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Except he hasn’t.
Violet: What time will you be home today?
My phone buzzes again.
Violet: Also, we need more duct tape. Don’t ask why.
I wish I could say her second text was unusual, but for Violet, it really isn’t.
Instead of texting her back, I decide to call her as I start walking toward The Patch. If Aiden won’t text me back, I might as well just go see if they’re still there. It’s not like I have anything else to do.
Violet picks up on the first ring. “Why are you calling me? Was it the duct tape?”
“Of course not,” I say back. “I’m fine with you taking hostages as long as they deserve it.”
“Oh, they definitely do.”
She sounds like she’s preoccupied, so I ask, “New medium?”
“Yup.” The sound of tape tearing in the background accompanies the word. “I’m not sure how I feel about it, though. Right now, it just looks like a lot of fucking tape.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about living with an art major, it’s to expect the unexpected. Our apartment constantly shifts to accommodate her latest project. I can already picture her with every different color duct tape everywhere.
“I’m sure it will turn out great. What do you always say? You have to give the art time to reveal itself?”
“Yeah...” she says slowly, and I know she’s analyzing her latest piece. “But this looks like garbage.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to get the conversation on track. Letting out a sigh, I say, “So I called you because I’m not coming home today.”
She doesn’t bother trying to hide the suspicion in her voice when she says, “Why...?”
Slowing my pace, I look down at the sidewalk cracks as I say, “Garret and I sort of broke up.”
Silence.
“Vi? Did you hear me?”
When she speaks again, she sounds out of breath. “I’m sorry. I put the phone down to do a happy dance.”
“Are you serious?” I’m not offended. Violet’s been telling me to dump Garret for the greater part of our two-year relationship, and she’s been upfront about it from the start.
“You know I am.” After a brief pause, she adds, “But also, are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m okay,” I say, and I’m surprised how easy it is for those two words to come out of my mouth.
And how much I mean them.
“He cheated on me,” I continue, and those four words are a lot harder to say for some reason.
She gasps. “He did not!”
“Yeah.” I’m at the pier now and can read a sign that says The Patch in the distance.
“Well, good riddance. When you said you weren’t coming home, I got scared he might have proposed to you or something.”
This makes me laugh. “Yeah, not exactly.”
“So, wait. When did this happen? Why aren’t you coming home?”
