We both know it isn’t. I say, and my tone is a wee bit more hostile than I intend. I don’t like that her family seems so utterly selfish, like they’re owed every scrap of her. I sincerely doubt that they’re calling to ask about her, or about the photo of us.
You don’t know that, she says, a little defensive, lunging forward to grab the phone from my hands. I hand it back to her, but when she takes it, I cup my hands around hers.
Violet, I say, my tone raw. I know they’re your family, but… doesn’t it seem unfair that they ask so much of you, calling and texting you constantly for god knows what, and then can’t even pretend to be interested when you have news?
She looks for a split second like she might start crying. Fuck me, I’ve pushed too hard, I—
And what am I supposed to do about it? It’s always been like this, she says, shoving the phone into her yellow purse that’s shaped like a lemon. They’re never going to change.
I shrug. Maybe not, but you can decide when enough is enough.
I see the defensiveness go up, an invisible wall, as she crosses her arms in front of her chest—some way to shield herself, but I’m not sure from what.
I motion my head towards the crowd, where our friends, definitely drunk now, and laughing their heads off, are waiting for us.
Come on, I say, holding out my hand to her. We can’t let them have all the fun.
I feel an intense wave of relief as she takes my hand and I pull her through the crowd.
You are so iconic Violet, it’s insane, Florence says as we reach the group. I’m pretty sure they’d let you go up there and do another song.
Oh I’m sure you could, darling Violet. You had the entire audience wrapped around your finger, I say to her, grinning as I hear them call my name for the next song.
Your performance was brilliant, don’t get me wrong, I say, leaning down to make us eye level, and whisper a hair’s breadth away from her mouth, But not as good as mine.
Chapter 27
VIOLET
FINN GETS UP TO THE mic and I am thrumming with something.
Anticipation, excitement, wanting. I try to ignore that last one.
I’m buzzing with curiosity about his song choice and his promise to outdo my own performance. Some secret part of me is delighted at the idea of him letting loose up there.
The first few notes start, and it takes me a second to place the song.
Hit it, Finn says, in line with the song, and grins at me. A megawatt smile. A hint of devilish delight.
Country. Shania. Honey I’m Home.
Oh my god.
A woman beside me shrieks. I love this song!
Her friend says, Sorry, but have you seen the guy who’s about to sing it? Both women look hungrily towards the stage before abandoning their drinks. They run up front to dance at Finn’s feet. I can only laugh, manically, into my cider. I’m worried we’re about to see something akin to Beatles-mania or a Michael Jackson frenzy in here tonight; literal fainting spells from some of these women when they clock who’s onstage.
Any other man, especially one who looks like Finn, singing this song would come off as so horribly misogynistic, so smugly arrogant, slick to the point of ick.
Finn, however, soon has a gaggle of women in front of him. He’s hamming it up, singing along to breaking a nail, flat hair, hard days. He is so infuriatingly charming.
And I would be furious, if I wasn’t laughing so hard.
I would be annoyed at him for making this entire bar forget me in thirty seconds flat. I would be irritated at the fact he still looks gorgeous even under the harsh stage lights.
I would feel all of those things, if he wasn’t, at every opportunity, glancing back in my direction and grinning that wild, boyish grin that makes me feel like an electric current is running through me.
He’s clearly learned a thing or two at all those drag shows, and knows how to work a room. Work a woman too, I’d bet.
