of cabins in the woods feels almost like something out of a summer camp—the fire pit in the middle making me think of s’mores. Through the line of trees, I can see the water sparkling in the distance. I’m desperate for a swim.
Let’s get you set up in your cabin, Vi, Alba says, helping me bring my bag over to one of the cottages.
Florence was grabbing something from the bakery before heading back to her place, where her husband-to-be and mother-in-law were waiting.
But she promised to bring me over for a tour later, and that I would meet Alistair tonight.
I’m so curious to finally meet the man who got Florence to settle down.
Always a wild child, I had almost expected someone who was also a bit of a nomad.
But by everything she and Alba have told me, it sounds like he’s the steady calm in Florence’s storm.
It also helps that he’s stupidly hot, to quote Florence.
Alba, this place is seriously gorgeous, I tell her, beaming. I tousle her hair which sends her shrieking and me laughing. I’m so proud of you, I say, and I mean it. Alba has always wanted a place like this and to see it fully come to life puts a lump in my throat.
It’s coming along, she says, with a touch of pride. But wait until you see inside these cabins.
We walk up towards the cabin closest to the path leading to the water. I am buzzing with excitement—and knowing how much I would want to swim as soon as I arrived, I put my bathing suit right at the top of my suitcase.
Alba opens the door dramatically with a loud, Ta-da, hitting us both with a wall of cool air from inside and revealing the beautiful cabin.
I would notice the lovely woodsy scent and the way the light is refracting through the windows.
I would notice the rustic furniture, the watercolour paintings hung along the walls and how it feels modern and clean and welcoming all at once.
I would notice how much work my friend has put into the space.
I would notice all of these things, but I don’t notice any of them—can’t see anything, but him.
In the middle of the room, running a hand through his damp hair, and standing shirtless before us is one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen.
He’s shirtless, did I mention he’s shirtless?
Why is he shirtless? And when my eyes finally manage to take everything in from the waist down, I see that he’s only wearing a towel.
It’s wrapped around his waist, and seems to be barely covering him.
When the door first burst open, he turned towards the sound, but Alba and I have been standing here, with our mouths wide open, not sure what to say.
He grins, and I finally tear my eyes away from his abs to look at his face, as he smiles this one-dimpled smile that sinks a stone in the middle of my stomach. He runs his hand through his dark, swoopy hair again, I think on purpose, and that grin only deepens.
Well if it isn’t two bonnie lassies come to greet me, he says in a tone I think might be laced with sarcasm.
But whether it’s sarcastic or not, my palms still go clammy at his Scottish accent and the timbre of his voice.
He looks at me, and his expression reminds me of the way a wolf might eye up its dinner. What trouble are you two after?
With his accent, he says you like ye and it sounds somehow more intimate—like he’s whispered it. Goosebumps ignite up both of my arms.
Alba has shaken off her own shock enough to notice me, a singular eyebrow raised in my direction, as a smirk overtakes her face.
I am mortified, and have completely forgotten how to form words.
You, Finn Campbell, Alba says, pointing at him and saving me from myself, Are supposed to be in the other cabin. She turns that raised brow on him, questioning. That eyebrow has sent many lesser men, and women for that matter, running in fear over the years.
But he only smiles fully, a real genuine smile that makes him seem like an excited little kid. You must be Alba then. Still shirtless, one hand on his towel, he saunters over to hug my friend before adding, Cheers for having me. The place is class.
His eyes turn to me in question, delight radiating off him.
This is Violet, Alba says, turning towards me. The other member of our wedding party.
Violet, he says. I feel like throwing up. In thirty-three years, no one has ever said my name like that. Like he’s tasting it.
When I don’t immediately answer, his eyes rove lazily down me, noticing the tattoos along my arms, my clothes that I’m sure are filthy from travelling all day, and my hair slick with sweat.
Why did I choose to wear this particular top, which is pale blue with a frilly collar that suddenly feels like it’s choking me, and seems both silly and childlike before this behemoth of a man.
He moves his eyes back to mine. That smile turning almost predatory, making me feel stripped bare—but not exactly in a bad way. Nice to meet you, Violet. He says my name again, like he’s testing it out. It rolls off his tongue and I notice vaguely that my ears are ringing.
Hello, is all I can manage to choke out. I feel Alba beside me stifle a cough, trying her best not to laugh.
Hello, Finn repeats, chuckling to himself. Like he’s used to mere mortals reacting to him this way. I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this summer. He says it like a sensual promise.
My eyes dart down to his bare torso. I hear my voice, dazed and not entirely my own, say to him, Well, I’ve already seen a lot of you.
His eyes go wide and—what the hell is wrong with you Violet? Why would you say that?!
But something like delight crosses his face. Greedy thing, you are. Taking in so much at once. He gestures down towards himself before smiling at me and adding, But there’s still a lot more to see, darling.
He obviously mistook my foot-in-mouth syndrome for flirting. And I can tell you right now I don’t have the chops to go at it with this specimen. I feel my cheeks flush. The ringing in my ears now sounds like a dial-up tone.
Alba saves me from having to think of anything to say in return. Come on Vi, we’ll leave Finn here and I’ll put you in the other cabin.
The other cabin, as it turns out, is right next door. When we go inside, Alba shuts the door behind her, and barks out a laugh she’s clearly been fighting. I start maniacally laughing alongside her.
Surely that thing is not the same species as us? I ask her, rasping. Alba has slumped down onto the floor, shaking with laughter.
Dude, with his shirt off too? In a towel? He looks like a Greek fucking god.
I think my brain actually stopped. I couldn’t get any words out, I gasp between gulps of laughter, from hysteria and a rising panic.
I plead with her, Alba, I can’t stay in the cottage beside him.
You’ve got to move me! My voice is getting high pitched and panicky, but her laugh only turns slightly evil.
No way, she says. You’re staying right here where the view is so good.
I know there’s no arguing with her. Finn seems like trouble, but a guy like that, who looks like he would have been the captain of his high school soccer team—or rather football team where he’s from—would certainly never be interested in me.
He will inevitably come to find out what all men eventually realize about me: that I’m kind of odd; definitely different, and therefore not likeable in the romantic sense.
I can usually hide this for a one-night stand or a few dates, but I know nobody wants to be around my true self once it comes barrelling out.
I’m like one of those cans of pre-made cinnamon rolls: once it bursts open, there’s no getting the dough back in—no way to go back to what it was before.
I take a deep breath, willing myself into that cool, collected, get-shit-done space. If I befriend him, then it won’t matter if he teases me or treats me like one of the guys.
And then he can’t exactly reject me, either.
Alba leaves me to change into my bathing suit and I cringe, hoping my sickeningly buff Scottish neighbour will be long gone by the time I emerge from this cabin.
I open my suitcase and look at my bathing suit options: the one I’ve packed on top is a yellow bikini with white polka dots. I feel my cheeks burn with how childish this pattern seems now. My other option, while less revealing, is a black one-piece with little deer on it.
I snort, feeling somehow like a caricature of myself. I blame my mom’s thrifting mania and my Nan’s homemade clothes growing up for my eclectic taste in outfits.
As I finish putting on the cursed one-piece, a knock on the cabin door jolts me out of my thoughts.
Coming! I call out—I assume to Alba—I hope to god it’s Alba and not him.
But when I open the door, a radiant, truly lovely-looking woman with long glossy dark hair greets me instead.
Rose! I say, smiling at Alba’s wife, thrilled to be seeing her in person. I pull her into a hug. I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.
Oh Violet, I’m so happy you’re here. Alba has been bouncing off the walls with excitement.
I never bounce, Alba says from behind her wife. I occasionally buzz, but bounce is a stretch. She looks between the pair of us, and I can see her how happy she is that we’re finally together. By Alba’s standards, she’s positively beaming.
Rose is wearing a white beach cover-up over a bubble-gum pink bathing suit. Are you ready to swim Violet? I hear you’re a water baby like us.
I’ll swim in anything: I love the ocean, lakes, even a pool. But a saltwater lake is new to me.
Will it just be the three of us going? I ask almost nervously. Alba, the devious friend that she is, smirks.
Alistair came to get Florence and Finn went with them, so yes Vi, just us for the swim.
Sorry you won’t get to admire that view.
I ignore her barb and try not to feel too relieved, but I can’t help it.
I want to get in the water without feeling self-conscious about the Scottish dreamboat being around.
Although I wouldn’t hate to see him shirtless again…
I try to snap myself out of thinking about Finn as the three of us make our way down to the beach.
The shoreline is rockier than I expected, tiny stones and shells lining the water.
There’s a patch of sand beside the dock and it looks like a path through the rocks has been cleared in the water, too.
The lake is so crystal clear that I can see all the way to the bottom.
A school of fish skitters away as I walk down the wharf.
Last one in has to buy drinks tonight, Alba says while sprinting down to the edge of the dock and jumping feet-first into the water. Her wife, giggling, runs in behind Alba, but she gets in with a far more graceful dive.
I jump in behind Rose, attempting to aim my cannonball towards Alba, who screams and splashes me away.
The water is beautiful—warmer than the ocean, but more refreshing than the lakes in Victoria. The three of us tread water at the end of the dock, the sun shining on the water. I smile, feeling almost blissful.
This, I think, is a good place to spend the summer.