What’ll sound weird is if I let go of my thoughts. If I tell her that I feel the same way. That when I look at her, every piece that doesn’t fit into the picture of life suddenly morphs into the exact shape it needs to be and finds its place.
“My sister overheard a conversation I was having with my dad before dinner. My plan was to tell my mom at some point, but I wasn’t set on telling Olive. Anyway, she overheard and now they both know. But that’s not the worst of it, Colson. When I finally sat down and talked to my mom, she told me that she already knew. Kept preaching to me how endless love is and that it doesn’t matter if he runs around because he still comes back to her every night, and that’s what matters most.”
“She’s convinced herself that it’s okay. I used to think of her as this strong person who could handle it all, but now all I see is someone who’s weak and blind to what’s going on around her. And…I feel atrocious saying that about her. For thinking it.”
“It’s how you feel,” I say, my fingers kneading her thigh.
“She still loves the hell out of him. How?How?”
I tread lightly because her dad is a flawed man. Her mom knows it, and yet she continues to be there for him. Really, in a way, it’s no different than me and my mom. People fuck up and the people who were around beforehand continue to stick around despite it. It’s messed up, toxic to an extent, but that’s love for you—bending to fit into every scenario imaginable.
“You don’t have to answer that,” she sighs. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around it all.”
Don’t say it.
Don’t ask it.
“I need to stop by my mom’s house for the night. Come with me?”
This will change everything. She’s going to see the real, raw side of me and where I come from. She’s going to see the hardships I’ve faced just from driving through my neighborhood and seeing the house I lived in. And she’ll meet my biggest weakness, the one person in life that makes me the most vulnerable.
She rests a hand on top of mine and asks, “Are you sure? You want me to meet your mom on Thanksgiving? You don’t have to share these parts of your life if it comes down to you feeling sorry for me.”
Growing up with a parent for an addict wasn’t my choice, but I look at Violet, and it’s like I’m not still living with my mom’s shit decisions. There’s no pity in my offer. This is for my own selfish gain; to have a little peace in the disarray of what it’s like in that house.
“I’m sure.”
I should protect her from it, push her far, far away so she’ll never want to know another detail about me, but…
Turns out, I’m more like my mother than I thought—selfish as hell.
THIRTY-ONE
VIOLET
Unfortunate stuff happensto people every day. Life continues whether we know how to cope or not. Colson and I aren’t the exception but members in the normalness of life’s affairs.
Because of that, I don’t want to be alone.
Colson fixed that for me the moment he opened his door and offered me his embrace. I stood in his arms longer than I should have, stealing his strength to get through the rest of the night. I didn’t expect him to invite me to get food, much less meet his mom.
Poverty is in every nook and cranny as we drive further into Harrison Heights. Streetlights scatter the less than hospitable streets, showing off dilapidated homes with boarded windows, graffiti, lawns that look like they haven’t been taken care of in ages. Maybe one day long ago it looked more alive, but at some point, a depression of a tornado ripped through the area.
I glance over at Colson. He hasn’t said much since we left the gas station. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
He cranes his neck to look over, his hand on the steering wheel shifting before looking back to the road.
“Yeah.” Quiet for a beat, he makes a turn onto a different street and adds. “I know Sebastian never told anyone why I moved into his apartment. He promised he wouldn’t, but people tend to naturally wonder.”
“It doesn’t matter what the reason is.”
“Everything always matters, Vi. You’re used to things looking pretty. Look around you, what you see is what you get, and nine times out of ten, it’s worse when you step through the door.”
“If it’s too much, you can take me home.”
His left arm rests on the ledge of his door, and he shifts in his seat. The night consumes the car, making it hard to get a read on him.
“It’s not too much for me. I grew up here. It’s you that might feel overwhelmed, and if you do, tell me. I’ll drive you back without question.”
