The Certainty of Violet & Luke (The Coincidence, #5)(12)

It stung like a motherf*cker and reminded me of myself from not too long ago, when I was having sex to feel like I had control over things. I hate that that’s where we’ve gotten, but I don’t know what to do about it. Ask her to get help? Maybe. But I feel like I’d be a hypocrite, like I don’t have the right to say anything about it.

Classes drag on and on as I over analyze everything. I keep checking the time every f*cking minute, which makes it feel like it’s moving even slower. I text Violet to check on her and when she doesn’t respond I call her. It goes straight to her voicemail, which is alarming enough in itself, but add an hour of not being able to get a hold of her and I’m f*cking freaking out. And I can’t get a hold of Seth. I don’t like the feeling, but I can’t seem to control it, and finally after looking at the clock for about the fiftieth time, I leave class right in the middle of Professor Haperson’s lecture. It’s completely unlike me, Mr Structure, and I get a lot of weird looks in response, especially from Kayden Owens, my best friend since I was a kid. He’s probably thinking about the last time I disappeared, just blew off class and football practice for a couple of weeks without so much as an explanation, which is completely out of character for me, Mr Structure. I still haven’t given him an explanation yet, but that’s mainly because half that explanation belongs to Violet and I’m not going to tell her story without her permission.

Sure enough, I’m halfway across the campus yard when I get a text from Kayden.

Kayden: What’s up? Why r u bailing?

Me: I have to check up on something.

Kayden: Something or someone? Because it seems like you’ve been having to ditch class to check up on that someone a lot lately.

I pause. I’m not sure if he means it rudely or not, but I’m kind of getting the feeling that he may think that a lot of my f*ckups are connected to Violet, which makes me a little defensive. Whether they are or not, it doesn’t matter. Violet’s parents are dead because of my mom. Whether she did kill them or not, she was there that night and played some kind of part in the reason Violet grew up with foster families. But Kayden doesn’t know that, so I guess his accusations toward Violet are understandable.

Me: Look, there’s a lot of stuffu don’t know about Violet and I.

Kayden: I figured, but I still worry man … u seem a little off course lately, which is really f*cking unlike u.

Me: I know, but I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t important.

It takes him a moment to respond and by the time I get his reply, I’ve made it to my truck and gotten the engine started.

Kayden: Well, if u need help with anything, let me know.

If only he could help. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel like I was continuously falling off a cliff, unsure when I’ll ever land or where I’ll land.

Me: Thanks man, but I can handle it for now.

Biggest lie I’ve ever told. I’m not handling it at all. Not even a little bit. In fact, Violet seems to be getting worse and worse, and it feels like I’m just standing there watching her destroy her life … I feel so damn helpless.

‘Fuck.’ I curse aloud as I drive down the road, frustrated and pissed off at myself for not doing a better job of keeping an eye on her. There are so many bad things that could happen at the moment, anywhere from her harming herself to Preston getting a hold of her. It sends a chill down my spine and slams me in the stomach hard. I can’t lose her – can’t lose the only person I’ve ever cared about. It’s terrifying to think about and I find myself wishing – hoping – that one day, somehow, things won’t be like this. That they’ll be better. Normal.

Please just let things get better.





Chapter 6


Violet


This is my last attempt to try and make the pain go away; the last attempt to fill the void in my heart. I just hope it works, because nothing else seems to.

I’m standing on the edge of the raging river, watching it flow powerfully over the rocks, curving around the bends, dipping beneath the bridge, beauty at its finest. I wish I was a painter so I could capture the beautifulness. Or a photographer. I wish I were a lot of things; or at least knew what I wanted to be, then maybe this would be easier – life could be easier. If I had direction, a purpose, other than always drifting like the leaves in the water.

I blink the long sequences of thoughts from my mind, ones created from the adrenaline coursing through me, along with an abundance of alcohol. Then I force myself to step up to the edge, where the rushing water meets the sandy shore. I’m only procrastinating, distracting myself from what I came here to do, another attempt after several failed ones. I’m not sure, but today it’s been hard to calm myself down. I’m not sure why. Am I more scared than usual? No. Have I changed my mind? Definitely not. Once I decide I need to do this I’m beyond going back. I’ve reached the emotional point I can’t deal with – don’t know how to deal with – and this is the only way I know how. It’s what I’ve been doing for years and it’s no longer a habit, an escape, but a part of me, engrained into my skin like my tattoos.

‘I need this,’ I whisper and then with a deep breath I wade into the violent water. It soaks through my clothes and hits my skin instantly, a thousand tiny needles, warning me to go back. But I keep going forward, until I’m submerged to the waist … the chest … the neck … I can barely keep my legs under me now, the power of the water fighting to tug me under, suck me up, take me away. Part of me wants to let it, wants to lift my feet up and get carried away into the unknown. I have no idea if I’ll survive and that’s kind of the point. The terrifying, intoxicating point. But the little will left inside me, the one that whispers that it’s not just me anymore, begs me to put up a fight.