My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Do you care?” She glares at me critically, her eyes narrowing in challenge. “Truly care? Because I’m here to help you, but not if you’re half-assing this.”

I crowd her, close enough to be threatening, but she’s a ballsy Italian woman and doesn’t react in the slightest. “What’s. Wrong. With. Abigail?” I repeat, needing her to answer me so I don’t run out the door, hop on my bike, and ride to SweetPea Boutique to lay eyes on Abigail myself.

“Honestly, you’re what’s wrong with her. For some stupid reason, she misses you.” She rolls her eyes and sounds like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

“She does? She hasn’t called me,” I argue, but I’m so surprised that I give her space, falling back on my heels. Giving a woman like Violet the win is never the right thing to do. She’ll hold it over my head for the rest of my days that all it took to bowl me over was the barest hint that Abigail might . . . maybe . . . sort of want me.

“Have you called her?” Violet argues right back. She’s got fire in her veins now and is ready to call me on any shit I might spew about it being a vacation-only thing at Abigail’s request.

The truth is, I’ve called a hundred times but never hit Send. I’ve driven by SweetPea daily, and yesterday, I hit a low point and started Googling for images of her. Seeing her done up with fancy hair and makeup at socialite events hadn’t made me feel better, though. I like the beachy Abigail who was bare-faced, open-hearted, and . . . mine.

Violet takes my non-answer as a no. She scowls and gets up, strutting for the door.

“Wait!” I beg.

She freezes with her hand on the knob but doesn’t come back. The glance over her shoulder says this had better be good.

I’ve never been a coward, so I dig deep to find some bravery and tell Violet the truth, praying that she really will help me. “I’ve been killing myself to stay away from her because I thought that’s what she wanted. I should be halfway across the country . . . or in another country by now. But I couldn’t leave her. I’m on the edge of a fine line of ex and stalker at this point, but I just . . . miss her, can’t be without her.” My voice is deep, rough with emotion at the admission of what the last few days have been like.

Violet spins in place and points a pink nail at me. “That’s what I want to hear.”

“You want to hear that I’m destroyed? That I’m fucking falling apart without her? That I can’t cook, can’t sleep, can’t do anything without wondering what she’s doing every minute of the day?” I shout, my hands flailing through the air dramatically. I’m Italian. It’s what we do. “Fine, there you go.” I grab my chest through my T-shirt. “That’s all I’ve got laid bare. Do with it what you will.”

She click-clacks her way back across my floor and pats my cheek too hard, somewhere between affection and assault. “I will. I’m going to help you.”

“You are?” I’m relieved, hopeful for the first time in days.

“Yep. For her, not for you, so remember that.” But she’s smiling openly as though I passed some significant test. Or maybe that I failed the test of being away from Abigail and that pleases her. Who knows with Violet?

“First things first, you need to do something about that.” She motions from my head down to my toes, making a face of disgust. “Do I need to call Archie?”

I shake my head. “I can shower and shave myself, Vi.”I park my Ducati in the private parking garage, already sensing the security guard heading my way. I pull my helmet off, hooking it over the handlebar to run my hands through my hair. Freshly washed it on my own, thank you very much, Violet.

“You can’t park here,” the security guard tells me, thinking I give a shit about his supposed authority. I know what he sees when he looks at me—dirty motorbike rider, hair too unkempt, jeans too holey, shirt too off-the-rack, and attitude too fuck-off.

But I am who I am. Abi never seemed to mind my roughness, though I was more ‘board shorts and flip flops’ in Aruba than biker.

“I was invited,” I tell the guard, making no sudden moves—to leave or to obey.

He sneers in disbelief. “By whom?”

“Violet Andrews. She’s my cousin.”

I can see the color drain from the guard’s face. Apparently, my cousin’s name means something significant to him. I imagine Violet’s told him off a time or two, probably at fingerpoint. “Hold, please,” he says, less fierce than he was initially, but his eyes stay locked on me as though I’m some major threat even though I’m chilling on my bike with my arms relaxed at my sides. He messes with the radio at his shoulder, which crackles in response.