I spot my mother, sitting with Florence’s uncle, tucked in a quiet corner of the bar. Florence mentioned earlier that the two of them have really hit it off the last few weeks. I’m glad, selfishly, that she has someone to keep her company tonight, so she’s not entirely my responsibility. That wave of guilt again, feeling like the shitty son that I am.
I scan the crowd again, Florence is back now from wherever they went, giving my brother a peck on the cheek and saying something that makes him laugh. Those two are very much in love. It kind of makes me want to chunder.
There’s a stab of jealousy that I can’t help. I feel like I’ve spent so much of my life wanting to be like my brother—wanting to be him, really. Life comes easy to him. Well, easier than it does for me, anyway.
Violet returns to the table where I’m sitting, grabs the drink she left behind and takes a huge gulp, shoving the straw entirely aside. This almost makes me choke on my own drink.
Thirsty? I ask her.
In more ways than one. As soon as she says it, she looks at me almost guiltily, like she can’t believe those words just came out of her mouth. Her cheeks turn a soft pink and I want to run my thumbs over them.
Instead, I clear my throat and change the subject.
So, you were saying earlier, that your family doesn’t get it. The question has been nagging at me these long, long minutes. Doesn’t get what, darling Violet?
She stares at me blankly. Did I say that?
You did.
When?
I snort. A few minutes ago.
She shrugs, like this is news to her. When she doesn’t say anything more, I continue. About you never having had a boyfriend, I take a swig of my beer, gesturing the bottle towards her. Sounds like you need a wingman.
I don’t need a wingman, I need a boyfriend. Weren’t you listening?
I snort. I’m only saying that might be more helpful than your family’s herculean Hinge efforts. I want to push her on this—why has she never had a boyfriend?
But maybe she’s in a situation like mine. Maybe she has a lot of sex—something hot and icy at the same time ricochets through me at that—but can’t seem to get anyone to stick around for the long haul. That, however, feels impossible. She should be able to get a boyfriend no problem, with her soft pink mouth and lovely, expressive face, and—
What, are you suggesting you play wingman? Why, because you’ve had so many successful relationships? She’s trying to be accusatory in her tone, some aggression bubbling out of nowhere, but her slurring of the word successful stops me from reacting with anything other than delight.
Violet has some fire underneath all that blushing.
I’ve never had a girlfriend, I tell her. Well, not a proper one anyway. I definitely had a missus or two in primary school.
Normally, I would not admit this, and I wanted my tone to be more flippant than it actually comes out. Fuck it, she’s not someone I’ll ever see again after the wedding, so I might as well be straight about it.
But I’m still hoping we’re both too drunk to remember this conversation tomorrow.
That rising agitation in her stance is gone in an instant. She straightens.
Why not?
You first, I say, leaning over the table to grin at her.
She opens her mouth to answer. I’m relieved to finally get to the bottom of this when—Violet!
Alba is summoning her over from across the bar, and like that, she’s gone again. I run my hand through my hair, feeling frustrated. I’m not really sure why I care so much. But something is gnawing at me—like if I can get to the bottom of why Violet’s never dated anyone, maybe I’ll get some answers of my own.
I wonder, again, if there’s something wrong with me.
Maybe what I need is some practice. Surely, it’s like football: if you do your training and learn from your mistakes, you’ll get better at it.
I mull over this for some time. Maybe we can work this to our advantage, Violet and I. I just need to prove to Gemma, to my mother and my brother, and most importantly to myself, that I can be boyfriend material.
And Violet? Well, she would get her family off her back.
