Aye.
The only thing that eases the sting of defeat is knowing Violet kicked your ass. She leans over the table to look at the scorecard and seems almost surprised. Not bad.
Why does everyone assume I’m an idiot?
Didn’t think someone this fit could spell? I ask Alba in a challenge, gesturing down to myself. She smirks, giving me a once-over.
Dangerous combination, she turns to Violet before adding, You better watch out.
Violet only blushes in response.
The group splits off for the rest of the day. Violet goes with Alba and Rose back to the bed and breakfast for a swim. I go with Florence, my brother, and my mother back to their place, Alistair having offered to take me on some of the biking trails later today.
The car ride feels tense, and I can’t exactly put my finger on why.
When we get back to the lake house, Florence takes my mother inside to get settled with a cup of tea. Alistair and I are in the newly built shed getting the bikes ready when Florence reappears.
She’s in a fury if I’ve ever seen one, and comes right for me.
I don’t know what the hell is going on with you and Violet, she seethes. But if you do anything and I mean anything, Finn, that hurts her feelings, I will gut you like a fish and use you as bait. Do you understand me?
Jesus Christ, I hear my brother mumble to himself, rubbing his hands over his face.
I hate the assumption that I would hurt Violet. That I’m not capable of doing anything but hurting her. That this couldn’t possibly be real—even though it’s not. It stings more than I care to admit in this present moment, being berated by my soon-to-be sister-in-law. That already her opinion about me is informed enough to come to this conclusion.
Violet, I snap back at her, is a fully grown adult who can decide for herself what she wants to do, or doesn’t want to do. Each word is a strain, a guttural knifepoint keeping me from teetering fully into a rage.
We haven’t even said anything is going on between us yet, and already this is the reaction?
She is a fully grown adult and I know, certainly better than you, that she can make her own decisions—
Flora— Alistair starts, but she waves him off, the gesture clear as day: stay the hell out of this.
But she is one of my best friends, not some summer fling for you to toss around until you get bored. If this is what she thinks of me, I can only imagine what my brother has told her. How did he frame it for her to come to this conclusion? What else has he said about me that has her thinking the worst?
I feel deflated, the fight leaving my body in an instant. I know that, I tell her, unable to look her in the eyes. I don’t think she’s a fling, in fact I don’t think that about anybody. I like Violet. It stings even more to know that those last three words are true. The more time I spent with her, the more I realize that I really like Violet.
This stops her for a second. It doesn’t exactly quell the fire in her eyes, but I can see the wheels turning. She takes a deep breath and I try not to flinch when she starts talking again. But I do, and she notices, pointing her finger at me anyway.
I mean it Finn, she says. Violet is sensitive and has been taken advantage of a lot, especially over the last few years. If this is anything but serious to you, then fucking don’t.
With that she storms out of the shed, her red hair streaming behind her.
Chapter 13
VIOLET
SO… ALBA STARTS AND I groan already. Finn?
Rose laughs, turning to smile at me from the front seat of the truck. He’s so cute, Violet! She beams. She is literally so nice, something about her presence makes me feel calm—even though I know a third-degree interrogation is coming from Alba.
I shrug, trying to play it off. We’re just getting to know each other, I say casually, pulling at a loose thread on my denim shorts. I want to downplay it a bit, since I’m not sure anyone would believe he actually liked me. Maybe a little summer fling, who knows.
Alba raises an eyebrow at me in the rear-view mirror. Good for you Vi, she says, but something tells me she’s not exactly buying it. There’s a beat before she adds, He’s not quite your usual type.
I snort, thinking of the guys she would have seen me bring home before, in Toronto or even New York. Indie types, mostly. The occasional tortured art bro. Definitely not cool, jock types.
I shrug again. I don’t know if my usual type was really working for me anymore.
