Page 21 of Holiday at Home
No, worse. I sound like an asshole.
Who goes to someone’s house to bring up a delicate topic and ends up inviting her to dinner instead?
Say it with me now: an idiotic asshole.
Violet laughs, the sound light and unexpected. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”
As soon as the words leave her lips, her cheeks flush pink, her brows knit, and she looks like she’s questioning her life choices as much as I am.
“It’s not something I experience all that often.”
“Believe me,” she says with a roll of her eyes that is so familiar and adorable it does something strange to my stomach. “I know. Simon Holiday plans every last bit of his life into oblivion.”
“A tactic which has served me well.”
Violet flares her hands and dips her head. I get the impression she’s quietly agreeing to disagree.
“Unless there’s a dress code for this evening,” she says, sucking in her lips, “I just need to freshen up a little and then we can go?” She looks as unsure as I am about how to proceed, but an almost silent voice inside me urges that this is right… despite how messy and strange it feels.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just hang out down here, and we can drive over there together when you’re ready.”
With an uncertain bob of her head, Violet disappears upstairs. I wander the Sterling house. This place is a core memory of my teenage years. Violet and I used to study in her room until her parents realized we’d become more than friends, and then we were relegated to the dining table in plain sight of her mom and dad. Their house was always inviting. Fewer people and less noise than mine but welcoming in a way that mattered. You could feel it in the bakery too. This sense that when you walked through the doors, you’d come home.
Family pictures still sit on the mantle, now covered in a fine layer of dust. That’s not like Violet. None of this is like Violet. I may not have been a strong part of her life these last couple years, but people don’t change that much at their core. Something inside screams that she’s in need. Like sirens blaring,red flags waving. It’s not my place to do anything about it. Not anymore.
But I can’t just walk away.
Whatever the hell that means.
A few minutes later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. The Violet I remember would come bounding down, almost skipping. These steps are heavy, measured, like the joy that was always an essential part of her spirit has bled away. Her russet hair is pulled back off her face, soft tendrils falling around her temples. She’s changed into well-fitting jeans and a chunky sweater. Black. Not festive at all. It swallows her, makes her look small, fragile.
But still oh so beautiful.
She catches me staring and pauses at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the rail and a question on her face. “You okay? Because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
And I kind of feel like I have.
Standing there, watching her come down the stairs, sent me back to every high school dance we attended. Violet radiant in her dress, me, so eager to take her hand, certain I’d been lucky enough to find my forever in my first love.
I see the girl she used to be, overflowing with bright energy, racing down the stairs to meet me before a double date with Robbie and Nora or an evening exploring the abandoned lighthouse with Cal Monroe and Russ Calder.
And I’m hit with everything I used to feel for her, a punch to the gut that takes my breath away.
So yeah. Ghosts.
“It’s just weird being here, I guess,” I hedge with a shake of my head. “It feels like home, but not.”
“I get that.”
Those three words are heavy, bearing the burden of so much more than she’ll say.
“You sure about this?” Violet asks, hovering on that last step like she’s afraid to move forward.
“No,” I reply on a laugh. “But let’s do it anyway.”
With a soft smile, Violet heads into the foyer, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her keys. I open the door and instinctively put my hand on her lower back as she steps through. Her focus shifts over her shoulder, storm-grey eyes meeting mine. I pull back my hand with an apologetic grimace.
“Old habits, I guess.”
