Well, it usually is. Something in my chest cracks. Okay, so everyone who’s ever hurt her must die a slow and painful death, that much is clear.
Not from me, little flower. I knew I liked you from the first.
When I was gawking at you, you mean?
I laugh at this. Aye, the gawking. But also that night at the bar, when you were confiding to me about your deep dark family secrets—that your family was pimping you out. She laughs this time, and the relief washes over me.
The words keep rolling out of my mouth like runaway boulders. You kept saying these saucy lines out of nowhere, then would realize what you’d said and your cheeks would turn a delightful shade of pink. I stroke my thumb over her cheek for emphasis.
Her eyes flutter closed at the movement and I have a fierce desire to pull her mouth to mine. I wish things were different. I wish I wasn’t trapped in Scotland, so maybe Violet and I could give this thing a shot. If she wanted to, anyway. It’s hard to tell if she only thinks of me as a friend—or some ally in needing to prove ourselves worthy to everyone else.
She opens her eyes again and looks right at me, that guarded, defensive look gone now. I push a little further, my voice low.
What’s wrong with being weird anyway, Violet? I twirl some of her hair around my right index finger. It makes things far more interesting, you ken?
I wonder, for a second, if she’s thinking any of the same things as me. If I’m occupying her thoughts half as much as she is mine.
But she doesn’t get a chance to answer me, as Alba’s voice comes barking from around the corner of the rock, Come on you two lovebirds, time to go.
Chapter 25
VIOLET
THE NEXT NIGHT, WE’RE CRAMMED into what can only be described as a seedy tavern. I lean forward, resting my arms on the wooden bar as I wait to order a drink, and my elbows literally stick to the surface. Ugh.
Peeling my arms off the sticky bar, I look over to see Florence and Alistair already in line to sign up for karaoke. I grin at this, excited to scream my head off cheering for my friends.
As far as joint bachelor-bachelorette parties go—not that I have any others to compare it to—this weekend has been pretty amazing.
Finn and Alba went toe-to-toe at axe throwing, Florence and Alistair not far behind them in points. Rose and I were both happy if our axes even connected with the board—forget about hitting the centre. If either of us heard that thwack we would both start jumping up and down in celebration.
When we got back to the Airbnb, Alba literally chased the men away so we could have our slumber party. The four of us giggled late into the night, until Alistair very politely came out and reminded us we had an early start the next day.
Wolfville this morning was beautiful. We’d gone to a beach near Blomidon provincial park, which I’d learned is technically on the Minas Basin, but still gets the insane tides from the Bay of Fundy. An elderly couple out for their morning walk had pointed out to us exactly how far the water comes in and out, the amount seeming unfathomable in such a short period of time.
We’d spent the afternoon on a wine tour, hopping from one lush winery to the next. Alba, god love her, had offered to stay sober in order to drive us back after the tour for our big night out in Halifax—a city that reminds me of Victoria, but thrumming with something more. I could easily call this place home.
I see Finn heading in my direction and feel a pang of something like longing. He leans onto the bar beside me, grinning with an almost evil smile.
Okay Violet, what shall we sing together, then?
I don’t do duets, I say simply. And besides I only do real showstoppers, so you probably won’t even know the song I pick, I shrug my shoulders in emphasis, acting too cool. I don’t tell him that the real reason I don’t do duets is that I will inevitably make a fool out of myself, both with my singing and my unusual song choice, and I don’t want to bring anyone down with me.
But I could tell him. I’m pretty sure I could say anything to Finn, and he would know exactly how to respond. That thought scares me more than I care to admit.
I have felt strangely more myself with him since our conversation on the rocks yesterday. I try to forget the memory of being pulled onto Finn’s lap, the expression on his face when he realized that I’d overheard, and been hurt by, his comment at the bar.
He thought that the only logical explanation for me never having a boyfriend was that I had never met anyone I liked enough. Normally, I’d been mortified by the thought of anyone sitting around wondering why I was forever single. But in this case, I couldn’t really make heads or tails of how he’d come to that conclusion.
What’s wrong with being weird anyway, Violet?
There was a split second there when I thought he was going to kiss me. Some part of me was relieved that we’d been interrupted by Alba, only so I never had to find out if I was wrong. This isn’t real for him, I remind myself again—so it doesn’t matter if it could be real for me.
I had tried to find the words to explain the years of protecting myself, of keeping other people at arms length, because I knew if they got too close and saw the real me they would leave. I’d let a glimpse of it show one night at my job, and then I was immediately let go. I left that part out, but still, it was more than I’d ever admitted to anyone.
I’m still processing that entire interaction with Finn, and how comfortable I feel around him. And I keep coming to the same conclusion: he lives on the other side of the world, and I’ll never have to see him again after all of this anyway!
Well, Violet, Finn motions to the stage, grinning at me in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. Let’s hear this showstopper, then.
