Imperfect Affections

Fuck it. I don’t want to talk about the past, especially not when I’m drunk. Unwinding the window, I stick my head out.

The air drops a degree when the clock on the dashboard strikes midnight, the cool breeze somewhat waking me up.

I’m still far from sober when Damian parks in front of my complex and asks for the code to open the gate. Letting my head fall on the backrest of my seat, I don’t give him the number. I want to stall. I want to figure out how to face Violet, how to explain why I’m legless and turned inside-out. I’ve never been good at making excuses or admitting my weakness.

“Fuck,” Damian mutters, pressing the bell on the intercom. “Forget it.” When the guard answers, he says, “Leon Hart’s residence. I’m dropping him off.”

“One moment,” the guard says. “I’ll dial the house.”

Leaning over Damian, I say, “That’s not necessary. I’m in the car—”

“He’s hung up,” Damian says, pushing me off him.

“How do you know where I live anyway?”

He shoots me a look.

“Fine.” I rub my eyes. Maybe if I rub hard enough, I’ll see clearer. “If you know my address, how can you not know my fucking house number?”

“Shut up, Leon.”

“I have my keys, you know.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you. I left my wife and children alone at home to drag your sorry ass out of a dive bar.”

A pang of guilt pierces my chest at the mention of Lina and the kids.

The guard comes jogging out of the guardhouse with a clipboard to sign Damian in, which means he dialed the house and someone in the house gave him permission to let the visitor in. There’s only one person in my house.

Fuck.

“Mr. Leon.” The guard hands Damian the clipboard and a pen. “Did you lose your keys?”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

Damian signs himself in and explains that his driver is following with my car. Recognizing my car, the guard assures Damian he’ll let him through. Security is strict in these top-notch complexes. That’s why I pay an arm and a leg in levy fees.

When the guard opens the gates, I give Damian directions. As my luck will have it, my neighbors are awake, sitting outside on their porch swing.

Great. Why not give the neighborhood something to talk about?

My pedestrian gate stands open. The spotlights from the front garden shine through it. Violet stands barefoot on the pavement, dressed in a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt. A cardigan is draped around her shoulders, falling askew on her frame as if she pulled it on in a hurry.

Concern tightens my chest. She’ll catch a cold.

Damian doesn’t as much as blink at her presence. He’s always been good at keeping his thoughts concealed. Unlike Violet, who’s an open book for anyone who cares to look. Her expression is a mixture of apprehension and embarrassment.

Damian gets out and opens my door, all but hauling me to my feet. Violet comes forward, hovering there uncertainly, looking scared to touch me.

“He polished off a bottle of whiskey,” Damian says, keeping his voice down. “I better help him inside.”

“Okay.” She swallows. “Thanks.”

The man who drove my car hands Violet the key. “Shall I leave his car here or do you want me to pull it into the garage, ma’am?”

“Here is fine, thank you,” she says.

The woman from across the street runs over. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Damian says.

“Do you need help?” The woman asks Violet, ignoring Damian. “Sam can give you a hand.”

“It’s all right, thank you,” Violet says.

My neighbor looks doubtful. “You know where to find me if you need us.”

“Thanks,” Violet says again, wiping away the hair the breeze is blowing into her face.

I want to reach out and hook that hair behind her ear, but Damian is already dragging me to the door, telling his man to wait outside.

“Upstairs,” Violet says, following behind us.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to shake Damian off and only ending up leaning heavier on him.

“Like hell you are,” he says under his breath.

In the bedroom, he dumps me on the bed. “Do you need a hand to undress him?”

“No,” she says. “I’ll manage. Thank you for driving him home.”

“I’m Damian, by the way.”