Chapter 25
VIOLET
THE NEXT NIGHT, WE’RE CRAMMED into what can only be described as a seedy tavern. I lean forward, resting my arms on the wooden bar as I wait to order a drink, and my elbows literally stick to the surface. Ugh.
Peeling my arms off the sticky bar, I look over to see Florence and Alistair already in line to sign up for karaoke. I grin at this, excited to scream my head off cheering for my friends.
As far as joint bachelor-bachelorette parties go—not that I have any others to compare it to—this weekend has been pretty amazing.
Finn and Alba went toe-to-toe at axe throwing, Florence and Alistair not far behind them in points. Rose and I were both happy if our axes even connected with the board—forget about hitting the centre. If either of us heard that thwack we would both start jumping up and down in celebration.
When we got back to the Airbnb, Alba literally chased the men away so we could have our slumber party. The four of us giggled late into the night, until Alistair very politely came out and reminded us we had an early start the next day.
Wolfville this morning was beautiful. We’d gone to a beach near Blomidon provincial park, which I’d learned is technically on the Minas Basin, but still gets the insane tides from the Bay of Fundy.
An elderly couple out for their morning walk had pointed out to us exactly how far the water comes in and out, the amount seeming unfathomable in such a short period of time.
We’d spent the afternoon on a wine tour, hopping from one lush winery to the next.
Alba, god love her, had offered to stay sober in order to drive us back after the tour for our big night out in Halifax—a city that reminds me of Victoria, but thrumming with something more. I could easily call this place home.
I see Finn heading in my direction and feel a pang of something like longing. He leans onto the bar beside me, grinning with an almost evil smile.
Okay Violet, what shall we sing together, then?
I don’t do duets, I say simply. And besides I only do real showstoppers, so you probably won’t even know the song I pick, I shrug my shoulders in emphasis, acting too cool.
I don’t tell him that the real reason I don’t do duets is that I will inevitably make a fool out of myself, both with my singing and my unusual song choice, and I don’t want to bring anyone down with me.
But I could tell him. I’m pretty sure I could say anything to Finn, and he would know exactly how to respond. That thought scares me more than I care to admit.
I have felt strangely more myself with him since our conversation on the rocks yesterday. I try to forget the memory of being pulled onto Finn’s lap, the expression on his face when he realized that I’d overheard, and been hurt by, his comment at the bar.
He thought that the only logical explanation for me never having a boyfriend was that I had never met anyone I liked enough.
Normally, I’d been mortified by the thought of anyone sitting around wondering why I was forever single.
But in this case, I couldn’t really make heads or tails of how he’d come to that conclusion.
What’s wrong with being weird anyway, Violet?
There was a split second there when I thought he was going to kiss me. Some part of me was relieved that we’d been interrupted by Alba, only so I never had to find out if I was wrong. This isn’t real for him, I remind myself again—so it doesn’t matter if it could be real for me.
I had tried to find the words to explain the years of protecting myself, of keeping other people at arms length, because I knew if they got too close and saw the real me they would leave.
I’d let a glimpse of it show one night at my job, and then I was immediately let go.
I left that part out, but still, it was more than I’d ever admitted to anyone.
I’m still processing that entire interaction with Finn, and how comfortable I feel around him. And I keep coming to the same conclusion: he lives on the other side of the world, and I’ll never have to see him again after all of this anyway!
Well, Violet, Finn motions to the stage, grinning at me in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. Let’s hear this showstopper, then.
I make my way over to flip through the binder full of songs, but I know what I’m looking for. To my delight, they have it, although I’m willing to bet very few people have ever actually chosen this song.
I’ve had this particular piece of music stuck in my head for days.
It reminds me of my grandparents, of singing in the kitchen with Nan and Opa making sunny-side-up eggs in the mornings after I’d gone out to their chicken coops.
Life before I’d gone to school, before anyone had explained to me, however unkindly, that I was different. Weird.
Before those words had carried any weight.
I make my way back to the table, but it’s not long before Florence and Alistair are called up to the mic.
They’ve chosen to sing You Feel the Same Way Too by the Rankin Family, which Alba promises is always a hit in the Maritimes.
It’s hilarious and delightful and the rest of us cheer and holler wildly when they’re finished.
When I ask Alba what she’s singing, she kindly tells me to fuck right off.
I’d be way too nervous to get up there! Rose says, looking around at the packed bar.
It’s a thousand degrees up there with all the lights, Florence says as she reaches us, grabbing her drink from the table and downing the rest of what’s left in her glass.
She turns to me and grins, almost impish, before reaching over and pinching my cheek.
I see you Villain Violet, oh how I’ve missed you!
Florence squeals at me as I bat her hand away from my face, laughing.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, get ready for the show, I joke.
Speaking of shows, Alba says, butting in. Apart from your brief canoodling at Peggys Cove, you and Finn sure aren’t doing anything to write home about this weekend.
What does that mean? Finn, who walked over at that exact moment, asks. He drapes his arm around my waist, like he knows exactly what Alba means. She snorts.
For two people supposedly head over heels for each other, she gestures between us, shrugging, I don’t see it.
You don’t see it? Finn asks, aghast. I can’t tell whether he sees through Alba’s goading or if he’s just playing along. Sorry that we’re not snogging all the time like the rest of you pervs. Violet’s a lady, after all.
Well, she sure wasn’t a lady in New York, Florence pipes in and I groan.
Finn looks at me with a mixture of surprise and delight. Really? It’s all he says before his foot reaches under the chair I’m sitting on, dragging it towards him in a fluid movement that almost makes me gasp. In an instant, his mouth is on mine.
He kisses me in a hurried, cocky sort of way, his hand possessively on the back of my neck, and it makes me grateful I’m already sitting.
Not real, not real, not real.
But the smile on my face when Finn pulls away from me is definitely real.
D’you see it now, Alba? Finn teases, his eyes never leaving mine. To add insult to injury, he winks at me before pecking me on the lips again and disappearing off to the bar for another drink.
I feel a little dizzy.
Alistair goes to join his brother at the bar, which prompts Florence to lean over and whisper to me, I have to say something Violet, she pauses for emphasis. That guy might be an asshole, but he is hot, like a smoldering kind of hot.
Stop, I say, laughing. That’s almost your brother-in-law.
I know. What I don’t know is how you’re coping with that level of heat, she says. Seriously, when Al and I first met, if I wasn’t lashing out at him, I was barely able to string a single sentence together. It’s the accent or something, I think. It turns my brain off—and other parts on.
We all burst into cackles at this, but manage to compose ourselves by the time Finn and his brother come back to the table.
THE NIGHT GOES ON AND the drinks flow easily as we continue cheering on the line of karaoke singers.
After what feels like an eternity, my own name gets called up to sing, and I feel such a disturbing sense of excitement I have to wonder a little what’s wrong with me. I love karaoke. I love a chance to be silly, goofy, ham it up for the crowd, and get the spotlight all to myself, for once.
The first few notes of Frank Sinatra’s That’s Life start to play. Some of the old timers in this bar are whooping now, clearly delighted with my song choice. This one’s always a hit with the older crowd.
I smile to myself, scanning the room to find Finn as I wait for the words to start on the screen—not that I need them, I know this song by heart.
His eyes meet mine across the bar. It’s easy to spot him, that perfect swoop of hair framing his face, his eyes dark but dancing with something when his gaze locks with mine. He looks so handsome, wearing a black shirt and black jeans tonight, leaning against the wall, beer in hand.
He shakes his head with a laugh, registering the song I’ve chosen, and his mouth forms the words I can’t hear, slow and deliberate: So. Weird.
I feel a thrill run though me.
Those words have stung so many times before, would have stung again from him even a few days ago.
But in this moment I feel only unrelenting joy.