Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(51)

But Violet does. She knows exactly what this feels like, because she’s felt it.

And there’s a comfort in that. An embracing, easy respite from the persistent weight of guilt and melancholy.

“Yeah—I’ll tell you about it later.”

From the laundry room off the kitchen, the dryer alarm buzzes, signaling a load is done.

“There were wet clothes in the machine that were turning musty,” Violet explains. “So I rewashed them.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem; I was here.” She shrugs. “But I ran out this morning and picked up a new bottle of fabric softener. No offense—your fabric softener was kind of crappy.”

“Told you,” Brayden calls in a singsong voice as he slides on his socks into the laundry room. He comes out holding a freshly washed T-shirt, pressing it against his face and inhaling so deeply the fabric is momentarily snorted up his nostrils. When he speaks, it’s in the voice of a stoner who just took a massive bong hit.

“Oh yeah . . . that’s the good stuff.”

I should probably start keeping a closer eye on him.

Before I can think any more about that, my firstborn pain in the ass graces us with his presence.

He strolls into the kitchen, not a care in the world.

And I try to stay calm, to hold on to my composure. . .

“Where the fuck have you been?”

. . . but I don’t quite manage it.

He has the audacity to look surprised.

“I told you—Mia and I were fighting. I couldn’t just leave in the middle of it.”

“It’s ten thirty in the goddamn morning, Aaron—I’ve been texting you for hours!”

“We drove to Sandy Hook to talk. We ended up falling asleep. My charger crapped out and my phone died. Why are you freaking out? Everything’s fine—it’s not a big deal.”

It’s the flippancy that really gets me going. The total disregard for anyone else’s feelings except his own. You can teach your kids right from wrong, set an example of hard work and responsibility—but you can’t make them give a shit.

“It is a big deal. You’re seventeen, you have a curfew—I expect you to respect that.”

“I’m going to be eighteen in six months. I’m practically an adult already!”

I rein in my response—because he’s a kid and he’s stupid and he’s at an age where he just can’t comprehend that he’s not invincible.

“I lost a patient tonight. A kid just a few years older than you, in a car accident. I had to look his mother in the eyes and tell her her son was dead. That he was never coming home again. And then I had to go through hours of you not picking up your phone! I was ready to send your uncle out looking for you!”

“Oh, please. You weren’t worried about me.” He jerks his chin toward his brothers. “You’re just pissed because I wasn’t here to watch the babies.”

Spencer glares from across the room—his voice small and wounded.

“You suck, Aaron.”

“Yeah, that’s low, man.” Brayden agrees. “We watched Hereditary.”

“We could’ve died!” Spencer insists.

But Aaron ignores them—tossing his resentment at me like an adolescent monkey flinging poo.

“You’re no different than Mom. Neither one of you gives a shit about us. You only care about yourselves.”

If you have kids, at some point in their lives you’re going to want to look them in the face and tell them to go screw themselves.

They don’t mention that in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

But I grind my teeth and clench my jaw.

“You’re grounded. Two weeks—no going out, no car—give me your keys.”

“Two weeks?! But it’s the summer!”

“You want three? ’Cause I’ll make it three, Aaron.”

And now I sound like the asshole vice principal from The Breakfast Club. Perfect. Every dad’s dream.

Aaron’s furious gaze burns into me for a few seconds. Then he smacks his keys on the table.

“This is bullshit!”

And he stomps his way up to his room—slamming his door so hard the walls rattle.

And I stand in the kitchen and . . . deflate.

My shoulders cave in and my head throbs and my eyes ache.

Because Spencer is right—Aaron sucks.

And I suck. Everything sucks.

Such a goddamn mess.

Then I feel a hand on my arm—delicate but strong. Violet’s palm slides up to my shoulder, massaging the knotted tendons, her caress so warm and soft and needed I want her to touch me forever.

“Bet you’re glad you decided to help me out and stay over now.”

My words drip with sarcasm.

But Violet’s response isn’t sarcastic. It’s honest and bare and rock-solid supportive.

“Yes, I am.”

I let myself fall into her gentle brown eyes. Take comfort in her warmth and understanding. I absorb her tenderness like a succubus—letting it soothe my sore soul—greedily taking all she so readily gives.

And everything seems to suck just a little bit less.

Because she’s here . . . because she’s her.