Page 47 of A Photo Finish
“I don’t even know where to start with that question. It feels like I’ve been furious for a very long time at nothing in particular. And definitely not with you.”
Did it hurt when she disappeared from our chats? More than I ever imagined. But could I blame her? No. Wanting me would be like choosing a vial of poison to quench your thirst. A slow and painful way to get dragged down into the dark. And no one wants that. Not anyone sane. I know I’m damaged goods, which is why I like to keep my relationships at a safe distance. Fenced off. Something Violet wiggled her way under over the course of a year.
I run one hand through my hair and look away, not knowing what else to tell her. What I do know is that I’m tired of lying. Tired of obscuring the truth. Presenting myself as someone I’m not. Tired of hurting the people closest to me—or those who get as close as I let them. The ones who don’t scurry off when I growl and bark at them.
She steps in closer to me, tilting her head to catch my eye again, seeking some sort of connection. One I’d rather pretend we don’t have. It’s less intense that way.
“Why are you angry with yourself?” Her voice is gentle, and her small hand snakes out and latches itself onto mine. Her dainty fingers wrap around my wrist, like she’s feeling for my pulse point. The one that’s pounding under the pads of her fingers. The one that riots every time she comes near or touches me. The only woman that’s touched me like this in . . . a really fucking long time. The only one I’ve let get close enough to try.
And maybe it’s that. That she’s somehow poked and prodded at me enough that she’s broken holes into my shell that are big enough for her to slide in and get at all my dark, sensitive spots. Or maybe it’s just the fucking scotch. But I decide right here and now she deserves the truth. Even if it makes me feel nauseous to say it out loud.
“Because I scared away the only real friend I’ve had in—” I scoff, “Well, maybe ever.”
Her thumb rubs in reassuring circles on the back of my hand. She’s calm, like water lapping at the shore. Gentle and even, continuous, and I can’t help but want to lie down in that shallow water and let myself get lost in the rhythm.
Violet soothes me. Even if she might be the most oblivious woman in the world.
“Who is that?” Her eyes are wide and shocked, scanning my face for more information.
I chuckle. Serves me right to say it out loud. “It’s you, Violet.”
“Me?” Her thumb stops moving, and her lungs empty on a gasp.
“Listen . . . I’m sorry.” I reach out and touch a lock of pale gold hair that has slipped across her cheek.
“You’re sorry?”
I groan. “Are you trying to rub this in?”
“No!” One hand falls across her chest in shock. “I just . . . You considered me your friend?”
Her eyes twinkle in the dark of night. With the light of the moon, everything around her is more of a dark blue than black, deep and sparkling, like the river I can hear faintly running behind the farmhouse. The moon’s glow highlights her features in the most alluring way. I should tell her she’s so much more. The thing that got me out of bed most mornings. My bright spot. My sunshine.
I run my thumb along the highest point of her cheekbone, watching the way the light plays up the coarseness of my hand against the silkiness of her cheek. Such a contrast between the two of us. Dark and light. Rough and smooth. Big and small.
The things I want to do to her. I shake my head, silently scolding myself for even letting myself go there. She’s young, driven, bright—full of promise.
And I’m the opposite in that regard too.
I lean down toward her, hand cupping her lower jaw, and press a gentle kiss beside her mouth. “I still do.”
I hear a sharp intake of air from between her lips when I pause there. I want to swallow that noise and taste her mouth. Claim it. I want her to never kiss another man again. But that’s not practical. Not realistic.
I’m all about the realities of life. I know them well. And the reality with Violet is that as badly as I want her, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to open up enough to take that chance. Especially not with what she does for a living. The fact of the matter is, I’ve worked too hard on my mental health to put myself through that kind of agony. Falling in love would be bad enough. Falling in love with a jockey would be downright impossible.
* * *
I gaspand sit straight up in my bed, blankets tangled around my legs like I’ve been kicking, or maybe running. Running from my past, most likely.
I can feel the perspiration soaking the back of my shirt, can feel the strain in my lungs and the burn in my leg. I flop back down and run my hands over my face, scrubbing at the stubble there. Feeling myself so I know that it’s real, where I am, that I’m safe. It’s been so long since I had a dream like that, one that takes me back overseas. There were so many bad days, so many gruesome ones. But only that one stands out.
I remember the sun. The way it beat down on my dark uniform, the way I’d sweat under my heavy kit. The way you could gasp for air, trying to catch your breath, but all you’d get was hot, stifling oxygen and grains of sand. It would coat your tongue, scrape your throat, and stick in your nostrils.
It fucking sucked. But not so much as dragging your friend’s body away from a blast. Checking his pulse, shouting at him to wake up. No, that was the part that sucked the most. That’s the part that has my hands shaking right now.
The survivor’s guilt. Why him and not me?Why him and not me?If I had a penny for every time I’ve asked myself that exact question, I could probably end world hunger.
A light knocking on the door snaps me out of the memory.
