Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(26)

And who could blame them?

“Ever since then I don’t like to jog in the woods alone.”

Like a human crane, Spencer lowers a cherry from his Shirley Temple by the stem into his mouth. Then, chewing with his mouth open, he tells Violet, “My dad jogs too. Sometimes he leaves early for work so he can run to the hospital.”

Violet smiles at him warmly. “I’ve noticed that.”

And I wonder, what else Violet has noticed about me?

“Hey, Dad, why don’t you run with Violet?” Brayden suggests. “Then you could run on the trails and she won’t have to jog alone.”

“Yeah,” my youngest concurs, “and then, you know—if things go good, you and Violet can be F-buddies.”

The Jack and Coke I hadn’t quite finished swallowing goes spraying out of my mouth.

At the same time, Violet coughs, choking on her wine.

“We could be what?” I rasp.

Spencer blinks innocently.

“Fun buddies. Mrs. Goober pairs us up into fun buddies every week so no one gets left out at recess.”

Oh.” I nod, clearing my throat. “Fun buddies, right, got it.”

I glance at Violet at the exact moment her gaze lands on me. And when our eyes meet—there’s this spark, a connection, that feels heated and sweet . . . and intimate.

“What’d you think I meant?” Spencer asks.

Brayden, who knows exactly what I thought Spence meant, tosses his head back and cackles.

“Well . . . ” I scratch my eyebrow, trying to come up with something when the DJ announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, the dessert table is now open. Please help yourselves.”

Spencer’s head whips around like a dog spotting a bouncing tennis ball.

While he and Brayden rush over to make the front of the line, I lean toward Violet, “That was well-timed.”

“Yep.” She gives me a thumbs-up. “Sugar saves the day.”


*

That’s when the party really gets started.

After dinner, after dark, when all the torches and firepits have been lit and the music is loud and the dance floor is packed and laughter echoes all around. Aaron’s dancing with his girlfriend and the boys are running around somewhere with Lainey’s nieces—probably down by the lake. Vi danced for a while with Callie and the bridesmaids and a few girls she knows from work who are here.

But now it’s just the two of us. Sitting relaxed and comfortable at the table, while the glow of the candles paints pretty dancing shadows across Violet’s face.

“So, do you and your ex get along?” she asks me.

I think it over for a minute before answering.

“You could say that. I mean, as long as we don’t have to talk to each other or actually agree on anything—yeah—we get along great.”

Violet chuckles. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I’m glad you did. A lot of people around town talk to me like I’m the walking wounded. It’s nice for someone to just ask without smothering me in sympathy.”

“My parents split up when I was a kid,” she explains. “And then they got back together. And then they split up again. It was like they couldn’t bring themselves to quit each other, but they couldn’t live together either. And my dad had never wanted kids. Which was weird, because it seemed like he’d come home and they’d get back together just long enough for my mom to get pregnant. And then he’d take off again.”

“Did they end up together in the end?”

“No. She died. Breast cancer.” Violet takes a drink.

“I’m sorry.”

She nods gently. “He wrote her a letter when she got sick—said he wasn’t coming home because he couldn’t handle watching the love of his life wither away and die.”

“So, he left you to watch instead.” There’s a sharp bite to my words—because Vi’s dad is a selfish fucking prick.

She glances down at the table, smiling sadly.

“Pretty much.”

“How old were you?”

“I was twenty when she passed away.”

“Were you tested for the BRCA mutation?”

It’s a very personal question—but I just can’t turn off the part of my brain that knows these things. That women with a family history of breast cancer before the age of fifty and those who have mutations in the BRCA1 or BRCA2 genes have a significantly higher risk of developing aggressive breast cancers.

“I was—I’m negative. My younger sister, Chrissy, was positive for the BRCA2 mutation. She got a double mastectomy for her twenty-secomd birthday.”

“Jesus.”

“But she’s good now—there’s a comfort in knowing what happened to my mom will never happen to her.”

“Is that why you became a nurse?” I ask.

“One of the reasons. I mean, by the time she went on hospice, I already knew how to start a line, monitor her blood pressure, administer her meds. And even during chemo it was always the nurses who helped her the most. They really . . . ”

“Made a difference,” I answer for her.

Because I’ve seen nurses in action—and that’s what they do.

“Yeah.”

“Did your dad come back to see you? After?”