“Depends on what they said.”
Violet held up one hand, her thumb out, counting.
“You joined a hippie commune in California.”
I laugh.
“Not really.”
“But you were in California?”
“I was. I rented a room next to an organic farm and used to exchange pastries for fresh eggs, does that count?” I ask.
“Did you wear flowing white robes and do lots of chanting?” she says, sounding hopeful.
“No on both counts. White’s not my color, and I can’t carry a tune.”
She holds up her forefinger.
“You were in prison in North Dakota.”
“What for?”
“Some kind of fraud, usually, but the rumors could never quite decide,” she says.
“I was bartending,” I tell her. “But I did have to break up a fight once and I got a scar from it.”
“Is it a cool scar?”
I pull up my right sleeve with my left hand, find the slightly raised line on my shoulder. Violet leans in.
Instantly I’m aware of her closeness, of her eyes on me. I keep my own straight ahead, drinking in every detail of the road, spine rigid. Armor on.
“Touch it,” I say without thinking, the words borne of nothing but the desire to feel her skin on mine.
“Why, so I know it’s real?” she teases.
She touches it anyway, her finger cool against my skin. I hold my breath and watch the road like the answer to every question I’ve ever had is written on the asphalt, like keeping my eyes ahead means my heart isn’t pounding, my pulse hasn’t quickened.
“What else?” I ask.
Her finger leaves my arm and she sits back in her seat.
“You just like hearing about yourself.”
“I want to set the record straight,” I say, letting myself glance over at her and grin. She’s turned halfway toward me in the passenger seat, lit only by the reflected glow of the headlights, the green lights of the LED clock.
“You joined the mafia while you were in Sicily,” she says, ticking it off on her fingers.
I just snort.
“You were part of an opium smuggling ring in China.”
“Also no.”
“You hit it big in the drag racing circuit in Tokyo.”
“That’s the plot of a Fast and Furious movie.”
“You were in a Mongolian princess’s harem.”
I look over at her, incredulous.
“People said that?”
“I heard it.”
“From where?” I ask. “Who the hell thought that one up?”
“You haven’t denied it yet,” she points out.
“I think Mongolia’s a democracy,” I say.
I have no idea what kind of government Mongolia has, just like I’m not one hundred percent sure that moose are ungulates.
“Maybe they got it wrong and it was the prime minister’s harem,” Violet laughs. “You were in a harem, weren’t you?”
“It doesn’t sound like the worst life,” I admit. “Lay around on cushions all day, eat bonbons, wait for the prime minister to send for you.”
Violet just laughs.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t think someone would keep me in a harem?”
“I can’t imagine you chilling out and waiting for someone to send for you,” she say. “I can’t imagine you getting along with the rest of the harem. You’d get kicked out for bad behavior inside of a week, Eli.”
I grin.
“I don’t think harems kick you out for being naughty.”
“You’d know, apparently.”
We come up on Pine Ridge Estates and I slow, turning into the trailer park, tires crunching on gravel. Violet goes quiet as I navigate to her trailer, the same place she’s lived for as long as I’ve known her, and pull up in front.
“You still haven’t told me why you stayed,” she says.
I cut the engine and the headlights. A warm breezes blows through the truck, carrying the smell of pine and grass, a whiff of cigarette smoke from somewhere, a hint of asphalt after rain.
“I got homesick,” I finally admit.
It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud. It’s almost the first time I’ve admitted it to myself, but there it is: the tedious, mundane truth.
I can practically feel her thinking, her fingers still out the window, waving in the air.
After a moment she says, “That’s all?”
I prop my head against my hand and look over at her. Our eyes meet, lock, and this time I don’t look away.
Violet’s always gotten under my skin, like she knows exactly what to say or do that will get to me.
No one else has ever gotten to me like she does. Not my other friends, not my brothers, none of the girlfriends I’d had over the years. No one’s ever even come close.
She still gets to me, but something’s changed. It feels like she’s lifting up my top layer and peeking underneath, examining, critiquing.
It feels like she’s seeing me raw and naked. Exposed.
The strange thing is that I don’t hate it.
Stranger still, I’m starting to like being seen the way only she can see me.
“It felt more complicated at the time,” I finally say. “I missed my mom. I missed my brothers. I missed knowing the names of practically everyone I saw walking down the street. I missed the way the air smells here after it rains.”