Page 89 of Waiting for You

Violet had gotten through her entire adult life without their support. They never validated her writing, never backed her independence, and had spent years treating every milestone she hit as evidence of failure. They hadn't come to her wedding. They hadn't called afterward. As far as I knew, they hadn't spoken at all, and that silence had piled up into years of estrangement.

What did they want with her now?

I had no idea. And not knowing left me without anything I could plan around, which was the one thing my parents had always managed to do to me.

I dialed Violet. She answered on the second ring.

"Our parents are in New York," I said.

She went quiet a long moment. "Why?"

"I don't know. They demanded we meet them for brunch. They asked me to bring you."

"Why would they want me there?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Do you want to go?"

I waited. I'd already decided that if Violet said no, I was skipping it too. I wasn't going to sit across a table from my parents while they delivered whatever rehearsed speech they came to give if both of us weren't there to hear it. And I wasn't going to force Violet into a room with the two people who made her feel unseen if she wasn't armored for it. It was her call.

"Sure," Violet finally answered, her voice tight. "Let's go see what they want."

I let out a long breath.

I picked her up an hour later. She was already waiting on the sidewalk when I pulled up with her trench coat buttoned tight, her bag slung over her shoulder, and her eyes set ahead.

Idling at a red light, I glanced over at her.

"You don't have to do this if you aren't ready," I reminded her. "I mean it, Violet. I'll U-turn right now."

"I know you would," she murmured, eyes on the windshield. "But I want to hear what they have to say."

"Okay," I agreed. "I'm in your corner either way."

She turned her head to look at me, the corners of her eyes shining wet, and reached over to squeeze my forearm without a word.

I drove.

The restaurant was a place my father always gravitated toward, expensive in the hushed way that required a reservation but refused to advertise the fact. They were already seated when we walked in, side by side at a corner table. My mother's hair was flawlessly styled, my father wore a tailored jacket, and both of their spines snapped straight the second we crossed the threshold.

Violet stalled just inside the entrance.

"Do you still want to do this?" I asked quietly.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm going to see it through."

I looked at her profile. "Whatever happens at that table, I'm on your side. Not theirs. Yours."

Her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips into a thin line, then threw her arms around me and hugged me hard. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and held on.

I thought about all the years I'd sat silent at dinner tables watching them tear her down, too young and complicit to speak up, and I was glad I was standing here now and that she knew it.

We walked to the table.

My father stood briefly, and my mother's mouth curved into the practiced smile she reserved for controlled social situations.

"Xavier," my father greeted. "How have you been?"

"Fine," I answered. "Doing well."