Still, I attempt to live in delusional ignorance, where the elephant that follows me into every room is unseen by those around me. They can’t know I’m struggling if I pretend I’m not, and when they call me out on it, when they address the two-ton animal sitting on my chest, I get defensive. I don’t want to be helped. I don’t want them to care. I want them to pretendit doesn’t exist and let me rot. In exchange, I pretend I’m not falling apart when I’m around them.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
I’m not. Yeah, I’m still making minuscule monthly royalties from my old works, but three years of no new publications, getting dropped by my agent, and not marketing myself in any capacity, means I’m basically living on a wing and a prayer that someone stumbles upon my titles at the bookstore, or they’re recommendedthat book I read a few yearsagoby a friend.
So, financially, I’m not doing well. But I make enough to cover my basic needs: food and the minimum on my maxed-out credit card.
“It’s like you’re not even trying.” I think Everett said that, but I’m staring down at my hands braced against the counter.
“What’s left to try for?” I murmur, admitting a truth that I’ve long kept bottled inside.
I don’t want to be better, because I don’t think better exists for me, and I don’t want to address it with my family because I can’t fucking stand the look on their faces when they realize what a failure I’ve become.
I don’t raise my head, not until I see a flicker of movement in my periphery. Toned arms, and a wide-chest stand in front of me, and I glance up to find my brother’s blue eyes bright with unshed tears. I hear him reach into his pocket, I know his arm is extended out toward me, but I’m too afraid to look away from his face.
The smile he gives me is forced and heartbroken. Finally, I look down at the small black-and-white image in his hand.
“Her.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until the heat of my tears runs down my face. My hand trembles as I take the sonogram from him, studying the outline of a head, a small body, and two tiny feet.
“Her?” I ask, my voice breaking on the word.
That heartbroken smile turns wide and real as I look back up at him.
Leo nods. “My daughter.”
It’s unadulterated happiness that reflects on my brother’s face. The kind of expression that says all his dreams are coming true right before his eyes. The contented smile Everett gives us both is full of hope and pure joy, but as I look back down at the sonogram—at the niece I’ll soon have—all I feel is broken.
6
VIOLET
“FUCK IT I LOVE YOU” - LANA DEL REY
THREE MONTHS LATER
“Why can’the do our piercings?” the young woman asks from the front desk, pointing at me.
I chuckle under my breath but pretend I didn’t hear them as I continue sanitizing the bench where I just finished a six-hour shin piece.
It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I’m ready to go home. I opened at ten this morning, and I don’t foresee myself being able to go home anytime soon. I don’t set hard-and-fast business hours for the shop. I won’t keep the lights on when no one is around, but I don’t want to close up when the boardwalk is busy, and there is a chance of walk-ins.
I planned on leaving after my three o’clock appointment, but my drop-in artist, Lilly, just left, and the boardwalk is much busier than usual for this time of year.
Three women who can’t be over the age of twenty-one stand at the desk, asking about belly-button piercings. Luckily, Maggie stuck around this afternoon to help out when I realized how many walk-ins we were getting.
“You have to be careful with that one, anyway. He’s a heartbreaker,” she says.
The woman raises a brow, giving me a once-over and smiling like she doesn’t mind what she sees. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, you know. Broody and noncommittal.” Maggie tosses her head back, winking at me. “He’s one of those shy, broken, emo boys.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“Bet I could fix him,” the woman purrs.
That makes me laugh out loud. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
