Page 64 of A Photo Finish
Violet turns and starts walking back down the path. I follow, pretty sure my walk isn’t as even in this prosthetic. People would notice now, but as Violet slows to match my pace, she says nothing.
The silence is fine by me.
Only when we pull up to the barn does she talk. “Thanks. See you at the track tonight?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m riding tonight. That’s why I’ve got to get going.”
Maybe that’s why she seemed so off? Focused on tonight?
“Is that safe?” I ask before I can stop myself. But really, she just spent the night sleeping poorly and hiking up and down a mountain to help my crippled ass. Running around at breakneck speeds on a thousand-pound animal being anything short of perfectly alert seems dangerous to me.
One shapely brow quirks up as she crosses her arms back at me. I feel like I’m looking at a small, blonde, elvish version of myself with that pose and facial expression.
“Friends look out for each other, Violet,” I grumble at her. I know she doesn’t want people telling her what to do, but this is serious.
And she just scoffs, “Yeah.Friends,” and rips the truck door open before slamming it with nothing more than a wave over her shoulder as she stomps up the stairs to her apartment.
19
Violet
My head hurts,and I feel like death warmed over. I can barely move. I’m not sure if it’s the copious number of drinks I downed in front of Billie at Neighbor’s Pub last night or that I’ve made myself feel sick over a goddamn internet pen pal.
My stomach roils, and again, I can’t differentiate the cause.
I’m so mad. At me. Not even at him. Because he’s right. He was nothing but upfront with me about his limitations. About his rules. Yet, I barged ahead thinking I’d be the one he’d change for. I shake my head and press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, trying to dull the throb in my head. I can hear my oldest brother, Cade, giving me dating advice—and there was a lot of it—but this bit stands out as exceptionally pertinent right now.
Don’t pick a man who needs fixing—or changing—to meet your needs. He either wants to, or he doesn’t. And if you need to convince him, he doesn’t love you the way you deserve.
I hated the way my brothers meddled in my love life. The three of them practically put me up in an ivory tower, but I guess they knew Mom better than I ever did. They lost our mom and didn’t want to lose me too. So instead, they smothered me and drove me away. Because I couldn’t stay there. But right now, I ache to go back. A hug from my dad, a noogie from Rhett, an easy smile from Beau, and some deep, poetic advice from Cade. Good men, all four of them.
And I’m not sure I truly realized it until now.
I know what they’d tell me this morning, and I know what Billie told me last night.
It’s time to move on. I deserve more. I deserve better.
I delete the app from my phone and go lie in the bottom of my shower where my quiet tears blend and wash away with the spray of lukewarm water above me.
* * *
The soundsof the track filter in around me as I tack Brite Lite up. It’s my second year riding her, and she’s a solid racehorse with a good head on her shoulders and a fair number of wins under her belt. But today, the pretty gray mare is antsy. Just like me. Raring to go, right back where I was a month ago. I shove my earbuds in and get to work on zoning out, humming to try and soothe her nerves as well as mine. Except where I usually play the race through in my mind, I’m instead replaying the last twenty-four hours.
The walk down the mountain and subsequent drive home was quiet. Awkward. I didn’t know what to say to Cole, and my mind was so busy piecing it all together that I couldn’t have come up with small talk to fill the space anyway.
When I went into his room to get his leg, I tried not to take my time looking around, but I did a little bit. I’m only human, okay? And it doesn’t matter. The place is military clean. Everything laid out just so, everything spick-and-span clean. I wondered if he polished the floors with a toothbrush like you see in the movies, but I couldn’t even bring myself to ask him that.
Because when I’d shoved the sticky drawer closed on the dresser that was home to his spare prosthetic, it moved the mouse next to the laptop plugged in on top. The one that was still open. The one that was open to our chat. Our messages from over a year ago were sitting right there, looking me in the eye.
And I was very, very human at that moment. Because I couldn’t look away, and definitely couldn’t stop myself from scrolling through. I wondered why the hell he would have our chat still open on his laptop when I hadn’t responded to
him in a year. Until I came face-to-face with my answer.
. . . How are you?
. . . Is everything okay?
