The Certainty of Violet & Luke (The Coincidence, #5)(63)

I suck in a deep breath as he drops down to his knee right there in the snow. Then he pulls out a small black box from his jacket and holds it up. ‘Violet Hayes, will you marry me?’

He opens the box up and if I wasn’t already going to say yes, I would have now. Because what’s inside it is my ring – the purple one surrounded by onyx gems that I was once given as a Christmas present, before it was taken away. Of course it’s not the exact same ring. It looks a bit smaller, but a bit shiner. It looks a bit more perfect.

I’m not going to cry, I tell myself. Because even though I let myself feel everything now, I don’t want to be that girl that sobs like a baby because she’s going to get married.

But I turn into that girl, tears pouring out of my eyes as I nod my head. Then getting back my dignity, I say, ‘Hell yeah, I’ll marry you.’

He laughs, but it looks like tears are staining his eyes too, the big softy that he is. Then he gets to his feet, puts the ring on my finger, and kisses me the way he’s been kissing me every day for two years.

With passion.

With certainty.

With love.





Have you read the first book in the story of Violet and Luke? Find out how it all began in The Destiny of Violet and Luke …


Read an extract here – the book is available to buy now.





Prologue


Luke


(Eight years old)


I hate running, but it always seems like I’m doing it. Always running everywhere. Always trying to hide. I hide just as much as I run, but if I don’t then bad things will happen. Like getting found. Or getting forced to do things that make me sick to my stomach. Getting forced to help her.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” my mom singsongs as I run out the front door of my house. Her voice is slurred, which means she’s been taking her medication again. She takes her medication a lot and it doesn’t make any sense to me. I have to take medication sometimes, too, but because I get sick. Whenever she takes it, it seems to make her sicker.

She used to not be like this, well not as bad anyway. About a year ago, when my dad was still around she would act normal and not take medication. Now, though, she does it a lot and I think she might be going crazy. At least she seems that way compared to everyone else’s moms. I see them picking up my friends from school and they always look happy and put together. My friends are always glad to see them and they don’t run and hide from them, like I do all the time.

I race around to the back of the house, running away from the sound of her voice as she chases after me, looking for me. She’s always looking for me and I hate when she does—hate her sometimes for always making me run and hide. And for finding me. I usually hide underneath the bed or in the closet or somewhere else in the house, but she’s been finding me quicker lately, so today I decided to hide outside.

As I make it to the back porch stairs, I slam to a stop, panting to catch my breath. There’s just enough room for me to duck down underneath the decaying boards and hide underneath it. I pull my legs up against me and lower my head onto my knees. The sunlight sparkles through the cracks in the wood and down on me. I’m nervous because if the sun can see me, then maybe she might see me, too.

I scoot back, closer to the bottom step and out of the sunlight, and then I hold my breath as I hear the screen door hinges creak.

“Luke,” my mom says from up on the top step. She shuffles across the wood in her slippers and the screen door bangs shut. “Luke, are you out here?”

I tuck my face into my arms, sucking back the tears, even though I want to cry—she’ll hear me if I do. Then she’ll probably want to hug me better and I don’t like when she does that. I don’t like a lot of things she does and how wrong she makes my life feel.

“Luke Price,” she warns, stepping down the stairs. I peek up at her through the cracks and see her pink furry slippers. The smoke from her cigarette makes my stomach burn. “If you’re out here and you’re ignoring me, you’re going to be in trouble.” She almost sings it, like it’s a song to some game we’re playing. Sometimes I think that’s what this is to her. A game that I always lose.

The stairs creak as she slowly walks down to the bottom step. Ashes from her cigarette scatter across the ground and all over my head. A few land in my mouth, but I don’t spit. I stay as still as I can, fighting to keep my heart from beating so loudly as my palms sweat.

Finally, after what seems like forever, she turns around and heads up the stairs back to the house. “Fine, have it your way, then,” she says.

It’s never my way and I know better than to think so. That’s why I stay still even after the screen door shuts. I barely breathe as the wind blows and the sunlight dims. I wait until the sky is almost gray before I peek up through the cracks in the stairs. If I had my way I’d stay here forever, hiding under the stairs, but I’m hungry and tired.

I can’t see or hear her anymore so I lean forward, poke my head out from under the stairs. The coast looks clear so I put my hands down on the dirt and crawl out onto the grass. I get to my feet and brush the dirt and the rocks off my torn jeans. Then, taking a deep breath, I run around to the side of the house and hurry quickly up the fence line until I make it to the front yard.

I’ve never liked where we live that much. Everyone’s grass always looks yellow and all the houses look like they need to be repainted. My mom says it’s because we’re poor and this is all we can afford thanks to my dad leaving us and that he doesn’t care and that’s why he never comes to see me. I’m not sure I believe her since my mom’s always telling lies. Like how she promises me time and time again that this will be the last time she makes me do things I don’t want to do.