Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(77)

I walk up the path and knock on the door.

And then she’s opening the door, standing at the threshold, her dark hair pinned up in a bun, her body encased in a white, fluffy robe.

And it’s like my whole soul sighs with release, the tension draining out of me. I stand there for a moment . . . soaking in the sight of her, letting the sensation of coming home fill me up.

Violet tilts her head, watching me with liquid velvet eyes.

“You look tired.”

My hand goes to the mountain-man beard.

“Is that a nice way of saying I look like shit?”

“Nope—that’s not possible. You just look tired.”

When I was at the hospital, I didn’t feel the stress and worry and lack of sleep—I didn’t let myself feel it at all. But now it’s hitting me, full force.

“Do you want to come in?”

“God, yes. Please.”

Violet steps back, opening the door wider as I step in.

“How’s Aaron doing tonight?”

“Better. He looks good. I mean he’s got screws in his ankle, and a metal cage around his leg and he’s attached to a heart monitor, but overall . . . he’s good.”

Violet closes her eyes and exhales.

“I’m so glad.”

“Garrett and Dean are with him. He’s got surgery tomorrow afternoon so I’m going back in the morning, but . . . I wanted to see you tonight.”

She gives me a smile, but there’s something off about it. Something . . . sad. It doesn’t light up her eyes.

Even when Violet was pissed at me all those months ago, there was a spark to her—bright and blinding. Now she seems . . . dimmed. Down. And I wonder if she’s as exhausted as I am.

We walk into her living room and she moves to the kitchen.

“Do you want something to eat?”

“No.”

“Do you want something to drink?” She opens the refrigerator door. “I have your beer.”

I take her hand, turning her toward me.

“I’m fine, Violet. I just . . . I just want to be here with you. Talk to you.”

Something flashes across her face that I don’t understand. And she stares at the center of my chest.

“You came here to talk to me about something?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

She folds her lips together tightly.

“I see.”

I think about what Aaron said, how I haven’t been a very good boyfriend. It’s true—I’ve been consumed with my son’s situation, with myself. And I know Violet understands that . . . but I wonder if I’ve missed something.

Something going on with her.

I cup her cheek.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “Sure.”

“Is Darren okay? Your sisters?”

“Everybody’s good.”

And then she moves into my arms, hugging me, holding onto me—pressing her face into the hollow of my neck. It’s like she forgot what I feel like . . . and she desperately needs to remember.

When she pulls back she says, “I was just going to take a shower.”

A hot shower with her sounds like heaven right now.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

It shouldn’t be a big deal—Violet and I have taken dozens of showers together—but for a moment she stiffens.

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?” I ask . . . because she doesn’t look sure. “I can stay—”

“It’s fine, Connor. Really.”

She picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles gently. Then she leads me to the bathroom and turns on the shower full blast, filling the room with steam. We’re silent as we slip out of our clothes—she hangs her robe on the hook on the door, her smooth, beautiful back beckoning to me.

And it’s not even sexual. I mean, I’m hard, obviously, but it’s so much more than just that. Deeper. Needier.

I want to drown in the feel of her skin, surround myself in her scent and her sounds, sink into the sensation of her body pressed snug and vital against mine.

I don’t even need to be inside her. Just being close to her is enough.

But there’s a tension in Violet’s shoulders, an anxiousness radiating from her that makes me hesitate. That tells me something is wrong. With her.

With us.

She releases her hair from its bun and steps into the shower first, the brown, wavy tendrils turning black beneath the stream. I follow her in, the scorching water hitting my shoulders and running down my back. She turns away from me, reaching for the shampoo and not meeting my eyes, like she’s holding back—hiding.

My voice goes soft and coaxing.

“Hey, Vi?”

“Yes?”

“I know I’m missing something here. Something big. Can you tell me what I’m missing? Please?”

She licks the droplets of water from her upper lip, and her words come out slow, like they’re being dragged out.

“I didn’t want to bring this up now, I know you’re dealing with a lot—”

“You can tell me anything. Anything at all, I promise.”

And now she looks like she’s about to cry, and whatever’s twisting her up inside—I just want to make it better.