I grab her father’s legs and turn him in the seat, setting his feet out of the car and onto the ground. I take one of his arms and pull his upper body forward, enough so that I can get my shoulder into the meat of his belly. I pull on him and lean back to stand at the same time, hauling him up in a modified fireman’s carry.
I hear his grunt when the pressure hits his stomach. I just stay still until he can adjust. When I hear his breathing return to that deep, even cadence it had before, I walk slowly up the walk, carrying him through the front door and into the small living room. I turn to get further direction from Violet. She’s right on my heels, scrambling to shut the door and then get ahead of me. She leads me down a short hall to another small room. A bedroom this time, one dominated by a queen-sized bed and a dresser that sits against one wall under a window. She pulls back the covers and pats the mattress. I bend, gently depositing her father a few inches from the edge. I hold on to his hand as I move away so that he doesn’t flop back before Violet can get his shoes off.
Once they’re tossed onto the floor, I ease him down on his back and then pick up his legs and put them up on the bed, straight out from his body while Violet adjusts his pillow then tugs the covers up over him.
Quietly, we make our way out of the room. I hear her sigh as soon as she shuts the door behind us. She doesn’t look at me, but keeps her eyes facing forward as she leads me back out into the living room.
Finally, nervously, she turns and asks, “Do you want something to drink?”
“Violet,” I begin.
She hikes a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the kitchen. “There’s beer or soda. Or water, if you’d rather have that.”
“Violet,” I begin again.
“Or if you’re hungry, I’m sure there are still some snacks in there. Or I could fix you something.”
“Violet!” I say more sternly, taking hold of her shoulders. She stops and stares up at me with her wide, innocent eyes.
“What?”
“Stop. I don’t need anything. I don’t need you to take care of me. Why don’t you sit down and let me get you something to drink, okay?”
“It’s no trouble. I can—”
“Violet, sit. And that’s not a request,” I say as gently as I can.
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t look mad. Just surprised.
“You don’t know where anything is,” she argues.
“I’ll find it. Now sit,” I repeat, pointing toward the sagging old sofa.
I make my way through the house into the galley-style kitchen. I find glasses and the fridge easily enough, of course. There’s a case of Sprite in the bottom of the pantry, so I take a can and crack it open. I open the freezer for ice and find a bottle of vodka stuffed in on its side by the frozen dinners. I get some ice for each glass, add a splash of vodka, and fill the rest with Sprite. I figure Violet could use a little calming, whether she knows it or not.
I carry the glasses into the living room, cutting off the kitchen light with my elbow. Violet is sitting on the couch, her bent arm on the back of the cushion, her head resting in her palm. When she looks up at me, I notice that she seems tired. More so than she had at the meeting.
I sit beside her, handing her a drink. “This has just enough of a kick to relax you.”
She sniffs the glass and then frowns. “Thanks, but I don’t need anything.”
“Maybe not, but trust me, you look like you could use it.”
“Are you saying I look bad?”
I give her a derisive smirk. “You could never look bad. I just mean you look tired. This will help you relax and sleep.”
“But I don’t want anything to help me relax.”
“You don’t have to forego every little thing in life, on the off chance you could get addicted, Violet. For most people, it doesn’t work that way. One drink, one time isn’t going to kill you.”
“I know that. It’s the circumstances. If I just wanted one that would be different. I don’t want to need one. Becoming dependent on it is the problem.”
“So you steer clear of everything that you feel like you need?”
“Of course not. I mean, there are necessities in life. But there’s a danger in wanting something too much or liking it so much you feel like you need it.”
“Is that what happened to bring you to the meetings?”
Her expression totally shuts down. “I’d rather not talk about that right now, if you don’t mind.”
“Fair enough,” I say agreeably, taking a sip of my own drink.
After a long, tense silence, Violet speaks. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Nothing to it. No thanks necessary.”
“You were really good with him.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
She smiles. “Sometimes it works better than others.”
“Was tonight a bad night?”
“No. He settled down pretty easily. This has been a great night compared to some.”
“How often do you have to do this?”
“Now? Maybe a couple of times a month. Thursdays seem to be his magical night these days.”
“Is that because you are gone to meetings on Thursday nights?”
Violet shoots me a strange look. “You know, I haven’t thought of it that way, but I guess it could be. I’ve only been attending these for a few weeks.”
“Where did you go before?” She gives me a withering look, and I put up my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Retracted.”
“I thought it would get easier for him, but sometimes I think he’ll never get over her.”
“Is that why he drinks?”
“It’s why he drinks in excess. He never went on benders when she was here. He just can’t handle life without her sometimes.”
I finally realize what I see on her face. It’s pity. And frustration. And disgust. “You think he’s weak.”
“What?”
“I just realized that you think addiction makes you weak. You think that having a weakness makes you weak.” For some reason, I’m stung by this insight into her.
“I . . . I . . .” she stammers, her expression that of a cornered animal.
“Is that how you see me? Like I’m some kind of weak person who can’t control himself?”
Her cheeks burn bright pink and her mouth opens and closes around words she can’t say. Because any explanation she gives won’t be true.
“Having a weakness doesn’t mean a person is weak. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.”
“It’s not . . . I just . . .”
I stand, feeling increasingly pissed off and knowing there’s not a good, rational reason to be. I just am.
“You know, Violet,” I say, setting my glass down on a coaster on the banged-up coffee table, “maybe one day you’ll come across someone or something that will make you see the difference.”
With that, I turn and walk to the door. When I look back, Violet is standing, watching me.
“What about your car?”
“I have a friend that lives near here. I’ll get him to take me to Tia’s. It’s not far.”
She says nothing as I open the door and step out into the night, and I’m glad. I don’t want her excuses. Or her sympathy. And I sure as hell don’t want her pity.
I take deep, calming breaths as I strike out down the street. I have no intention of stopping by anyone’s house. I’ll walk the whole damn way.
I don’t know what pisses me off more—that she has such a shitty opinion of me, or that I give a rat’s ass.
I remind myself why I’m even in this. I bet she wouldn’t think so little of me if she knew what kind of an as**ole I really am. She’d probably hate me, but she sure as hell wouldn’t think I’m weak.
Not that I care what she thinks of me. I can do this no matter what her personal thoughts and feelings toward me are.
And I remind myself of that all the way to Tia’s house. Every time I see that look of disgust on Violet’s face.
TWENTY-FIVE: Violet
After the world’s worst night’s sleep, all I can think about is Jet. Just like he was all I thought about last night.
Growing up surrounded by addiction in one form or another has made me a little bit jaded about both the addiction and the addict. Jet’s bitter words made me realize that I do see people with weakness as weak. Maybe because I’ve watched them hurt themselves and others without being able to stop, or maybe because they just can’t stop period. I don’t know, but Jet is right. And the way I feel is wrong.
And Jet makes me see that.
There is nothing weak about him. Although he has some issues with self-control, not once has he given me the impression that he is anything but strong. Maybe a little hedonistic, but not weak. Never weak.
I don’t consider myself weak, but as much trouble as I’ve had staying detached from Jet, as much difficulty as I’ve had keeping my rational thought processes intact, I can see how weakness might come about. And how it doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you vulnerable. And there is a difference.
I roll off the couch, ignoring the creak of my muscles. I sit up and determine that, even though Jet probably doesn’t want me around tonight, I’m going to go and watch him, I’m going to support him anyway. I need him to see that I don’t think he’s weak. I need him to see that I’m not going anywhere, that I want to help him.
Even though a big part of it now is that I just want to be with him.
Period.
After fixing Dad breakfast, heading home for a shower, cleaning my house like I’m expecting the Queen of England, and then taking another shower, I find that waiting might not be the easiest thing. So I call. Not because I’m weak, but because I need him to know how I see him.
“Yeah,” Jet answers abruptly after four rings.
“Hi, Jet. It’s Violet. Do you have a minute?”
There’s a long pause, during which I manage to convince myself that he will never want to see me or talk to me again.
But he does.
“Actually, I was just heading out.”
Or maybe he doesn’t.
“Oh. Okay. Well, I . . . uh . . . I’ll—”
“Are you busy right now?”
“No, I just . . . no.”
“I’ll be by to get you in ten minutes. Okay?”
I should probably ask why or where we’re going. But I don’t. Because I don’t care.
“Okay.”
With a click, he’s gone and my nerves are at fever pitch.
Not knowing how to dress, I choose jeans and a cap-sleeved peasant shirt in sage green. According to Tia, it makes my eyes look smoky and sexy. Why I should care whether I look sexy is not something I dwell on. I just know that I’m pleased with my reflection when I shut off the bathroom light to head for the living room to await Jet.
When I hear the engine of his car come to a purring stop at the curb, I lock up and leave, walking to meet him before he can come to me. I smile shyly. He returns it in a casual and polite way before he opens the passenger door to help me into his car.
He doesn’t say much, so I’m forced to ask him, “So, where are we going?”
“To my mother’s house.”
I feel like doing a double take. “What?”
Jet looks over at me and grins. A real grin. And it makes me feel much better about things. Just like that. Just that easily. I didn’t realize how much I would’ve missed it if I’d never gotten to see it again.
But I would’ve. I would’ve missed it a lot. I would’ve missed him a lot.
“She called. Right out of the blue. She needs to go to Summerton and doesn’t want to leave the boys by themselves.”
“I thought the oldest was fourteen.”
“He is. She’s just crazy overprotective—thinks they’ll get into trouble if she leaves them alone for ten seconds. But I don’t really care what her reasons are. I’m just happy she called me. That she’ll trust me at least this much. It’s been a while since she would.”
I can feel his pleasure like a tangible thing, flavoring even the air in the car. And it makes my heart ache for him. “Then that’s good enough for me.”
We fall silent again. Part of me is hesitant to bring up last night, just in case it damages the fragile peace that we’ve struck for the moment. But it’s too important for me not to mention it.
“Jet, about last night . . .” I pause to gauge his reaction. I see his jaw flex as though he’s gritting his teeth, but it’s too late for me to stop now. “After thinking about it for quite a while, I realized that you were right. Well, at least partially.”
I see one dark brow arch. His voice is droll when he says, “Partially, huh?”
“Yes, partially. I think that I do view many people in my life as weak because of their weakness. And although I can appreciate that you do have some . . . issues to work through, I can honestly say that I’ve never once considered you or thought of you as weak.”
He says nothing, just nods.
I turn in my seat to more fully face him, desperate to make him see my view. “Jet, whatever kinds of habits or addictions you have, for whatever kinds of reasons you do what you do, there is nothing weak about you. You are strong. In every way. But even strong people have chinks in their armor. That doesn’t make you weak. It only makes you human.”
This time, Jet glances over at me, his eyes narrowing on mine, searching them. “And what makes you human?” he asks quietly.