Chapter 9 Violet
VIOLET
The apartment above Rise & Shine is temporary.
I tell myself this lie every morning, usually while doing actions proving I'm full of shit.
Like right now, when I'm rearranging throw pillows for the third time this week because apparently I've become the kind of person who cares about pillow placement.
Temporary…until I save enough money to continue on to Texas, to Emma's couch, to whatever uncertain future awaits me there. At least when I'm with Emma, I won't be a burden. I can help with her kids and bills instead of playing house in a grumpy baker's spare apartment.
Except the apartment doesn't feel temporary anymore, which is a problem.
I'm not sure when it started, this gradual transformation from "somewhere I'm crashing" to "somewhere I'm making myself comfortable.
" Probably the first night, when I couldn't sleep on the bed and found myself building a fort out of throw pillows like some kind of traumatized twelve-year-old.
I've been in Cedar Ridge for almost two months now. Eight weeks tomorrow, actually. Not that I'm counting.
This morning, I'm sitting at my relocated workspace, which sounds much more professional than "the dining table I moved because I have control issues about sight lines.
" I'm updating notes from yesterday's interview with Tom Bradley, but I’m distracted by the soft throw blanket draped over my chair.
I found the blanket a few days ago, buried in the closet under a stack of linens looking untouched since the Clinton administration.
It's handmade, probably crocheted by someone's grandmother, in shades making the whole place feel less like a generic rental.
I'd pulled it out ostensibly to check if it was clean, but really because its softness called to my damaged omega hindbrain.
Now it lives on my chair, and I find myself reaching for it whenever I need to think. Which is pathetic. I'm a grown woman getting emotional support from a blanket. Mark would have a field day with this regression.
My phone buzzes with a text from Liam: "Coffee break? I'm between appointments and could use some caffeine which doesn't taste like disinfectant."
I text back I'll meet him downstairs, but not before I automatically fold the throw blanket and arrange it just so over the chair back. Then I fluff the small decorative pillow I've positioned in the corner where the chair meets the wall.
The pillow is another recent addition to my temporary living situation. Found it in the linen closet along with the blanket, and originally thought I could use it as a seat cushion. Instead, it ended up creating a barrier in the corner. I need to protect my six from imaginary threats while I work.
I catch myself straightening my notebooks, arranging them in a neat stack with my pen positioned at a precise angle, and pause.
When did I start caring about having everything arranged just so?
I've never been particularly neat, but lately I can't concentrate unless everything is positioned exactly right.
The realization makes me uncomfortable. Like I'm turning into one of those people who has opinions about home decor. Next I'll be buying scented candles and talking about "creating ambiance."
Downstairs, the bakery is already bustling despite the early hour.
Garrick moves behind the counter with efficiency, explaining the difference between his sourdough starter and commercial yeast to a tourist who clearly regrets asking.
The way his forearms flex as he demonstrates kneading techniques makes my mouth go dry, which is absolutely not why I'm lingering by the stairs longer than necessary.
At a corner table, Frank Stern sits with his usual coffee and newspaper, occasionally offering commentary on Garrick's impromptu bread science lecture.
"Morning, Violet," Liam calls out as he pushes through the door, bringing mountain air and his cheerful chamomile scent. "Ready for some non-medical coffee?"
"God, yes," I say, joining him in line behind the tourist, who's now asking Garrick whether his sourdough is "authentically rustic enough for Instagram."
Liam and I exchange amused glances as Garrick's expression cycles through barely contained irritation before settling on professional politeness.
The muscle in his jaw ticks in a way I'm starting to recognize, and great, now I'm paying attention to his facial tics like some kind of creepy stalker. Get a grip, Violet.
"If you're more worried about how it looks than how it tastes, you're in the wrong place," Garrick says with admirable restraint.
While we wait, I find myself studying the bakery with the same obsessive attention I've been giving to my workspace upstairs. Everything has a purpose, a reason for being exactly where it is.
"You've been making some changes upstairs," Liam observes quietly.
"What do you mean?" I ask, immediately defensive.
"Just little things. The other day when we had our coffee upstairs, I noticed the table is now by the window, you've moved some furniture around. It looks good. More lived-in."
Heat rises in my cheeks. "I hope it's okay. I know it's not my place to rearrange things, but the lighting was better for work if I moved the table, and..."
"Violet," Liam interrupts gently, "it's fine. Garrick wants you to be comfortable."
Right. Comfortable. Because it's worked out so well for me in the past.
"It's just temporary," I say quickly, like repeating it will make it true. "I'll put everything back when I leave."
A flicker crosses Liam's expression before he nods. "Of course."
We reach the counter, and Garrick looks up from the espresso machine. His expression immediately shifts from professional to warmer when he sees us. The way his gaze lingers on my face for just a moment too long makes my pulse quicken.
"Morning," he says, voice carrying the gravelly quality I definitely don't find attractive.
Except it makes my stomach flutter which is becoming a serious problem.
"Let me guess. Liam wants his usual rocket fuel, and Violet wants coffee which won't keep her up all night but still has enough caffeine to function. "
Great. The grumpy baker has memorized my coffee order.
Next he'll be asking about my favorite color and whether I prefer sunsets or sunrises.
When he slides the latte across with fancy foam art he definitely didn't need to make for someone who's "just passing through," I catch the scent of coffee and cedar clinging to his skin.
"You know us too well," I say, because apparently I've lost the ability to maintain proper emotional distance.
"Plus," Garrick adds, pulling out a small paper bag, "This was gonna go stale anyway." He pushes the bag toward me, and our fingers brush during the transfer. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt of electricity up my arm.
I haven't mentioned lemon scones are my favorite, which means he's been paying attention to my pastry choices. Because nothing says "healthy emotional boundaries" like getting flustered over baked goods surveillance.
"Thank you," I say, accepting the bag. "You didn't have to do it."
"Day-old pastries don't sell anyway," he says, but there's color in his cheeks suggesting this kindness is more intentional than he’s saying. The slight flush makes him look younger, softer, and I have to grip my coffee cup to keep from reaching out to touch his face.
Liam and I find a table by the window, and I sit on my chair with my back straight, laptop angle optimized, coffee positioned within reach but safe from accidents. It’s as if I’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
"You've been sleeping better," Liam observes, studying my face with clinical attention.
"Have I?" I ask, though he's right. The constant exhaustion which has been my companion for months has started to ease. "I guess the mountain air agrees with me."
"Or the feeling of safety," he suggests.
The words hit deeper than they should. For the first time in years, I go to sleep without worrying I'll be woken up in the middle of the night and told to sleep on the floor, because I smell bad.
Or worse still in the garage in case someone steals his car.
Even though he has an alarm and a camera in the garage.
I wake up without the immediate spike of panic about where I am and whether I'm in danger.
Exactly the kind of thought I swore I’d never have again. Way to go, Violet. First decent sleep in months and you're already planning your emotional downfall.
"Maybe," I agree, because what else can I say? I've been stupid enough to let my guard down again?
We sit in comfortable silence, which should probably worry me more than it does.
"I should get to work," Liam says eventually. "But let me know if you need anything, okay?"
After he leaves, I head back upstairs to work on the garage article.
But as I settle into my carefully arranged workspace, I find myself distracted by how the afternoon light has shifted.
The throw blanket looks different, richer.
The small pillow catches the sun in a way making the whole space warmer.
Without thinking, I get up and adjust the blanket's position, smoothing out a wrinkle. Then I straighten the pillow, making sure it's positioned at exactly the right angle. The movements feel automatic, necessary.
My workspace isn't the only area which has evolved. The living room has undergone its own transformation, though I didn't realize the extent until yesterday when I was looking for my phone charger.
The couch now sits at an angle giving me views of both the street and kitchen. I'd moved it the first week, telling myself it was for better natural light.