Page 119 of Play On

A flake who has no real commitment to anything.

“I am not dropping my responsibilities at the gift shop,” I say, working very hard to keep the emotions out of my voice. “I didn’t leave anyone in the lurch. I have Maria and Amelia covering for me, and both of them are happy to do it.”

“Why even work there if you don’t intend to work?” Dad counters.

“Whoa,” Nicholas says, putting out his hand in a stop motion. “That’s not fair. Violet has worked there foryearsnow, and this past month is the only time she’s asked people to cover multiple shifts for her. You’ve had more people quit than you’ve had Violet ask someone to work for her. That’s not flittering. I realise now that I was wrong to have ever called Violet a butterfly in the first place.” He looks at me, his dark brown eyes rimmed with regret. “I’m sorry, Vi.”

A lump rises in my throat. Nicholas has my back, and I love him so much for it. I’m about to thank him when my dad speaks first.

“Now you’re rewriting Violet’s behaviour,” he insists. “It’s not professional to bail on multiple shifts this month.”

“If I couldn’t have covered my shifts,” I say slowly, staring at my father, “I wouldn’t have made the arrangements to go. And I swapped shifts with Maria, so I merely am working different days. That’s not bailing.”

Mum looks aghast still. “But Violet, you can’t travel so far around the world like this!”

“Yes, I can,” I say. “I’m not a child. And I don’t need your permission to go. I’m telling you because I’m not going to be home, and I don’t want you to worry. I’ll check in with you the entire time I’m in Melbourne. But I’m leaving after my shift on Monday to spend the night in London, and then I fly out on Tuesday morning.”

“Did you notice what Violet said? She’s working her shift on Monday. She’s not even taking the day off before she leaves the country,” Nicholas points out.

My parents decide they don’t like his logic, so they ignore it.

“I don’t like the fact you are spending thousands of pounds on an impromptu trip. I don’t like that you are flying all the way to Australia just for some man,” Dad says.

I look sharply at him. “You’re wrong about that. Noah is not ‘some man,’ he’s my boyfriend. I want to support him.”

“And you can’t do that when he’s playing here?” Dad challenges.

I refuse to get into the reasons why I need to be in Australia. Those are between myself and Noah, and I don’t need to lay them out for my parents to examine or poke holes through.

“I know this is the right thing to do,” I say calmly. “The arrangements are made, and I’m going.”

Mum sighs and picks up her cutlery. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dad keeps his gaze on me, and I go ahead and resume eating. “Violet. We love you. That is why we’re concerned. We’re used to your butterfly ways, doing things and then dropping them, but Noah is not. I hope this plan to fly off to Melbourne and surprise him doesn’t blow up in your face.”

I have to force the bite of potatoes I have down my throat, hurt by the words my dad is saying. Noah is not something I’m going to cast aside. And the only reason I cast things aside is because of fear. Fear I’m going to screw them up. Disappoint people if they don’t go as planned.

I shoved Noah away for the same reason in the beginning.

I almost lost him because of it.

I’m done being that butterfly. I’m now the butterfly that Noah sees in me.

And this butterfly is taking off for Melbourne on Tuesday morning.

* * *

“I’m so glad you could come over for dinner,” Aimee says, bustling around her tiny kitchen in Notting Hill. “You may remember, I make a damn good stir fry, if I do say so myself.”

I smile from my seat in the living room. Aimee is living out her dream of living in Notting Hill—which was inspired by a rom-com she read when she was sixteen—and has a very small flat. There’s really not enough room for both of us to be in the kitchen when she’s working, so I’ve taken a seat on her grey sofa, which is filled with cushions in all different colours and patterns. A rickety old coffee table is in front of me, piled high with fashion and beauty magazines. A worn antique rug covers the hardwoodfloor. There are bookshelves crammed full of books and bright floral art prints covering most of the walls, hung in a crowded, haphazard fashion. It’s a vibrant, fun look—a room that screams Aimee.

“What about this flat is Jules?” I ask, referring to our old uni friend who is her flatmate.

Aimee flashes me a huge smile. “Her room. I already had the place when I was looking for a flatmate.”

Right on cue, I hear a key turn in the lock. The door opens, and Jules appears in the doorway.

I rise from the sofa. Jules’s brown hair is longer now, tumbling to her shoulders, and she’s dressed in a white blouse, wide-legged navy trousers, and taupe heels. I know from her Connectivity page that she works for a pharmaceutical company in London doing marketing.

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