CHAPTER15
Violet
Families are enigmas. They’re made up of individuals who serve their own agendas. Homo sapiens pack life is filled with landmines. Living together means forever walking on egg shells. Lina and Damian’s family is the happiest one I’ve met. Then again, my experience is limited. My lack of friends doesn’t help. I haven’t spent time with families other than Aunt Ginger and my own, and Gus and my mom aren’t the best example of blissful happiness.
My classmates’ favorite nickname for me in primary school was bionic woman. Because of the teasing, I didn’t make friends. I retaliated by being closed off and unapproachable. My choice of defense was attack. I struck out before they could shoot me down, sparing myself from being repeatedly hurt by the insensitive remarks. My unlikeable character turned me into a loner and an outcast, and I ended up isolated.
As the saying goes, old habits die hard. Keeping everyone at a distance spilled over into high school. It was safer to protect myself than risk being the girl everyone made fun of, or worse, the girl everyone pitied. While other kids hung out at each other’s houses, I spent all my free time in my toxic environment. My drawings became my escape. In a way, they also became my prison. Instead of living in real life, I lived in my head. Instead of climbing that tree, I drew a picture of it.
I’m not sure where Leon and I fall on the family spectrum. We’re not my mom and Gus. My mom is too indifferent. We’re definitely not Lina and Damian. Can we ever be?
I contemplate the questions when I wake up on Monday morning, but I can’t think clearly. I’m still in that space of emotionlessness, my feelings dulled. Leon is trying hard. He brought me flowers and chocolates. He kissed me gently. Even now as I blink sleep from my eyes, the smell of bacon and coffee comes from downstairs. He’s making breakfast.
He didn’t leave money.
A part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and let him break through my defenses and demolish this wall of nothingness that rose overnight around my heart, but another part of me, the part that has been conditioned in childhood, is scared. I’m terrified of giving in to flowers and kisses, only to be kicked to the ground again. It’s not easy making myself vulnerable.
After a quick shower, I pull on a dress. Jeans still bother my new tattoo too much. I apply minimal make-up and brush my hair before going downstairs. Leon stands in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of sweatpants. The pants ride low on his hips, exposing his lean waist and powerful back and shoulders. His wet hair tells me he swam after working out. Maybe he rinsed down in the outdoor shower.
I enter the kitchen cautiously, treading through those all too familiar landmines.
Flipping a pancake, he says from over his shoulder, “The eggs and coffee are ready. Grab a seat.”
How did he even know I entered the kitchen? My feet are bare. He couldn’t have heard me. I sit down at the table, balancing on the chair as he slides a fluffy pancake onto my plate.
“Morning,” he says with a crooked smile, leaning down and pressing his lips on mine.
Before I have time to process the kiss, he returns the pan to the stove and serves me scrambled eggs from a second pan.
“You slept so soundly I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, carrying the bacon to the table. “There’s maple syrup and honey. Coffee?”
“Um, thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“You didn’t eat much last night, and it’s your first day at your new job.” Resting his elbows on the table, he puts us on eye level. “I still think you should look into publishing.”
“My drawings?”
He pulls out a chair and sits down. “What else?”
“I thought…” I bite my lip, not wanting to admit out loud what he thinks about my art matters to me.
Grabbing a piece of bacon, he bites into it. “I told you they were good.”
“They’re dark. Sexual.”
“That’s part of what makes them so good.”
I blink. “Do you mean that?”
He smiles. “Do I say things I don’t mean?”
“Your expression when you looked at them told a different story.”
“That’s because I didn’t like how you drew me. It had nothing to do with your art.”
My cheeks heat knowing he noticed that I poured many of my own emotions into those drawings.
When I don’t reply, he says, “Those space monsters are me, aren’t they?”
“Not all of them,” I say softly.
His nod is resigned. “Well, they’re damn good, and it’ll be a pity to hide them under the bed or wherever you keep them.”
“I don’t know. Selling them anonymously is one thing. Publishing them in a story book is another.”
Tilting his head, he studies me. “Are you afraid of showing the world who you truly are?” When I remain silent again, he says, “Because you shouldn’t be. You should be proud. I am.”
My lips part in surprise. Automatically, I search for the lie in his eyes, but he holds my gaze squarely. My mom loves me—I never doubt that—but the only person who’s even been truly proud of me was my Aunt Ginger.
“Gus and my mom won’t be happy,” I say.
He pushes back his chair and goes to the coffee machine. “Tough luck. It’s your life. You’re living with me now. The only opinion that matters is mine.”
The wrongness of that declaration isn’t lost on me. He’s telling me in not so many words that everything will happen with his approval. Yet it doesn’t bother me half as much as it should. I’m too blown away by the fact that he’s not disgusted by my sketches.