They’re sexy. Her toes are painted fire engine red with sparkles on them.
“You wear those shoes to the office today?” I ask.
She looks down and wiggles her toes. “No. Way too fancy for work. I changed my shoes in my car in the underground. And my shirt.”
“You changed your shirt in a car?”
“Covertly,” she admits.
I shake my head. “Underground parking garages have cameras everywhere, Violet.”
She shrugs. “I had a bra on.”
I’m surprised. And aroused. Though I’ve been aroused since I set eyes on her tonight. No, that’s wrong. I was aroused when she was sassy on the phone with me. When I set eyes on her in the club dancing with Susanna, it took me back. Three years back. And I fucking wished it was the first night I’d set eyes on her all over again. That somehow, magically, that time wasn’t stretched out between us. With her with him, the fuck. With her with anyone but me.
“You have a good time with your friends?”
“A great time. And I needed it. Haven’t danced in forever. And it was kind of a long week.”
“Oh yeah?” I head to the kitchen and reach into the cupboard to pull out two glasses. I then go to the dining area, reach into the sideboard below the wine rack, and pull out a bottle of scotch.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask.
“Got vodka?” she asks.
“I do.”
She reaches into the fridge and pulls out a quart of cranberry raspberry cocktail.
I saw her put it in the fridge with a few things a couple days ago on my app. My app that I spent way too much time watching while we were apart.
I bring her a glass with the shot of vodka to the kitchen island. She pours juice in it and then adds ice from the dispenser on the fridge door.
I reach into her glass and steal an ice cube with my fingers and drop it into my own glass.
She smiles and sips her drink, showing me dimples.
My front teeth skim my bottom lip and I move closer to her.
“What’s a frickle?” I ask.
“Hm?” She asks.
“You said you had nachos and frickles.”
“Fried battered dill pickles. They’re delicious.”
I give my head a shake, smiling.
“I’ll make some for you.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
“Tomorrow. When I’m not drunk. Though, damn, I wish I had some right now. I wonder if you have the ingredients here. Want me to look?”
I smile and finger one of her corkscrew curls.
“Forget frickles for tonight.”
“Forget frickles? Never.”
I stare at her mouth.
“Where have you been all week,” she asks, the dimples vanishing.
“Doin’ shit that needed doing,” I say. “Did you miss me?”
She sips her drink. “I’m used to keeping myself company. But yeah, I got lonely. Spending the whole week with my stress. So tonight I let loose a little. It was fun.”
“Good. Except that part where the bartender was trying to pick you up.”
She smiles. “Why would you care?”
I snicker. “Why would I care, Violet?”
Her eyes flash sober for a split second and then she ignores the remark. “The girls were trying to make a match. They told me I needed to get back on the horse. But I wasn’t gonna let him pick me up. I figure I need to make sure my ex knows he’s my ex first. At the very least.” She watches for my reaction to that. I think she likes that I’m jealous.
“You think he’s holding onto hope,” I say.
She frowns. “I mean. I told him more than once that we’re over, so in my mind, I’m single, but yeah. I think he’s stubborn like that.”
“He’ll learn,” I say.
She regards me thoughtfully for a moment, looking a little less drunk. And then she puts her glass to her lips and takes a big sip. And I’m glad she hasn’t again brought up questions about my plans for Raymond Iadanza.
“You looked good on that dance floor,” I tell her, unable to stop myself from thinking that she’d also look great in my bed right about now.
“Been a long time since I spent time on a dancefloor,” she says, a look on her face telling me her mind is trailing off to a time when she didn’t feel like she does now. Defeated. Beat down emotionally.
“What other things did you like to do when you used to dance?” I sip my drink again.
She smiles. “Laugh. Go to comedy clubs. Watch funny movies. Watch cheesy movies. Go to concerts. Plays. Musicals. Even bad ones. Well, especially bad ones and try to not laugh. Try new restaurants. Go on vacations. Go to zoos or museums. Play tennis. Go to sports events.” She shrugs. “Hang out with my friends. My family. Go antiquing and try to upcycle stuff.”
“What sort of stuff did you do with him?” I ask.
She swallows. “Nothing much. Not for the past year and a half, anyway. Stress about stuff. Scramble. Feel bad. Try to be invisible. Cry.” Her face falls and then she’s full-on sobbing. She stumbles forward, looking like she’s gonna run somewhere, likely her bedroom, but I side-step and we collide as I catch her in my arms. She completely falls to pieces. She has my shirt in both of her fists and she’s crying into my chest, her entire body bucking under the outpouring of emotion.