I grip the cup tighter in my hand and shake my head.
Pull it together, Daniels. Be cool.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” She smiles—but it’s brittle and guarded and all frigging wrong.
I hold out the large paper cup.
“I swung by Magnifique Coffee this morning and grabbed this for you.”
“That was nice.” She takes the cup. “Thanks, Connor.”
And it feels like a victory. A small victory, sure, but even Everest gets climbed one step at a time.
Then Violet walks out from behind the nurses’ station and drops the cup directly into the garbage. It lands at the bottom with a dull, flat thud . . . like my hopes.
“But I’m trying to cut back on the caffeine.”
I nod slowly. “Right.”
And she walks away without looking back.
Great. Perfect.
Fuck.
A week after that, I run into her at the high school when I show up a little early to pick up Brayden from the obligatory pre-freshman-year summer tour. Spencer and I are hanging out on the bleachers when I spot Violet’s unmistakable form jogging around the track.
I intercept her on the asphalt. “Hey. What are you doing here?”
She stops running, brushing her damp bangs back from her forehead, and shrugs. “I just felt like I needed a change from the trails. It’s smooth pavement here, you know? No unexpected bumps or potholes to trip me up.”
And she’s looking at me in the way women do when they’re saying one thing but mean something totally different—and they expect you to read their minds.
I didn’t think Violet was one of those women . . . but I guess I was wrong.
She glances down at Spencer and her whole demeanor changes. Her eyes go from distant and lifeless to affectionate and bubbly. And her smile is genuine—suffused with her natural warmth.
“Hey, Spencer. How are you doing? It’s good to see you.”
“Hi, Violet! You know that babysitting position is still open. Are you still ‘seeing’?”
“Yes.” She laughs gently, and jealousy flays me to the bone. Jealous of my own kid—that’s not messed up, is it? “I’m still seeing.”
Violet lifts her face to mine—and we’re back to the dead eyes again.
“Well, I should finish my run. See you around, Connor. Or not. You know . . . whatever.”
* * *
“Those are some serious thoughts for a Sunday morning,” Tim tells me from across the kitchen table. “I can hear you thinking from here.”
Garrett focuses his attention on me. Because the gang’s all here at my parents’ house for the traditional weekly family bagel breakfast.
“You do seem kind of . . . broody.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, “Who pissed in your copy of The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield?”
Garrett gives Ryan an odd look. “That’s very literary of you.”
Ryan shrugs. “I was helping Josephina with her English paper last night.”
“Yeah, she’s got Dillinger for English—he’s a total slacker. He hasn’t updated his reading list since 1995.”
“Hello.” Angela waves at them from the other end of the table. “Can we focus, please? And find out why Connor is more sullen than my teenage daughter—and pray to gawd that it doesn’t have anything to do with the cutie he brought to Dean’s wedding? I liked her.”
“I like Violet too,” Callie adds, because my love life is always up for a family vote. “You two seemed like you really hit it off, and she was great with the boys.”
I sigh and resign myself to spilling my guts. My sisters-in-law are the best, but their interest is like the jaws of a rottweiler—once they latch on, they never let go.
“It is about her, actually. Things were going good after the wedding. We were jogging together, texting, I thought we were on the same page. But now . . . ”
I leave out the sex part. Sitting at my parents’ kitchen table discussing my sex life is too weird.
“ . . . she’s not really talking to me anymore. Like, at all.”
“Maybe she’s playing hard to get,” Tim suggests. “She knows you took the bait so now she’s jerking the line to set the hook deeper. You should ignore her. Or insult her—insults would be better.”
“Insult her?” I ask, like he’s lost his mind.
“Definitely. Negging works like a boss.”
“No. Violet’s not like that.”
“They’re all like that, bro.” He thinks about it further. “Could also be she’s actually blowing you off. Girls do that all the time—it’s the nature of the beast. She’s probably been ‘jogging’ with two other guys on the side.”
“Hold the phone.” Angy puts out her hand. “Why are you taking advice from Timmy about dating? Or . . . anything?”
“I resent that,” my youngest brother says.
“He’s the same age as Violet,” I tell her. “And he’s single. None of you have been single for years. It’s a fucking jungle out there.”
Angy is already shaking her head. “Timmy has a type. He dates girls. Young, morally questionable, not the brightest bulbs in the box—”