Chapter 8
VIOLET
UNFORTUNATELY—OR FORTUNATELY, DEPENDING ON how you look at it—I think I might be drunk.
I’m trying to block out what happened earlier in the evening, when I grabbed Finn’s arm and spilled my secrets to him. I’m not sure what possessed me to do it (the alcohol), but I know I’ll be mortified in the morning. The thoughts are fleeting, quick, and I can’t seem to keep hold of them, anyway.
A drink will help with that.
As soon as the thought finishes, Alba hands me another gin and tonic. She has her devil eyes out tonight and I can tell she’s scheming.
What were you and the brother talking about? She asks me, nodding her head towards where Finn is now sitting with Alistair. I flush.
Jesus Christ Alba, honestly, I have no idea. I can’t remember that far back in the evening. The memories hit like bullets: I’ve never had a boyfriend. I take another long chug of my drink.
You seemed cozy over there, you had your hand on his arm and everything.
Probably trying to reassure him after I said something insane, no doubt. I honestly don’t remember, so let’s forget about it.
Suit yourself, she says, before barrelling onto the next line of questioning. So what happened with your job in Toronto?
I feel queasy at the question, and I know this time it’s not the alcohol.
What is this, an interrogation?
I want to know why you left. You loved that job. She pauses for a second, and when I don’t say anything, she adds, Please tell me it wasn’t something to do with your family.
Alba has made it clear over the years that she thinks my family asks too much of me. But it’s not even that they ask—it’s the default setting. I’m the one who cleans up the messes. I’ve spent my entire life cleaning up messes that aren’t even my own.
I didn’t leave. My voice comes out flat. I really don’t want to talk about this right now, with my head spinning.
Alba stares at me hard, reading too much into everything.
Tell me he didn’t, she says, almost menacingly. I know who she means. My boss, Gabe. Former boss. Right. Former. God, my head hurts.
I nod once in reply.
That motherfucker—
What is it? Florence has appeared beside her cousin. I saw Alba had her someone will die face on, and knew I was missing something.
Gabe, is all Alba says, a look passing between them.
So, is he the reason you left Toronto and moved back to Victoria? Florence asks. She and Alba, I swear, can have entire conversations without words.
He fired her, Alba says, rolling her shoulders with rage. I know if we were at a bar in Toronto instead of rural Cape Breton, she would have already stormed out of here, on the hunt for Gabe’s blood.
Florence gasps. He what!
I am mortified about this—that I was fired, at all. I’ve never been fired from anything in my life. But to be fired from a job where I’d worked for eight years, where I’d done so much.
Florence puts her hand on my arm. Violet, this isn’t a reaction to you.
There is nothing you could have done to warrant being fired, I can promise you that.
That guy had been taking advantage of you from the start.
That business, all of its success, was entirely to your credit.
That he made whatever excuse to let you go is because he felt threatened by you, I guarantee it.
I can only shrug in response. God, it’s been a rough couple of years.
I really have to pee, is all I can say in reply before essentially running to hide in the bathroom. Unfortunately, Florence isn’t right. I did deserve to be let go. And I was hardly the one building the empire; that was all Gabe.
The thought of his name makes my stomach spin. Or maybe that’s the alcohol.
I am really, truly, thoroughly hammered now. I think it’s time for water.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror at the bar as I wash my hands. I’m average looking, I guess. I don’t have any particularly horrifying features; at least none that I can see. Sometimes I might even be pretty, I think, except I’ve never had a boyfriend. So it does make me wonder…
And now I don’t have a job either, so what could I bring to the table?
I shake the thoughts aside, stumbling back out of the bathroom.
I spot Alistair and Finn sitting at a table.
Finn’s back is to me, but even from behind, I can catch the sides of his swoopy hair.
He’s wearing what looks like a very soft, maroon T-shirt tonight.
I noticed earlier that it makes his hazel eyes pop.
I feel a little dizzy looking at him this long, even if it’s only the back of his head.
I can’t fully suppress the memory of his hot skin under my hands.
Alistair, meanwhile, looks only at his wife-to-be, who is holding court at the bar. I’m close enough to hear them now, and without taking his eyes off Florence, Alistair asks his brother, So what do you make of Violet? I saw you two chatting for a while here earlier.
I freeze, hoping they don’t notice me. I’m drunk, but not drunk enough to mishear Finn.
Violet, he says, taking a sip of his beer as he pauses, is a total weirdo. He chuckles and it feels mean. I feel the sting in the back of my throat, the tears immediately welling up my eyes.
I move away before I can hear anymore. I try to forget it, but the memory stays lodged in my throat.
It’s not like I don’t know this about myself.
I’ve heard it my whole life. Weird Violet with her weird family and her weird houses and her weird clothes.
I love my family, although I could have done with a more permanent address from time to time.
Thank god my grandparents have had the same house since before I was born.
The only thing I could really hang onto was that I did well in school. I got good grades, got a good scholarship, eventually a good job. Now I can’t even rely on that.
And I knew, on some level, that someone like Finn, who looks like that and has his choice of women, wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
I knew it, and yet, the hurt still stings.
Florence warned me he was an asshole, after all.
I make my way back to my friends. The bar is thinning out now, I have no concept of time, only that I’ve reached my limit. My alcohol limit, and my social limit.
Alba senses my distress before I even have to say a word, and I love her for it.
Time to head out? Alba doesn’t get enough credit for how much she sees in other people. I only manage to nod in reply, praying she doesn’t question me until tomorrow, when I’m sober enough to get my story straight.
All I can do now is hope the alcohol does its job, and makes me forget this entire mess of a night.