Page 57 of Wallflower
Violet chuckles under her breath. “Actually… yes. A little.”
My relief at being able to do this one small thing for her is disproportionately enormous. I hold up a single finger and back up a couple of steps. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back.”
I race downstairs to collect the food from the server and decline his offer to set the table and plate up. Instead, I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen, stuff a handful of cutlery and napkins in with the takeout containers, and hurry back to Violet’s room.
“Dinner is here,” I announce, holding up the bag in one hand and wine in the other. “Do you object to a bedroom picnic tonight?”
She blinks and fights a surprised smile. “No. That sounds good.”
I set the bag on the bed and unpack the boxes as I watch Violet from the corner of my eye. Her eyes are red, and her skin is blotchy, but, to my relief, she’s not crying anymore.
She inhales deeply as she reaches into the second bag and sets a couple more boxes on the bed. “This smells amazing.”
“It does.” I pour us both glasses of red, set the half-empty bottle on the table beside the bed, and hesitate at the edge of the mattress. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. “Not at all.”
I settle myself on the mountain of pillows piled up against the headboard, then straighten again immediately. “Dammit. I forgot plates. Let me go—”
Violet sets a hand on my shoulder, and my heart skips at the small smile on her mouth. “I’m good to share like this if you are.”
“Yeah.” I ease back onto the pillows, taking a box of Dylan’s signature roast duck with me. “I’m good like this.”
I stab my fork into a crispy slice, pop it in my mouth, and then pass the container to Violet. She accepts and takes her own piece, and I watch as her pink lips wrap around the fork.
Violet drops her eyes like she knows what I’m thinking, and I don’t even care. I want her, and I want her to know it.
“So, do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
Violet’s fork freezes before she returns to poking at a container of roasted vegetables. With a sigh, she sets the food aside and picks up her wine. I wait while she takes a sip, sensing that this is another one of those moments where if I’m silent for long enough, she’ll start talking. And I want her to talk so badly.
“I called my dad a little while ago,” she finally admits, staring into her glass of pinot noir.
“Okay.” When she doesn’t elaborate, I offer her another dish, which she absently accepts while setting down her drink.
“I called my dad,” she repeats, “and he sounded a little down. And when he’s down, I’m down. Or, at the very least, I start to worry.”
“Because he has depression.”
Violet gives me a look that says she’s surprised and a little bit pleased. “Yeah. I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I listen. But he’s had this condition for a long time, right? What’s different about today?”
She sets down her food, taking care not to spill anything as she bends her legs under the covers so she can wrap her arms around them and set her chin on her knees. “I’ve never lived away from home. Dad hasn’t been on his own since before I was born. The two of us—we’re the only family we have. This separation is hard on him, and I feel guilty.”
I frown as I finish what’s left of the crispy duck and choose another box. I’m at risk of saying something stupid here. Something along the lines of Violet being a grown woman who probably should have moved out of her father’s house years ago. Something about hating the idea of her taking responsibility for someone else’s happiness—even if that person is her father. Something about the injustice of a child worrying about a parent the way he should worry about her. But I’m smart enough to know that none of this is what she needs to hear.
As I analyze and discard every piece of advice I can think of, another possibility occurs to me. Is this Violet’s way of telling me she wants to leave?
My spine is suddenly lined with sweat. I can’t keep her here. She’s an employee, not a prisoner, but Iamher boss. And she needs this job—ironically, to pay her father’s therapy bills and for the insurance. It would be a simple adjustment to finish our contract and release her back into the clutches of Courtney and the Fury marketing team, and I consider it. I do.
For about six seconds.
I can’t let her go before the end of the summer. It’s not long enough as it is, and I don’t know what will happen when it’s over. Violet is mine every minute of every day until the end of September, and I’m not letting her go, so I’ll have to find another way.
We eat in silence for a while. When most of the boxes are empty, I toss everything back into the delivery bag and set it on the floor, then clear my throat.
“I don’t have any experience with depression, so I don’t want to sound insensitive, but you’ve done nothing wrong by being here. And I’d like to think your father loves you enough to not make you responsible for his mental health.”
