Chapter 24
FINN
ON FRIDAY MORNING, WE PACK up Uncle Albie’s red Dodge Caravan and all six of us pile in—Florence and Alistair in the front, Rose and Alba in the middle, and Violet and I shoved into the back.
We stop only once on the four-and-a-half-hour drive, my brother dutifully driving the speed limit the entire time.
During the trip, Florence debriefs us on the docket for our weekend away. When we arrive in Halifax, we’ll drop off our things at the Airbnb downtown. I’m sharing a room with Alistair, which we haven’t done in years.
We’re headed to Peggys Cove for the afternoon, which sounds like a lighthouse on a rock and not much more.
Then after dinner, we’re going axe throwing.
On Saturday, we’ll spend the morning in a place everyone refers to only as the Valley, where we’ll partake in a wine tour before heading back to the city for karaoke.
I notice as we near the end of our car ride that Violet’s phone is blowing up.
Ding, ding, ding—texts come flooding in one after another. She looks at the names on the screen, scoffs, and shoves the phone back into her bag.
Who is it? I ask her, gesturing towards the phone.
My family.
And what do they want?
She sighs, a long, pained exhale. Something from me, no doubt.
I’ve spent a lot of time over the last week thinking about my conversation with Violet on top of that godforsaken, moose-infested mountain.
Violet’s family seems to depend on her a lot. And she seems exhausted by it. She also seems like she hasn’t had a bloody moment to herself to try and figure her own shit out. We still haven’t gotten to the bottom of how she lost her job—or why she’s never had a boyfriend.
I couldn’t seem to get out of my own way on the morning of our hike. But it was a relief to know that she didn’t think of me as a complete and total monster for wanting a break from Mum. Uncle Albie is staying at Allie’s place this weekend, so she has some company.
I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with Violet about why, exactly, I’d felt such a need to deal with all of my anger in the initial years after our dad left.
The fear that my father’s rage could be somehow passed down to me, that lingering question about whether I’m capable of the level of violence he always was.
I know, deep down, that I’m not. Billie has spent a good chunk of our friendship reassuring me that’s the case, anyway.
Viollleettt, I singsong, desperate to get out of this train of thought. She groans. I’m bored.
We’re almost there, she says, patting my leg like I’m a child. When she moves to pull her hand away, I snatch it, wrapping her hand in mine.
I am going to make you a promise, darling Violet.
She glances down at our hands, looking a little perturbed. I feel my smile get bigger. What’s that?
I promise that I’ll go easy on you at axe throwing tonight.
She scoffs, yanking her hand back. You don’t need to; I don’t care about axe throwing. I only care about beating you at Scrabble, she says this with such a delightful smugness that it almost soothes the sting of not having defeated her yet. Besides, it’s not me you have to worry about.
It’s me, Alba says, grinning and turning fully around in her seat in front of mine.
Gie it laldy, Alba. Should we raise the stakes?
What, like a bet? What could you possibly bet on?
I shrug, flashing my smuggest, most arsehole smile. I’m sure I’ll think of something.
Alba only snorts and turns back around in her chair.
HOURS LATER, THE SIX OF us find ourselves wandering through the quaint street leading up to the Peggys Cove lighthouse.
The little houses, blue and pink and green, sit nestled into the rocky hill.
The shops along the road offer up glass ornaments and nautical home decor, and there’s even a truck where you can buy fresh lobster.
Allie and I agree to get something for Mum, a little lighthouse made of pewter.
Finally, we get to the top of the hill and make our way to the rocks surrounding the lighthouse itself. After getting a stranger to take a photo of the six of us, Florence and Alistair pose in front of the lighthouse for a few more photos, just the two of them.
I am, of course, determined to get the same shot with Violet.
She’s wandered over to a pool of water that’s collected in some of the rock crevices, squatting down in front of it.
What are you doing over here?
Looking for any fish or sea anemones, she says, beaming up at me and the full force of her smiling face sends a physical ache throughout my chest. It reminds me of home.
Come on, tiny David Attenborough, come back to the lighthouse with me.
She laughs, wiping her hands on this delightful pink athletic skirt thing she has on today. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a skort, with tricky little shorts underneath.
I try not to think about exactly why I’m thinking so hard about the mechanics of Violet’s bottoms. But the more time I spend with her, the more I accept how truly mad I am about her.
I have tried, over the last week, to work the feelings out—biking the trails with my brother, swimming along the shoreline of the lake for an hour.
But I find myself only thinking of Violet: of something funny she said, of some tiny piece of herself she’s shared that I can dissect for clues.
It’s a wee bit fucking obsessive if you ask me.
And worst of all, the only way to stop it seems to be spending more time with her.
As soon as we’re back in the same room, it’s like I can feel my whole body relax.
We line ourselves up for a selfie in front of the looming white and red structure.
Violet puts her head on my shoulder and my body acts of its own accord, leaning down to kiss her on the top of her head.
I get a photo of that too, pretending it was for the camera, and not because sometimes my body acts entirely of its own accord around her.
Can you send me those?
I nod, texting her the photos.
Okay, Violet says, a look of determination on her face, still staring down at her phone. It’s time.
Time for what?
Time to stir the hornets’ nest.
I lean over her shoulder to look at what she’s doing on her phone, and see her send the photo of us to her family group chat.
I’ve noticed, with a pang of something I can’t quite name, that she hasn’t exactly been sharing pictures to her own social media—only occasionally adding photos I tag her in onto her stories.
I had wondered if she’d mentioned me to her family yet, but didn’t want to pry.
I better put this thing on silent, she says, laughing, and puts the phone in the pocket-oh yes, there’s a pocket—on the back of her skirt-but-not-a-skirt thing.
I follow her as she makes her way across the rocks again. I look up to see where the others have wandered off to: Florence and Allie are looking at stickers posted up on the back of the lighthouse, while Alba and Rose are standing on the top of one of the larger rocks in the distance.
We stay for over an hour like this, all of us content to amble along the rocky shoreline.
I get yelled at by a security guard for standing on the black rocks, which I guess are the ones that’ve been sprayed by the waves.
I’ve half a mind to rip the kid a new one, but Violet tells me it’s because there are huge waves here—and actually tourists have been swept out to sea and killed because they were standing too close to the water.
Well, fuck.
You’ll have to protect me from the ocean, darling Violet, I tell her seriously.
Like I protected you from the moose?
I frown. That thing was enormous. I’m telling you Vi, I don’t think I could have taken that thing—so then what would we have done?
It was never going to attack us, she says this so matter-of-factly.
You don’t know that, I say, then eager to change the subject, add, Check your phone. I’ve got to know what your family said.
We’re near the top of one of the larger rocks here along the shoreline. There’s a perfect little spot carved out of the stone for us to sit on, sheltering us from the wind. I hoist myself up, patting the space beside me.
She sits beside me, pulling up her phone and the messages.
I lean over, getting a hint of her perfume, and I have to make a conscious effort not to breathe in more deeply.
On her screen, I can see that she’s sent the photo where I’m kissing the top of her head and she’s written nothing more—no acknowledgement of who I am.
My eyes, sort of accidentally, skim the top few messages before she sent the photo.
Ace: Violet, can you answer us! I need help with my post!
Robin: and you promised to look at my resumé, remember? besides i wasn’t even involved in all your drama
Ace: Hey, we were only trying to help!!!
The photo, I hope, conveys that she doesn’t need your fucking help.
I can see that at least three people have reacted to the photo with exclamation marks, but have said nothing. Not asked a single question.
There you have it, she says, locking her phone and tucking it away again. She says nothing else, only stares out at the ocean in front of us. I wonder if this lack of engagement on her family’s part is normal—I know my mother would go ballistic if I sent a photo like that out of nowhere.
Violet? I ask her, her name like nicotine on my tongue—I really can’t stop using her name. She doesn’t look back my way, and keeps staring out at the water as she answers half-heartedly.
Hmm?
Why do you think you’ve never had a boyfriend?
Her eyes slice to mine, hurt flashing there. But I let her see I’m only curious, there’s no judgment here.
Because as much as I’ve racked my brain for the answer, the only one that’s felt remotely close to the truth is that she’s too good for everyone. Or that she hasn’t wanted one. I don’t dwell on why that last thought makes me almost sick. That she might not want me—not really.
Why are you asking me that?
I shrug, as if this conversation is rooted only in morbid curiosity, and not some intrinsic need to know her at every level. I want to know why you think it hasn’t happened.