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“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how this might complicate your feelings for Achille.” She palmed my shoulder. “Anyway, I should go. I had a great time, but I have a bunch of early meetings tomorrow. My husband sends his best. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”
“Thank you for coming.”
She kissed my cheek and left.
THIRTY-FOUR
ACHILLE
Everything is fucked.
I white-knuckled the steering wheel as I drove Violet and Jack home. Dark suspicions played in my head about Romeo and Becky. I needed to ask Violet more about that woman.
But after we put Jack to bed, Violet locked herself in the guest room. Usually, she worked on her songs, strummed her guitar, or called her mom. Sometimes she watched TV with me. I’d switch to home improvement shows or The British Bake-Off, and she’d curl up beside me for hours.
Not tonight.
She’d glowered at me during Jack’s bedtime routine. Right as she kissed my cheek goodnight, her eyes sparked like she was gearing up for battle. Was it dawning on her that there was no escape? That I wouldn’t back out?
I’d observed Violet all night. She did her best at the party to blend in, to smile and laugh when expected, but she wasn’t happy. Her kiss tasted like a surrender. She’d come to terms with her decision.
I should’ve been thrilled.
Marriage was the goal, right? But I kept replaying Violet talking to the stars like they could bridge the gap between her and Elise, and it hurt. Fuck, it hurt.
I opened the bedroom door.
Violet sat at the desk, scribbling in a notebook. She wore her pajamas, hot pink sweats and a tank top with no bra—an outfit that begged to be ripped off.
She put her pen down. “Can’t you knock?”
I frowned. “What’s with the tone?”
She slapped her book shut, cramming it in the drawer. “I’d rather be alone for a while.”
I stared at her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, staring at her nails.
“Seriously? You’re going to lie to my face?”
She stood, shoving her feet into slippers. “It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
My lips pressed tight. “We need to talk. Where did you meet Becky?”
She stiffened. “Why are you asking about her suddenly?”
“Answer the question.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “The farmer’s market.”
“When?”
She gave me a strange look. “Months ago. Right after I moved to Boston.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Is she a close friend?”
“Yes,” she said, walking into the bathroom. “She’s been a godsend. She was there for me after my sister passed, babysitting for me a couple times a week, bringing me casseroles.”
