Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

They’re right. Rationally, I know this. But the rational part of my brain has been out of commission lately—I’ve been operating on base instinct and adrenaline.

“Where are the other two rug rats?” Dean asks. “I’m sure they’d like to see you.”

“They’re staying with Stacey tonight at her place in Hoboken.”

“Good.” Aaron nods. “Then why don’t you go see Violet?”

Violet.

Christ, just thinking her name is like an oasis in a desert, a cool, beautiful glass of water on a scorching day. My chest loosens and my stomach unwinds, the knot replaced with simmering, exhilarating desire.

Because I’ve missed her so fucking much.

We’ve texted and talked in quick fragments. We’ve seen each other briefly, but really only in passing.

Not enough, not nearly enough.

My whole focus has been on Aaron—first on the paralyzing fear that he could crash at any moment, that we could still lose him—and then on his recovery, what he needed and making sure he got it.

But the thought of seeing Violet, talking to her, touching her, hearing her voice and her laugh . . . just being with her, fills every space inside me with a blessed, relieved joy that I almost forgot was possible.

“Seriously, Dad, go see your girlfriend,” my wise child tells me. “You’ve probably been a crappy boyfriend lately; you might have to grovel.”

I chuckle. “Nah, Vi’s not like that.”

Which makes it even more important that I not be selfish, that I treat her right. Because she’s understanding and phenomenal—and she lets the small stuff go so easily.

“We’re just going to hang here all night.” Garrett pulls a bag of popcorn out of the gym bag he carried in with him. “And watch the Patriots get annihilated.”

Dean grabs the remote from the tray and turns on the television on the wall behind me. “And mock Belichick’s offense without Brady, because we’re petty like that.”

Aaron reaches for some popcorn, but my brother slaps his hand away.

“Ow!” My son retracts his hand, laughing. “I’m frigging injured.”

Garrett points at him. “No popcorn allowed for you. You . . . ” he reaches into the bag again—like a gender-swapped Mary Poppins. “ . . . get to enjoy this whole case of popcorn flavored Jell-O that Aunt Callie picked up from Whole Foods just for you.”

Garrett looks at me. “And I already checked with Aaron’s nurse on the way in—he’s cleared to have it.”

Aaron rolls his eyes.

“Great.”

“No preservatives or artificial flavors,” Dean says. “Yummy.”

“I brought lemon flavored too, in case it tastes like ass,” Garrett tells Aaron.

Then they all laugh.

And that’s the moment when it clicks—when I know and feel that Aaron’s going to be okay without me. I nod, surrendering.

“All right, all right . . . I’ll head out.”

I kiss the top of Aaron’s head. “Love you, buddy.”

He smiles. “Love you too, Dad.”

My throat tightens and my eyes heat, because I’m just a fucking mess these days.

Still, I manage to walk out the door and down to my truck in the parking lot.

For the first time in weeks, there’s nowhere I have to be—not at the hospital or talking to Stacey or Brayden and Spence, or in a conference with one of Aaron’s doctors.

But need—need’s a different animal. And there’s only one person I need to see as soon as possible.

So I pull out of the parking lot and drive straight to Violet’s house.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Connor

Twenty minutes later, I pull into Vi’s driveway behind her little blue Volkswagen.

I didn’t call her on the way over, but the light in her living room glows a golden yellow behind the closed blinds. I kill the engine and gaze at her adorable house, the corners of my mouth inching upward, just because I’m here.

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.