“Not a good one,” I finally say.
My mom looks at me. I drink again. The alcohol feels good, like it’s dulling my brain.
“Violet hasn’t had a lot of kindness in her life,” my mom says. It’s not what I expected her to say.
“Well, she’s not very kind,” I mutter into the whiskey.
“I once went over to her mother’s house when the two of you were in first grade,” my mom says, ignoring my input. “I forget why I was there. The place smelled like a chimney, but anyway, I noticed something. There was nothing on the fridge. Not a single piece of artwork.”
I frown. I take another drink. My mom is looking at me expectantly, like she’s waiting for something.
I stand and walk to the back door, look in at the fridge.
It’s covered with Rusty’s drawings. You can barely see the the fridge between pieces of construction paper decorated with crayon.
I sit back down.
“So Daniel’s a better parent than her mom was,” I say.
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but yes,” my mom admits. “But besides that, there’s a reason why people are the way they are.”
“Then how come I’m like that?”
“That’s your father’s genetics,” she says, smiling slyly. “Not to speak ill of the dead.”
I roll my eyes.
“My point is, I like Violet and since sometimes you’re too stubborn to know what’s good for you, I don’t mind telling you that you’d do yourself a disservice to lose her.”
“She’s the one who lost me.”
“What I’m suggesting,” my mom says, ignoring me again, “is that maybe you don’t worry about what you think she deserves or what she’s earned. Just be kind because you like her and everyone deserves kindness sometimes.”
I run a hand through my hair and look out at our back yard: a quarter-acre of grass before the forest starts.
“What if she’s a jerk and I’m happy to be rid of her?”
“Is that why you’re drinking whiskey and sharpening knives?”
Fine.
“Your good advice is just be nice?” I say. “Can’t you tell me, like… what kind of flowers to get her?”
“No, because I don’t know shit about flowers,” my mom says, laughing. “And, for the record, my advice is to be very nice.”
Be very nice.
Yeah. Sure. Great.
“Thanks,” I say, and finish that glass too.
My mom stands.
“I’m going to go put the knives away,” she says lightly. “You can keep sulking out here if you’d like.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” she tells me, standing. “We all need it now and again. Have a good sulk, Eli.”
I do.* * *I spend another night not sleeping.
My own bed feels strange. My pillow feels wrong. My blanket is too hot, then too cold, then too hot, and worst of all, Violet’s not here.
I miss her. I hate this.
I’m still mad. The hook is still deep in my chest, still jerking every time I think of her face. I feel it every time I remind myself that she doesn’t trust me. That she never trusted me. That she kept me at arm’s length, ready to think the worst of me at the drop of a hat.
And I miss her. That’s all. As complicated as things sometimes feel between us, this is simple. I miss talking to her while I make dinner, I miss bringing her coffee in the morning, and I miss waking up in her bed.
I’m angry with her and I miss her and I wish she were here and I want to fight with her about why she doesn’t trust me and how she could ever possibly think that I would send that picture to Montgomery, and I want to bury my face in her hair and hold her close and never let her go.
I want to hand her Martin’s head on a platter, but I can’t even do that. I can’t even metaphorically do that.
My mom’s advice bangs around in my head. Be very nice. It’s probably good life advice in general, but I don’t know if it’ll work with Violet.
To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever tried being nice to her. We’ve been a lot of things to each other, but nice? Not really.
I give up on sleeping and on my sheets that are always the wrong temperature, and I start pacing, running through the same things over and over. I feel like I’m spinning my wheels in mud, but I can’t stop revving the engine.
The hook. Her hair on her pillow. The look in her eyes when we argued.
Be very nice.
Mid-pace, my door creaks open. Daniel sticks his head in.
“If you’re not going to sleep, at least sit the fuck down,” he hisses.
“Language, Daniel,” I hiss back.
He frowns, leans in, taking a closer look at me.
“Jesus,” he says.
I just glare.
“That bad, huh?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, crossing my arms in front of myself.