Page 4 of House of Hearts
“Then take the hint already.” We both wince at my tone, and I want to blurt out a sorry, but my stubborn tongue holds all the apologies in. “I’m okay.”
I’ve always been okay because I’ve always had to be okay. I’m the stronghold for Mom, built to weather every storm. For the longest time,I became that for Em, too. I was a rock for those always adrift. Now I’m the one lost at sea.
“I don’t want you to worry about me.”
She lowers her hand, and I hate the way I tremble beneath it. Hate the way I draw in a breath and avoid crying because that’s exactly what she wants from me.
“I’m your mother. What else should I do?”
“Be proud of me.”
Mom smears at her already-wet cheeks. “I am proud of you. You studied hard to get in and wrote a stellar admissions essay. You even got a heck of a nice scholarship to cover this place. You’ve done so much to be proud of, but, Violet, you’re not happy. That’s the problem.”
I force a smile. I know it’s as frayed as her skirt. “I am happy,” I say, the words almost comical as my voice wavers. “I’m so happy right now.”
Last time I lied this hard to myself, I was staring down at a closed casket.Not dead, not dead, not dead.
Mom opens her mouth to fight me further but doesn’t get the chance. A familiar buzz shears through the tension, the gas station manager’s name flashing across her phone screen. She grimaces down at the text:
the new guy’s a no show…need you to work a double shift tonight ASAP
“What does he mean ‘tonight’?” I ask, my voice too small in my throat. “You’ve got a hotel. You’re here for the night.”
She averts her eyes and studies a speck of dirt on her sneakers. “About that, Violet…”
“You never booked a room, did you?” I ask.
“I wanted to, but the hotels were all out of budget. And the cost of gas to get here and back alone—”
“It’s okay, Mom. Really. I get it.” I grip her hand and muster up another worn smile for her sake. “You should go. Birdie’s waiting for me anyway.”
“You sure? Promise you’ll call?” she asks, and we both know how hard it will be with her schedule. Two full-time jobs, bleary mornings and late nights. It breaks my heart to hear her voice like that.
“Promise.”
She pulls me in for a crushing, consuming hug. At this moment, I’m a kid in too-big shoes, drowning under the weight of fears twice my size. Back in the sandbox with cardboard armor and a play sword, pretending I could see the monsters in Em’s make-believe world, but I could only ever see the real ones.
“I love you.”
I mumble an “I love you” of my own into her hair and wave as she walks away, her silhouette growing tinier in the distance. It’s only after she’s gone that I readjust the chain slung across my throat. Just one more secret to pile high atop the rest of them.
The half-heart locket Percy gave to Em before she died. The one I found in my mailbox a week later, a single plea scrawled in our secret code:
If something happens to me, find Percy.
She said she was prepared to do anything to get into Percy’s club, but I wonder if she was prepared to die.
2
Birdie decides to live up to her namesake and cluck at me like a mother hen when I get back. She loops an arm over my shoulders, and I’m trapped in a one-sided conversation as she titters on about homesickness and how sweet it was that my mom cried and how it’s okay if I want to cry andandand—
And it’s exhausting, but I do my best to smile and nod when prompted. Thankfully, Birdie is so focused on parading us around that she fails to notice when my grin falters and my eyes skirt back to the stage. Calvin’s gone, but the imprint of him is seared in my mind.
Ahead of us, greenery spreads as far as the eye can see. It’s even on the lake across from us in the form of big, fat lily pads; the water beneath a stunning blue, the last traces of light reflecting clearly off the surface. I turn away from it to see two strangers sitting in front of me.
“Violet, meet the newspaper team behind theHart Herald. The workaholic in front of you is Oliver Walton. He’s…” She scrabbles for the right word before deciding to be mercilessly blunt. “A total asshole most days, but he means well, so don’t let him scare you. I swear he’s a big softie when he’s not lecturing people about em dash usage.”
“I seem to recall winning that argument,” the boy—Oliver—remarks before snapping his journal shut. From our fleeting, split-second eye contact, I can say he’s rather good-looking. Warm black skin and lashes so long they tickle his cheeks.
