Page 39 of Wallflower
I sigh and drop my head back against the fat plastic peacock feathers, pressing my lids closed to ease the way they sting. “I do still draw, and no, I don’t share it with anyone.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question—one I’ve asked myself many times—without a real answer. I give him the only one I have. “Because I don’t know how to stop.”
His brows pull together, and his mouth turns down. “Maybe that means—”
“I’m a little warm.” I pull my float against the side of the pool and inelegantly drag myself out of it, then offer him an awkward wave without making eye contact. “Thanks for the swim—or the float. I’ll see you later.”
I fling my towel around my shoulders and hurry back to the house, hoping that if I move fast enough, I can outrun the uneasy regret of sharing too much. This anxiety is why I can’t make friends. Vulnerability is uncomfortable, and people don’t always know when to back off. I know Chord was about to tell me I shouldn’t give up my dreams, and I don’t want to hear it. It tookme a long time to accept that I wasn’t meant to be a designer. Hoping for the impossible hurt too much. Hope broke my heart every day.
eighteen
Chord
68 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
I sit on theedge of my bed, elbows on my knees, and glare down the hallway at Violet’s almost-closed bedroom door. She’s been in there for an hour getting ready for her night out with Daisy, and I’ve been searching for an excuse to go with them. The Slippery Tipple is a dive bar with great beer, good music, sticky floors, and a questionable crowd, but it’s the only place close enough to Silver Leaf to dance and get drunk and still find a way home at two in the morning. It’s owned and run by a woman named Mona Golightly—my mom’s best friend when she was still alive and as good as an aunt to me and my siblings—but that doesn’t help me right now. I’m too pissed at the idea of Violet moving her body on a hot, dark dance floor, lit by the glow of the kitsch signs, tipsy and flushed and gorgeous, another man pressed against her.
I crack my knuckles on my left hand, then my right, and scowl at her door.
It’s been two days since our conversation in the pool, and I can’t get it out of my head. I asked a question without much hope of getting an answer, but Violet shared some big things—and part of me wishes she hadn’t.
She gave up on her dreams. No. She gave up onherself, and it makes me so fucking mad.
I’m halfway up the hall with no idea what I’m supposed to do when a blast of music sounds from behind her door. There’s a squeal before the sound cuts out, and I knock before I can stop myself.
“Come in?”
My lips tip up at the way she phrases it like a question.
My eyes land on her immediately, and I blink away the memory of her standing in that exact spot, wearing nothing but her pretty blue panties. It’s a small leap from there to the way her skin felt under my palms by the pool—slick with lotion, warm from the sun, so unbelievably soft.
This woman’s got no idea how she fucking tortures me.
“I’m sorry about the noise.” She picks up her phone and taps to silence the music before setting it on the desk face down. “I was listening with my headphones and didn’t realize the volume would be so loud on speaker mode.”
Her glasses are on the desk and her bare feet sink into the fluffy white carpet, but she’s still in the cut-off denims and old Van Halen tee she’s had on all day. I find the vintage rock shirts one more intriguing thing about her. Does she wear them ironically? Is she a genuine fan of their music? It seems like a good opportunity to find out.
“What are you listening to?”
She waves her hand toward her phone and feigns a casualness she obviously doesn’t feel. “It’s a random mix. I don’t know what they play at The Slippery Tipple, and I want to be prepared.”
“They play all different things. Country, easy rock, stuff you hear on the radio.” Then I narrow my eyes at her last comment. “Prepared for what?”
Violet drops her eyes. “Dancing,” she mumbles.
“Dancing?”
I hate the way she nods but doesn’t look up, so I close the distance between us and make it impossible to ignore me. When she still won’t look at me, I take her chin and lift her eyes to mine.
“Why are you embarrassed?”
Her chestnut eyes shift between mine as she searches for something. “Because I’m not sure what to do.”
My pretty little wallflower doesn’t know how to dance.
I reach around to pick up her phone, then hand it to her. She spares me a quizzical look before she unlocks it, and I take it back long enough to select a song and adjust the volume. When the first slow country notes sound from the speaker, I set the phone down and extend my hand.
