Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

Violet looks away, staring over at the orange flame of one of the firepits. When she turns back to me, her voice is more upbeat. Cheerful.

“Wow—am I a fun date or what? I’m sorry to be such a downer.”

“No—you’re not.”

Her head tilts with disbelief. “Sure, I’m not. Abandonment, cancer, death—all the fun-time topics.”

I laugh, shaking my head, debating if I should tell her that she’s the best date I’ve had in years. And it’s not even close.

But then Tom Waits comes out of the speakers—playing a guitar and singing in his gravelly voice about how he hopes he doesn’t fall in love.

So instead I say, “We should dance. Do you want to dance?”

Violet’s eyes lift to mine.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” I stand up, holding out my hand. Without hesitation, she slips hers into mine and I pull her to her feet. “Come on, fun buddy.”

Vi tips her head back, laughing beautifully and lighthearted and so fucking sweet it makes my chest constrict.

“I swear, my heart stopped when Spencer said that. It was hilarious.”

“That’s my kids.” I lead her toward the dance floor, still holding her hand. “Always a barrel of laughs.”

* * *

The ride back to Vi’s house is different from our drive to the wedding. Before it was just her and me, with the music playing low on the radio, our easy conversation filling the cab, covert looks and quick stolen glances.

On the way back, it’s her and me . . . with three teenagers jammed in the back and one ten-year-old squeezed in the front seat between us. Plus the bickering, the complaining, the almost constant changing of the radio station and blasting of the air-conditioning.

All that’s missing is Rosie the barking dog.

Then Brayden decides to slip off his shoes and socks, stretching his legs out and resting his bare feet on the rear center console.

And all hell breaks loose.

“What the shit is this?” Aaron yells. “Dude, your feet reek!”

Mia covers her mouth and nose with her hand, which outrages Aaron even more.

“You’re making my girlfriend nauseous—put your frigging shoes back on.”

“I’ve got to air the boys out,” Brayden explains while passive-aggressively wiggling his unusually long toes. “Let ’em breathe.”

Meanwhile, Spencer is smiling and staring at Violet in a way that’s starting to feel Children of the Corn-ish creepy.

“Did you have fun at the wedding?” he asks her.

“I did,” she answers. “It was great.”

Then he dives headfirst into the sales pitch . . .

“You could be our babysitter, you know.”

. . . while Aaron and Brayden are threatening to kill each other in the backseat.

“My dad doesn’t mind spending money when it comes to us. It could be a pretty sweet deal for you. You should think about it.”

“You’re not the boss of me, butt-munch! I can take my shoes off wherever I want.”

“Keep talking, wonk-donkey—the minute we’re home I’m kicking the crap out of you.”

“Oooh, I’m so scared,” Brayden says in a high-pitched, mocking voice.

Followed by the inevitable, “Oww! Daaad—Aaron stepped on my toes!”

I have zero chance with this woman.

Not that I really did before. She’s young, gorgeous, carefree—she has the world at her feet and could have any guy she wants by the balls. When we get to her house, Violet should run for her life in the opposite direction of wherever I am.

“That’s enough!” I tell the animals in the back—not shouting, but close enough to shouting to get their attention and bring the arguing to an instant end.

“Aaron, do not stomp on your brother—you’re too damn old for that. Brayden, have some consideration for the other people in the car and put your socks and shoes back on until you get home.”

When I glance over at Vi, she’s not looking at me with the horror I expect. She’s watching me with something like amazement on her face. Like she’s deeply impressed.

And then she impresses me right back.

When she tells Spencer, “It does sound like a sweet deal,” and she pats his knee. “We’ll see.”

And her delivery is almost as good as mine.

* * *

After I pull into Violet’s driveway and kill the engine, she says goodbye to the boys and slides out before I have the chance to open the truck door for her. But I walk beside her up the stone path to her door, to make sure she gets in okay.

“I had so much fun tonight,” she says softly.

“Me too.”

“Thank you for taking me. And for letting me hang out with your boys—I can’t remember when I had such a good time.”

“Thanks for coming with us. They had a great time too.”

And me. I had a fan-fucking-tastic time. But I keep that part silent.

Once we reach the front step, in the halo of the yellow lantern light hanging beside the door, I say, “So, I guess I’ll see you at work.”

“I guess so.”

“Good night, Vi.”