Under her breath, Violet attempts a whisper that I can still hear: I really, really need a drink.
That makes two of us.
Chapter 6
VIOLET
SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT’S GOING on! Florence shrieks. But before either Alba or I give her an answer, we put in our order at the bar: a vodka soda, a beer, and a gin and tonic. Alba then tacks on three tequila shots, grinning at me. It’s time for Villain Violet to re-emerge.
I only groan in response.
What the hell happened earlier? Florence demands.
We totally walked in on Finn changing. Shirtless. In a towel. Alba smirks, raising that one eyebrow suggestively.
It was mortifying, Flora, I say, hiding my eyes behind my hands. I just stood there gaping with my mouth open like a cavewoman or a total psycho. Florence is full-on cackling now. And then I said some stupid comment that I don’t care to remember about seeing a lot of him and after that I fully blacked out.
He can give Al a run for his money, Alba says. That guy is jacked.
Oh, I know, Florence whispers. I saw him swimming earlier and hot damn! Florence sips from her drink, then goes on. Shame he’s a bit of a dick, though.
What do you mean? I ask.
She shrugs. Al says his general disposition is usually set to asshole. Apparently he’s got a heart of gold under there, but I doubt we’ll ever see it buried under all of that arrogance. Florence leans in before adding, And I guess he goes through women like nobody’s business.
This makes my stomach twist a little bit. I mean, of course he does, look at that guy.
Don’t listen to her, Violet, Alba says, waving off her cousin and winking at me. Then she adds with a shrug, Could be fun.
I ignore her. Our drinks arrive and the three of us clink our shots together, cheers-ing to our long-awaited reunion. Despite the two embarrassing run-ins with Finn, who manages to make me feel like my whole face is on fire, I am very happy to be here with my friends.
I need to get control over this stupid little crush. Okay, yes, the guy is hot. And I can only imagine his Scottish accent whispering in my ear. But, first of all, Florence says he’s a dick and secondly, he will want nothing to do with a social outcast like me. That guy has big prom-king energy.
And I don’t even want to know what a guy who looks like that, whose default setting is asshole, would have to say about my many, many quirks.
My thoughts reel back to my family and their recent pestering and downright meddling—thinking a boyfriend is the answer to all of my problems. Most of my problems come from my family, anyway.
Well, except for losing my job. But I don’t want to think about that tonight. I want to spend time with two of my favourite people.
I feel so grateful that my paths crossed with Alba and Florence when they did. It was Alba who invited me out with a group of classmates one evening. I was excited. Making friends has never really come naturally to me.
That first night we went out was a disaster. I was nervous, so I had a drink. Then another. And another. And another. We weren’t even legal drinking age at that point in the States. But we never seemed to have an issue finding bars willing to let us in.
That first time we went out, in my drunken haze I thought it would be a good idea halfway through the night to start speaking in an English accent. I was tearing around the bar, trying to convince people I was from jolly old England even though no one actually from England would ever say that.
I was obviously drunk, clearly underage, and being so obnoxious that the bartender came over and threatened to throw me out.
My response, of course, was to start quoting Shakespeare.
Every tale condemns me for a villain! I wailed—from Richard III—as I was promptly thrown from the bar.
Even all these years later, the memory makes my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I had made such a fool of myself.
But Alba had followed me out, laughing and saying only, Okay Villain Violet, we better get you home.
I spent the weekend seeping in my shame. I hid in my dorm room, too mortified to face anyone who might have seen me, and replayed the entire evening—or what I could remember of it—on a loop as some sort of masochistic punishment to myself. A reminder to not drink so much, and not to be so embarrassing.
On Monday morning, I wanted to avoid anyone who had seen me on Friday night. But Alba and Florence tracked me down, plopping themselves beside me and talking about how much fun they’d had. Then they asked if I wanted to go out with them again on Thursday.
