Page 33 of A Photo Finish
Pretty_in_Purple:Ah. Don’t be. People get all weird around me about it when the fact of the matter is, I have no frame of reference for what I missed out on. I had a good childhood. I was well-loved. I mean, I am well-loved.
She’s so forthcoming. So honest. I have the sudden urge to spill my dad’s whole story. About that day. About watching it happen and about how my life was all downhill from that moment. It would feel so good to get that off my chest, to say the words that have solidified and gone stagnant there. Like when you don’t quite swallow that pill, and it’s just sort of lodged there in your throat.
But I don’t.
Nobody wants to hear about my shit, and I don’t want to scare her away.
* * *
This place is terrifying.I’ve seen some scary shit, but Neighbor’s Pub might top that list. Who puts carpets in a pub? I watch my feet as I walk into the dim bar, and I swear I can feel them sticking slightly to the carpet with each step I take. I peek over my shoulder to make sure that Violet isn’t entirely stuck to the flooring.
Instead of frowning at the interior, I see a small smile touching her lips as she looks around the place. With her silvery hair still in a big bird’s nest and her petite body swallowed by an oversized cream sweater, she looks altogether too bright to be in such a dump. But based on the look on her face, she doesn’t seem to agree.
“Where do you want to sit?” I ask her, eyeing the dark wooden tables suspiciously.
“Keep going. There’s a table at the back beside a fireplace.”
In a few more steps, the table—small and round with two mismatched captain’s chairs and a tacky green and brown stained-glass light dangling over top of it—comes into view.
I huff out a laugh, disbelieving that I’m actually doing this. “Trixie would love this place.”
“Who is Trixie?” Violet asks, coming to stand beside me.
“My therapist,” I blurt out before I realize what I’m saying.Motherfucker.Since when do I overshare? What else am I liable to blurt out around Violet? I’m getting comfortable around her—which is a problem.
“Cute name. I like it,” she says cheerily before charging ahead and grabbing the seat that faces the front door.
That’s it? No questions or interrogation? I expected judgment about being in therapy. Instead, she makes an off-handed comment and sits down. Right in the seat I prefer. My PTSD is mostly under control these days; it’s the image of a lump on the track and hooves pounding past it that keep me up at night now. It’s taken years of hard work, but my deployments don’t haunt me like they used to. I still like to assess the room though, see my way out, know if there are threats looming. I hate the idea of having my back to the room, the danger it could put me in. The danger it could put Violet in. I know I’m not in Iraq anymore, but these are the things that stick with you. The training that sticks with you. You’re neverjusta civilian again.
I sit down stiffly, feeling all wrong about what I’m doing, but not wanting to reveal any more than I already have.
“How ya doin’, hun?” I startle when two plastic menus are tossed down on the table between Violet and me.
The waitress beams down at me, and I lean back in my chair, gripping the armrests, as I grind out, “I’ll have a water.”
Violet gives me a flat, unimpressed smile. A silent scolding for what I’m sure she sees as inappropriate behavior. Chastising I don’t need or want—which is why I prefer to spend my time alone. Less explaining. Fewer expectations to fall short of.
Her look brightens as she smiles up at the waitress. “I’ll take a Guinness, please.” Her eyes dart over to me briefly before adding, “And thank you. Never mind my friend’s manners.”
“Sure thing!” The girl darts away, and I glance over my shoulder to watch her head back to the bar and get our drinks.
“A Guinness?” I ask Violet. I expected her to order a margarita, or at least something that came with an umbrella in it. Not a thick, dark beer.
“Yup.” Her eyes dance with amusement. “Not what you would have guessed?”
I check over my shoulder and reply absently. “No . . .”
“I grew up on a ranch with a single dad and three older brothers. Once I could drink, beer and whiskey were the only options in the house.”
One side of my lips tip up. “You don’t strike me as a whiskey girl.”
Violet smiles shyly. “You might be surprised then.”
I look back up at the bar, wanting to make sure I’m not startled by the waitress again. I can feel my pulse jumping in my wrist—I can see it even.
“Want to switch seats?” Violet leans across the table. She asks so quietly that I almost don’t hear her.
“What?”
