Chapter five
Violet
Eleven years ago
“Idon’t want a party, Liam. Seriously.”
I’ve said it so many times this week, I’m starting to bore myself, but it bounces right off him like everything else he doesn’t feel like hearing.
“Too bad.” That stupid big-brother grin means I’ve already lost. “You’re turning sixteen, Vi. You only do that once. It’s a big deal.”
“It’s not,” I argue, raising my voice over the drums thudding out of his speakers. “It’s just another day. I don’t even like parties.”
“Yeah, because you’ve never had a real one.”
He tosses it out there offhandedly, but the words still sting.
My birthdays until now have been sad little non-events.
Last year, it was me, Liam, Jeanine, and whichever boyfriend she’d picked up at the pub that month, sitting around a drooping supermarket cake that was about two hours from expiring while she made a big show of pretending she remembered without the reminder on her phone.
Now, apparently, a house full of Liam’s mates and a handful of my classmates who barely know my name but definitely know his and Carter’s is supposed to be an upgrade.
“Please, Liam.” I’m begging now. There is no pride left. “I’m serious. I don’t want this.”
“It’s happening, Vi. Get over it.”
I let out a shriek that is a half-scream, half-groan, and stomp out of his room, slamming the door. I hear a crash on the other side. Probably one of his framed posters falling.
Good, he deserves it.
Four hours later, I’m wishing I had chained myself to the letterbox in protest or faked my own death, because I’m standing in front of my mirror in a pastel pink dress that makes me want to set myself on fire.
I tug at the hem for what feels like the thousandth time.
It’s too short and too tight, and there are sequins on the bodice that scratch my skin whenever I move, but Jeanine insisted it was “perfect for a sweet sixteen.” I’m anything but sweet.
But that was the whole reason I asked her to help me.
Just this once, I wanted to try something feminine—something Cindy Winters would wear.
I angle my head and squint, trying to convince myself it’s not a total disaster.
It would help if I magically hit puberty between now and going downstairs.
My chest is still completely flat, my hips straight, my body this stubborn, boyish line, while the other girls at school are out there turning into Victoria’s Secret models in real time.
Every day, someone else shows up with new curves and boobs, and I’m just here in my training bra, waiting.
So fucking unfair.
I grab a handful of tissues from my desk and shove them into my bra for the third time, trying to sculpt them into something that resembles actual boobs.
No matter how carefully I arrange them, they still look lumpy and pathetic.
With a groan, I rip them out and chuck them onto the bed.
I don’t need to give people another reason to laugh.
The eyeliner pencil on my dresser catches my eye. I pick it up on instinct, rolling it between my fingers. Giving myself thick black wings is tempting, but Jeanine had pressed her fingers to her temples earlier and said, “Please, baby, for once, natural. It’s your sweet sixteen, not a funeral.”
I sigh and set the eyeliner down. My own reflection looks back at me, washed out and dull. But I don’t want to be me tonight. Being me hasn’t exactly worked out so far. I want to be someone else. Someone Carter might actually look at properly, not just as Liam’s annoying shadow.
“Vi, you ready?” Liam pushes the door open as he knocks.
I roll my eyes. “Why do you even bother knocking if you’re just going to barge in?”
He leans against the frame with a smirk. “I still knock, don’t I?” He gives me a once-over, an eyebrow creeping up. “Looking fancy. Didn’t think you owned anything that . . . pink.”
“Jeanine’s choice,” I mumble, picking at a sequin.
“It looks nice,” he says, which is obviously a lie, but I’m too over it to call him out. “Come on, everyone’s waiting for you.”
“Your friends are waiting for you,” I correct, crossing my arms over my tragic chest.
He jerks his head toward the hallway. “Let’s go.”
I take one last look at the girl in the mirror, all pastel satin and nerves, then breathe out and follow him.
My palms are slick on the banister as I hover at the top, stomach swooping. The music grows louder with every step down the stairs.
Somewhere below, Liam cracks a joke, and his friends roar. Beneath the noise, I hear it, low and gravelly, Carter’s laugh threading through the rest, and my skin prickles.
“Okay, you’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.
The second my foot hits the living room carpet, everything tilts. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. The music keeps going, but in my head, it fades to this dull thump behind the sudden awareness of all those eyes on me.
I freeze. Heat rushes up my neck and into my face.
“Oh my God,” someone off to the left snickers. “What is she wearing?”
Their whisper isn’t even that quiet. A couple of people laugh into their cups. I swallow hard and make my legs move, pretending I can’t hear them, while wishing at the same time for the floor to crack open and devour me whole.
“Happy birthday, Violet!” Cindy Winters comes bouncing into my path, bringing with her the scent of expensive perfume and hairspray.
“You look soooo pretty,” she squeals, dragging out the word as if she’s talking to a five-year-old in a tiara.
She probably tagged along with someone who actually got an invite.
The only reason she’s here is the painfully obvious crush she has on Carter.
“Thanks.” I manage a smile that hurts my cheeks and fight the urge to bare my teeth at her.
“Did your mom buy that dress for you?” she asks, head tipped.
“Yeah, of course she did. Who else would?” I shrug.
Jeanine didn’t exactly buy it so much as put it on her already maxed-out credit card and sigh dramatically about making sacrifices, but Cindy doesn’t need that detail. It’s not like she bought her designer jeans herself. Mommy and Daddy bankroll her wardrobe.
“Huh,” she says, like I’ve just shared a fascinating piece of data, then turns when someone calls her name.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Idiot,” I mutter, slipping past her and beelining to the makeshift bar we set up on the sideboard.
I need a drink. Something strong enough to drown out the humiliation clawing at the back of my throat.
I grab a red plastic cup, unscrew the bottle of vodka Jeanine left out with a “do not go too crazy” warning that everyone obviously ignored given it’s already half empty, and pour a generous amount.
I splash in a little orange juice, more for color than taste.
The first sip burns all the way down, and I almost gag, eyes watering, but it settles into a warm, heavy curl in my stomach.
There’s this tiny rush of bravery that comes with it.
My eyes swing across the room and settle on Carter.
He’s on the couch, guitar resting across his lap, fingers moving absently over the strings as he picks out some lazy melody under the music from the speakers.
Cindy and another girl I don’t recognize are pressed in on either side of him, angled toward him and hanging off every word.
She traces the outline of the new ink on his forearm, and he flashes that lopsided grin, the one that makes my heart flutter and ache all at once.
Of course he already has an audience.
And apparently, he’s perfectly happy giving Cindy the time of day.
I tighten my grip on the cup until the plastic crumples and hover on the edge of the crowd, watching him from behind a tall guy.
If I could just talk to him properly, get through one normal conversation without tripping over my tongue or saying something stupid, maybe tonight won’t be a total disaster.
The vodka haze helps. I toss back another mouthful and start to weave my way toward the couch, carefully skirting around couples and clusters of people.
I’m three steps away when laughter explodes from the couch.
“Isn’t Violet, like, obsessed with you?” Cindy asks. “It’s kind of sad, really.”
I stop dead. My stomach drops right out of my body. They haven’t seen me. I’m half behind a random girl now, apparently invisible unless someone needs a punchline.
“She’s just a kid,” Carter says, chuckling. “As if.”
His words make my eyes water more than the vodka.
Just a kid. As if.
That’s it. That’s all I am to him. I’ve spent years memorizing the way his hands move on a guitar and every version of his smile. But all he sees is Liam’s little sister in a stupid girly dress, playing grown-up for the night and failing spectacularly.
My vision blurs. I turn before anyone can see my face melt and walk, fast, trying not to run up the stairs. Each step makes the lump in my throat swell until it’s hard to breathe. By the time I reach my room, the dam bursts.
I slam the door, throw myself onto the bed, and bury my face in the pillow. The tears come hot and messy, soaking through the thin fabric of the pillowcase, and I hate myself for thinking tonight could have been different.
Why did I even try?
“Vi?” Liam’s voice is tentative through the door.
“Go away,” I croak into the pillow.
The door creaks anyway, and the mattress dips a second later as he sits down. “You okay?”
I flip onto my back and scrub at my face with my hands. “I’m fine.”
He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Did something happen?”
I swallow and shrug, mouth twisting. I’m not telling him Carter’s exact words. That humiliation is mine. “I just . . . hate this,” I say instead. “I hate being invisible.”
Liam exhales slowly. “Vi, you don’t need to change who you are for anyone,” he says. “Definitely not for those assholes downstairs. Nobody is worth that.”
The irony of Liam trying to give the wise older brother speech while his party vibrates downstairs is not lost on me, but the weird thing is, he means it.
After a long pause, I nod, more to myself than to him.
He gives me a quick smile. “Good.” He squeezes my ankle and stands. “You want me to kick everyone out? I will.”
I shake my head. “They’re your friends.”
“Yeah, and you’re my sister.” He holds my gaze for a second. When I don’t change my mind, he dips his head and leaves, closing the door behind him.
The room goes quiet except for the muffled thump of music through the floor. I sit there in the silence, cheeks still damp, and look at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. All I see is a girl who tried to be someone else and got shoved back into place.
The eyeliner is still where I left it on my dresser, waiting.
I get up and cross the room. Dragging the pencil along my lashes, I make a thick line and stretch the corner out into a sharp little wing.
Then the other eye. With each stroke, my shoulders start to drop, my jaw unclenches.
It’s ridiculous that two black lines make me feel more like myself, but they do.
The dress comes off in one furious motion. I toss it onto the floor and pull on my ripped black jeans, my baggy band tee, and chunky boots. When I look back in the mirror, I recognize the girl staring back at me.
I wipe the last of my tears from under my eyes with my thumb. “Happy birthday, bitch,” I whisper to my reflection.
Back downstairs, the party is in full swing. This time, nobody turns when I step into the living room. I slip through the crowd unnoticed, which is somehow both a relief and its own kind of ache.
I pour myself another drink, lighter on the vodka this time, and lean against the wall, letting the music thrash around me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carter near the front door.
He has his guitar case slung over his shoulder, the girl I don’t recognize hovering close, gearing up to leave with him.
He pauses on the threshold, says something that makes her giggle, then turns his head scanning the room.
His eyes move past the cluster of football jocks, the girls dancing on the coffee table, and land on me.
He takes in my eyeliner, the jeans, the boots, and his lips tilt.
He peels away from her, weaving through the bodies until he’s in front of me.
“Happy birthday, Vi.” Up close, I can smell his cologne and a hint of beer on his breath.
“Thanks.” I stare down at my cup, suddenly fascinated by the plastic.
“You’re beautiful just the way you are, kiddo.”
It’s a pat on the head dressed up as a compliment. Part of me greedily soaks it up anyway.
I hold my breath as he steps closer. He bends down, and for a millisecond my brain glitches, throwing up a flash of something impossible: his mouth on mine, his hand in my hair, every movie kiss I have ever imagined starring us.
His lips brush my forehead. The gesture is warm but utterly, painfully platonic.
Then he’s gone, loping back to the door. The girl weaves her arm through his, and they spill out into the night.
I stay where I am, pressed against the wall, plastic cup loose in my grip, forehead still tingling from that nothing kiss. The disappointment of it sinks down deep, past skin and bone, into a place I don’t have words for yet.
Just a kid. As if.
Beautiful just the way you are.
And still, not nearly enough.