15. Violet
Violet
“Coffee in one hand, confidence in the other!”
Acouple days after the farmer's market, I am standing in the theater. It’s looking completely different from the way it had been the first time I stepped inside.
The dust is gone, the old seats have been replaced with new, modern ones that recline.
The stage lights glow softly against the freshly painted walls.
Even the lobby feels brighter now, filled with tables for the fundraiser in a couple of days, and a stack of decorations are waiting to be placed.
I just stand inside the entrance for a moment, it all feels a little surreal.
A month ago, this place had been a dream Everett carried around in his head. Now it looks like something real that belongs to the town, something the people are excited about.
“Admiring my handiwork?” Everett’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn and find him carrying two folding tables under one arm like they weigh nothing. His sleeves are rolled up, and my gaze immediately goes to the veins in his forearms that are putting on a show. My eyes linger a little longer than necessary, but I can’t help it.
“I definitely am,” I reply.
He sets the tables down and wipes his hands on his jeans.
“You helped with a lot of it.”
“I made a few suggestions,” I say.
“Well, thank you for your suggestions, you helped a lot,” he reiterates.
“Glad I could help,” I say back smiling.
We start setting up the tables along the lobby walls, moving around each other in a surprisingly easy rhythm. “Your sisters dropped these off earlier,” he says nodding toward the flowers.
“They are very invested in this fundraiser, too,” I say.
“They are very invested in you,” Everetts says back.
“Yeah, they are always my biggest supporters,”
We work in a comfortable silence for a while, Everett doing all the heavy lifting and moving things around, while I work on the flower centerpieces and tie twine around them for the tables.
As I am making the florals look beautiful, I realize that Everett could have asked more people to help. He could have had his brother helping, or my sisters, my mom, and dad. But it’s just us two here working together.
He wants to be here, with me. He likes hanging out with me. That did something to me. The thoughts hit harder than I expected.
My last relationship had been the opposite. Ryan had never wanted to be anywhere with me unless it made him look good. The memory crept in before I could stop it. Ryan making comments about what I ate, reminding me how I would look “better” if I just ate less and worked out.
I force the thought away.
But I must have not hid the look on my face because the next thing I know, he asks, “You, okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie quickly back, maybe too quickly.
He tilts his head. “You sure?”
I barely hesitate. And that is the problem. Everett has this way of making me feel safe. Like I can actually say things out loud instead of pretending everything is fine.
“Thoughts about my ex just came back into my mind, that’s all,” I say as I continue to arrange the flowers.
I seem to have this problem where once I start talking about past trauma, I can’t find the switch to turn it off.
“My ex used to make me feel like spending time with me was an inconvenience, like he never wanted to. He would also make comments about my body a lot, and sometimes those memories creep back in.”
Everett’s expression immediately hardens. I swear his jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists at his sides. He is angry for me.
“I know it sounds stupid, but after a while, it does get into your head. You start wondering if everyone else sees you that way, too.”
He steps closer, resting his hands on the table beside me.
“I want you to know that your ex is a dipshit and he deserves to rot in hell for talking to you like that. You’re nothing but a goddess and a breath of fresh air. I hope you know that everything he said is not true,” Everett says, looking deep into my eyes, like my feelings actually matter.
“It makes trusting people harder,” I admit.
“I get that,” he says. “But I hope you know you can trust me.”
“I do trust you,” I tell him. “You’re very good at saying the right thing.”
“I’ve had practice,” he says.
“With women?”
“With life.”
That makes me smile. We stand there for a moment longer before Everett gestures toward the stack of chairs.
“So,” he says lightly. “Should we put these by the food tables?”
I exhale slowly.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
Sometimes the best thing someone can do after a heavy conversation is let the moment breathe. And Everett does exactly that.