Violet #2
I press the phone against my still erratic beating heart and take a couple of deep breaths. Guilt rushes through me for being disappointed. What kind of friend am I?
Me:
Let's
I need to get out of this house. I need to get back to work.
I'm driving myself crazy. Mafia? Come on, that's the most ridiculous thing I've come up with yet.
Just because the guy was wearing a fedora and standing in a nice, tailored suit in front of a black Cadillac, that doesn't make him a mafia man.
My overactive imagination is just being that: overactive.
Pippa:
Usual place? 1PM?
Me:
Only if you let me pay.
Pippa:
Look at you Miss
Me:
She loves my emoji, and that ends the conversation, while my heart rate returns to normal and I giggle at myself nervously.
Mafia? I really need to get a life if I see Marcello everywhere.
And Pippa is the key to that. She is as crazy as they come.
I wouldn't be surprised if I read her name in the newspaper one morning, calling her an Angel of Death.
Another giggle escapes me before it can get stuck in my throat.
What does this say about me, having a friend who you know will eventually kill someone, and being okay with it?
Well, I'm not sure I'd be okay with it. But I'm okay with her.
She's my best friend, and she makes me laugh with her biting sense of humor and no-nonsense attitude.
Pippa would never have run from Marcello.
No, she would have grabbed his gun and asked who he wanted her to shoot.
Okay, so I'm over exaggerating, which I'm wont to do. And I don't think Pippa would ever actually kill someone, but the girl is obsessed with any kind of thriller or mafia movie series.
Pippa and I are as unlike as unlike can be.
We grew up in the same building. Her mother, like mine, worked several jobs just to meet the month's end bills.
Unlike me, she doesn't have any siblings and was a loner until we met.
I think I'm actually the only person she ever talks to.
Really talks to. She thrives on risk, I thrive on stability.
She still lives in the same apartment her mom rented and never knows where her next month's rent check will come from.
Something that would drive me insane. She works when she needs money.
Otherwise, she travels around a lot. Says she takes on odd jobs—fixing things, helping people out of messes, that kind of vague, slightly criminal-adjacent language I've learned not to ask too many questions about.
Once, when I pressed her for details, she just smiled and said, I'm a plumber, a wrench for the machine, Vi. I fix the parts nobody wants to touch.
I let it go. If she wants to be mysterious, fine.
I know she'll always be there for me when I need her, and that's all that matters.
She likes the ability to move from job to job because that's Pippa.
Always skating the line between mystery and mayhem.
One time, she walked into my apartment with blood on her boots because she worked a night shift at a slaughterhouse.
I still shudder at how she could do that.
Another time, she asked me to take care of a wound on her arm that looked suspiciously like a knife graze, and when I asked what happened, she just said, Occupational hazard.
Then offered me a churro, like we were at a street fair and not five seconds away from an ER visit.
I used to think she was just reckless. But now I wonder if it's not the chaos she tolerates—but the calm she can't stand.
Still, she's the only person I can call at three in the morning to help me change a lock or change a tire.
She carries three burner phones and a switchblade that I've definitely seen security miss at a concert.
But she also showed up in the middle of the night when I called because I broke up with Scott.
She arrived with four tubs of ice cream—because cherry was good for tears, chocolate for the soul, strawberry for second chances, and mint chip for whatever comes next.
She also brought a bag of sour gummies for the kind of regrets that sneak up on you at 2 a.m., a sleeve of saltines for when you're too sick to cry, and a king-sized bag of caramel popcorn, which, according to Pippa, was essential for watching your life fall apart with at least some crunch.
She told me I made the right choice. That Scott was a bore and a spreadsheet in human form, reliable, yes, but flat. Predictable. The kind of man who planned dinner three days in advance and never once made my heart race.
She said I needed someone with fire. Someone who could challenge me, shake me up, make me feel alive, not just safe. Someone who wouldn't flinch when I fell apart, but who'd also never let me fall alone.
Most of all, I needed someone to give me the kind of orgasms that most people only read about.
And maybe—just maybe—she can help me get my head on straight now, too. Because whatever secrets she's keeping, whatever danger she's walking around with tucked in her back pocket… she's still the one person I trust to show up. No matter what.