C3 Violet

I don’t make it five feet outside before I tear my shoes off. After standing in heels for five hours, lifting heavy pot after heavy pot, the cool asphalt feels like pure heaven on my toes. This parking lot could be a chewing gum, broken

glass, and cigarette swamp and it still would be heaven. I walk around the side of the building, pull out my phone, and hit the button. Nothing.

I hit the button again. You have to be kidding me. Of course my phone is dead. Of course. That’s the day I’m having, obviously: bad date, Eli, repentant dishwashing, Eli, no ride, stupid Eli, dead phone. Fine. That’s fine. I’m prepared, and I reach into my purse and fish for my backup battery, which I keep for exactly this scenario. As I fish, Eli’s face appears like it’s etched on the insides of my eyelids. A tiny dark tornado erupts in the pit of my stomach.

Don’t let him get to you. TELOIV EERHT RETPAHC EKAM T’NOD I Don’t do it.

God, I didn’t even know he was back. The Sprucevale gossip machine hasn’t said a peep about Eli Loveless’s return, and the gossip machine normally has a lot to say about the Loveless boys. I haven’t seen him since we graduated high school. I knew he went to college. There was a rumor he dropped out, but I never knew whether that was true, and by then, my mom was sick and I was too busy to find out. Besides, I was happy enough to lose track of him because Eli Loveless was an infuriating, cocky, competitive asshole who would stop at literally nothing to one-up me my whole life and oh my God, where the hell is my phone battery? My empty hand hits the bottom of my purse for the second time that night.

This can’t be happening. In desperation, I rifle through everything in my purse one last time. My formerly-cute sundress is sticking to my back. There’s sweat trickling down my butt crack, and it’s grossing me out. I’m tired and angry with Todd and angry with myself and somehow, angriest of all at Eli Loveless for existing at the worst possible time.

“Fucking Eli,” I mutter to myself.

It does make me feel a little better.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I drop my stupid purse to the stupid ground, and lean my head back against the brick wall. It’s after midnight and I’ve got no money, no phone, and no ride. I’ll just walk, I think.

It’s warm enough. The town’s safe enough and small enough. Home is close enough Four, maybe four and a half miles. Besides, I’d rather walk than hitchhike. Even if my phone was working, Adeline’s at work with her phone off. The cab company here has one driver and he’s probably drunk right now. This place is way too podunk for a ridesharing app. I toss my shoes into my purse. I spent every childhood summer running barefoot on gravel. I’ll be fine. It’ll be an adventure. I take off along Main Street, heading south. Downtown Grotonsville is quiet, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlights and the lights of McMahon’s about a block away, but even that is pretty quiet right now. I walk one block, then two. Grotonsville is even smaller than Sprucevale, the town where I actually live, so I’m already close to the edge of it. I start to relax a little. It’s a nice night. The stars are out. The two traffic lights on main street change from green to yellow to red and back in a soothing, predictable rhythm.

And I do not think about Eli. Not even a little.

I don’t think about the fact that his stupid smirk is actually hot as hell, about the fact that I want to shut him up by putting his mouth to better use, or the fact that his thick, ropy arms make me want to climb him like a tree.

Of all the people to turn out hot, I think, stomping along the midnight sidewalk. I’d rather it was literally anyone else.

I’m so focused on being irritated at Eli that I don’t hear the engine until it’s right behind me, and then all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my sense instantly whipping into sharp relief. It’s loud and guttural and someone’s revving it. Has anything good ever come of loud, revving engines at midnight?

I steel myself, fighting the adrenaline rush and glance over my shoulder. There’s a huge pickup truck about a block away, and it’s got at least four people jammed into the cab and a couple more riding in the bed. Don’t look scared, I tell myself as a vortex forms in my stomach. They’re probably just gonna shout at you and looking scared will only make it worse. They’re drunk, hooting and hollering to raise the dead. They’re likely coming back from McMahon’s, the only place besides Le Faisan Rouge that’s open this time of night. I steer my steps closer to the buildings. I stand up straighter and I act like I’m not scared. I am. The truck comes closer. I glance over my shoulder at it, hoping for nonchalant instead of lonely victim.

I’m practically hugging the closed cafe to my left when the truck comes up alongside me and slows.

“Whachu doin’ out here alone like this?” a voice says. “Come on, get in.”

“I’m fine,” I say, still walking. I’m scanning for exits, somewhere that I could go that the truck couldn’t follow, my heart pounding.

“Shit, she ain’t even got shoes on,” one of them says to another. I still don’t look over. “She got kicked out with no shoes!”

I can smell the alcohol from here, and I scan the buildings faster, looking for any route of brief escape. I see it: up ahead, there’s a narrow passage between two buildings, too narrow for the truck.

“We can give you a ride if you want,” says the first voice. Drunk men laugh.

“A real good ride,” he goes on. More laughter. I don’t look over.

Then: “Come on, sweetheart.”

“Where you walkin’ barefoot, anyway?”

“Awful late to be out here alone.”

I walk. I don’t look over. I pretend I’m alone, even though I’m trembling, knowing how badly this could end. I can’t believe I thought this was an okay idea.

“Come on. Come on. Come on, I know you like this.”

I glance over. I don’t even mean to, I just do.

One of them has his dick out. The other three are laughing hysterically, slouched around the bed of the truck as the first guy waves his dick back and forth. My heartbeat skyrockets, but I force my eyes forward again. I want to run but I don’t. I can’t show any sign of fear.

“Fuck off,” I call.

More laughter. They holler something I can’t even make out, and then the engine throttles. It might be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, because a moment later the truck is pulling away, down Main Street, blatantly running a red light.

“Bitch!” I hear one last, high-pitched yelp.

Then, sweet silence. I stop. I take a deep breath, eyes closed, and get a hold of myself. I lean against a brick wall until I stop shaking and I can trust myself not to cry. The hell was I thinking, a woman walking alone at night?

New plan: go back. McMahon’s, the sports bar, is at the other end of town but it’s still open, and I’m going to walk there, ask to use their phone, and call everyone I know until someone comes and gives me a ride home. Screw politeness. I don’t give a damn who I wake up.

Before I can turn my steps, I hear the engine behind me again. Every muscle in my body tenses. The gap between the buildings is still up there, too small for a vehicle, and it probably connects to the alley behind the buildings where I can lose them. The engine growls behind me, closer, the rednecks silent this time.

I run.

“Violet!” Eli’s voice shouts.

I stop, whirl around, and there he is. He’s driving an ancient Ford Bronco, the windows rolled down. It might be the first time in my life I’ve been glad to see Eli Loveless. He rolls up until he’s beside me, leaning over

the passenger side “Get in,” he says. “With you?” I ask. My heart’s still pounding. My hands are still shaking, even though I’ve got one clenched around the strap of my purse, and even though I’m fully prepared to walk to a bar and call everyone I know for the next hour, I don’t want to show Eli any signs of weakness. We lock eyes. He just gives me a look.

“You’re walking barefoot along main street at midnight with no shoes on like some redneck hooker because your night’s going well?”

I ignore redneck hooker and take a step toward the Bronco. My face barely comes up to the bottom of the window.

“Just get in,” he says.

“I know better than to get into cars with strange men at all hours of the night.”

“Good thing it’s just me, then.”

“You’re plenty strange.”

“And you’re plenty stubborn. Get the hell in the car, Violet, you really think I’m gonna let you walk home alone at this hour? You’re not even wearing shoes.”

I clench my jaw and look away, down Main Street. He’s right and I know it, but Lord I hate admitting it.

“You know if you don’t get in, I’m still gonna follow you going two miles per hour because I can’t have your murder on my conscience, right?” he says.

I glare at Eli. He glares back. Handsomely, the most irritating way for him to glare.

Then I jerk the passenger door open and climb into the cab.

“Thank you,” he says, just a hint of humor in his voice as I buckle my seat belt.

His truck smells like grease, leather, and old car. He wrestles the gear shift back into drive and glances over at me, the flicker of a smile on his face. I feel that flutter in the pit of my stomach, ignore it, and double-check my seatbelt.

“This thing street legal?” I ask, looking around the inside of the car, because I really need to look at something besides him.

“Near enough,” he says, shifting back into drive with a clunk and a faint grinding noise. “Why, you worried about a few bumps?”

“If I lift up this floor mat, am I gonna be able to see straight through to the street?”

The Bronco shudders forward. From the corner of my eye, I see Eli smile. It twists my stomach again. I keep ignoring it.

“Sorry, the clutch sticks sometimes,” he says. “Actually, the clutch sticks all the time. Don’t touch that mat.”

I don’t touch the floor mat. For a few minutes we drive in silence, and I stare ahead through the windshield. There’s a long crack running half the length of it, about an inch above the dashboard, and I entertain myself by wondering what caused it. You’re both adults, I tell myself. It’s been ages since you’ve seen each other. There’s no earthly reason that Eli should still get on your nerves like he used to. I’m sure he’s changed. You’ve both changed.

The window’s down and I lean into the wind, because my face is too hot. My whole body is too hot, the air in this ancient Bronco humming, vibrating. He shifts gears again and I try not to notice that he’s got rugged hands, scars across the back, the muscles in his forearm flexing in a way that makes me cross my ankles.

“Where am I taking you?” he asks, his deep voice harmonizing with the throaty growl of the engine. Oh, God. I clear my throat.

“Same place, actually,” I say, forcing my nerves back down. I don’t look at his reaction. There’s a beat of silence.

“Oh,” he finally says.

“It’s a right turn onto White Oak in about a mile and then a left at the sign,” I say. I tense, despite myself. Say it. Say it, I dare you. He doesn’t say a thing. We drive out of town, his headlights swiping across tree trunks like a barcode in the forest.

“How’s your mom?” he finally asks.

I glance over, but he looks sincere. Serious. I swallow. “Gone,” I say.

He looks over at me for a second, taking his eyes off the road.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know.”

There’s a raw note in his voice I don’t recognize, and my heart twists in my chest.

“Thanks,” I finally say. “It’s been a couple years.”

“What happened?”

“Lung cancer.” I leave it at that. There’s more to it than she’s gone, lung cancer, but I still don’t know how to tell it. I don’t know if I ever will, but right now I sure haven’t figured out how to say now I just want another day with the mother I spent so much time resenting or sometimes I wished it would kill her faster and I still can’t forgive myself or I don’t know if I’ll ever stop blaming her.

“That’s a hard way to go,” he says.

“It was,” I say.

We’re quiet for a long time. What do you say after that? “How are your brothers?” I finally ask, just to change the subject.

“Mostly staying out of trouble,” he says, making the right turn onto White Oak, trees flashing in his headlights. He sounds relieved.

“Mostly?”

“Mostly is about all you can ask for,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Besides, I imagine you know better than I do.”

He’s probably right. The five Loveless boys are beloved by the Sprucevale rumor mill, who have deemed them simultaneously handsome, eligible, and unsuitable. Levi, the eldest, is brown-haired and brown-eyed, has an impressive beard, and lives in a cabin he built himself up on a mountain. He’s the chief arborist for our part of the Cumberland National Forest, a vegetarian, a slow talker but a quick thinker, and knows more about lichen than I do about anything. Eli’s younger by two years. He’s an argumentative asshole who’s vexed me since we were in the same kindergarten class. Enough about him.

Daniel’s only a year younger than Eli. He’s got light brown hair, crystal-blue eyes, and a six-year-old daughter named Rusty with a woman who, when she bothers to show up in her daughter’s life, is at best a shrieking hell-banshee and at worst, a drain on society. He’s the master brewer at Loveless Brewing, which he owns with Seth. Seth, the fourth, has dark hair and gray-green eyes, and he’s unsuitable because he’s never going to settle down. At least, he’s too charming and too flirtatious for the Sprucevale gossip machine to approve of him. He’s likely to show you a fantastic time and then never call again, which got him labeled ungentlemanly and worse but he doesn’t seem to mind. He runs the business side of the brewery he owns with Daniel.

The youngest, Caleb, has dark hair and blue eyes, and last I heard he was in grad school up in Charlottesville getting his doctorate in some kind of theoretical mathematics. If I remember correctly, he’s spending his summer break hiking some long-haul trail out west.

“Levi’s wrestling bears or climbing trees or whatever he does up there. Daniel’s making beer and ferrying Rusty to ballet class. Seth’s doing the paperwork and trying to stay out of trouble. Caleb’s in California, hiking part of the Pacific Crest Trail before he starts working on his dissertation this fall.”

“And your mom’s still teaching at the college?”

“Still teaching,” he confirms. “Still trying to figure out if the universe is getting bigger or smaller.”

There’s another long pause. I take a deep breath. I relax a little, even though the air in here is still humming.

Maybe the past can be behind us. Maybe Eli and I can peacefully co-exist as adults.

But then he glances over at me again, smiling that half- smile he’s always had, only now it’s handsome and it hits me in that soft spot right below my sternum. Something’s coming and I’m not gonna like it.

“So, what did you say to that guy?” he asks.

I slouch against the passenger seat, face in the wind again, ankles still crossed. The nice thing about the giant Bronco is that Eli’s about ten feet away from me, so it’s not too hard to avoid looking at him. I sigh.

“He was a dick,” I say, resigned.

Eli laughs.

“If that’s what you said, I’m not surprised he bailed.” “He bailed because I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

“My cooking didn’t get you in the mood?” Eli asks. A quick tightness knots in my stomach. I look over and he’s half-smiling, watching the road.

“It wasn’t that good,” I say.

“I was voted the panty-droppingest chef west of the Mississippi two years running,” he says.

There’s that knot again, along with the fervent wish that I had a harder time believing it.

“Too bad we’re east of the Mississippi.”

“I must have had less competition in Sonoma,” he says with a smirk that says I know full well I didn’t.

“I imagine it’s against the editorial standards of the Journal-Bulletin to print the word panty, so I doubt you’ll get that particular honor while you’re here.”

“Too bad, because meanwhile I’m ruining dates left and right.”

“You’re giving yourself entirely too much credit.”

“You don’t believe in the power of a good meal?”

I turn my head and look at Eli, his face glowing in the reflection of the dashboard lights, blue and green shining off his dark wild hair. My stomach flutters. I cross my ankles a little tighter. I wonder why he’s so interested in how my date went wrong. I wonder how we haven’t managed to strangle each other yet, though we came close in the kitchen.

“He snapped at the waitress,” I finally say. “There’s no meal powerful enough to make up for that.”

Eli just whistles low.

“Bad, right?”

“I’d hate to be the man trying to impress you,” he says, shaking his head.

“You approve of snapping at the waitstaff?”

Eli brakes, turns, his headlights washing across the sign that reads Pine Estates Mobile Home Park. I swallow the rising tension in my throat.

“Hell no,” he says. “But all the same, the man was in a bad position.”

“He snapped at the waitress like he was trying to train a dog, then ditched his date, and he was the one in a bad position?”

Eli slows, turns right down a row of mobile homes, chuckles again. Heat’s creeping up my neck, my body rigid. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t.

“I’m not excusing him,” he says. “Just saying I don’t envy him.”

I crack a knuckle. Don’t let him get to you.

“The position of taking me out on a date?”

“The position of thinking there’s anything he could do that would impress you enough to have sex with him.”

He points at a trailer on the outside of the loop, with a car in the parking spot, two potted flowers on the tiny front porch, Christmas lights neatly strung around the top, and no rust spots.

“Even I know that’s a hopeless cause,” he goes on.

“That’s you?”

“That’s me, and you don’t know a thing about me,” I said

as he slows to a stop.

“I know you still live in the nicest trailer in Pine

Estates,” he says.

Every muscle in my body tenses, the defensive anger whooshing through me like a flame as I open my mouth, ready to light him on fire.

“And I know anyone trying to buy their way into your good graces is likely to be disappointed,” he goes on before I can say anything.

“Oh,” I say, caught off guard, my anger deflated.

He didn’t say it.

Eli props one elbow against the window, leans his chin on it, and grins.

I don’t hate the grin, though I do hate the way my stomach feels like it’s sliding around inside my body when he aims it at me.

“Have a good night, Violet,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

I pull at the door release. Nothing. “You gotta —"

I tug on it and the door jerks open. “Right,” he says.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him.

“Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

I hop out and heave the door shut without responding, because anything I say will lead to us arguing in a truck, in a trailer park at almost one in the morning, and that’s how an episode of Cops starts. My heart is still beating a little too fast as I mount the aluminum steps of my mobile home and unlock the door. I can still feel Eli’s eyes on me, even though I don’t look back. It’s not until I close the door behind myself and lock it that I hear the guttural sound of his engine revving, the slow crunch of his tires on the gravel as he leaves. He didn’t say it.

Of course he didn’t. You’re adults. You know he still thinks it, though. Deep down, you

know that. I put my shoes on the rack next to the front door, slide my slippers onto my feet, and head into the kitchen where I pour myself a glass of water. I drink and the years slide away until I can practically hear him. I know where you live. Trailer trash. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to say it. I heard it so much in middle school sometimes the full moniker, sometimes T. T. for short, if the teachers were around that it’s practically engraved into my soul. In the years since then, I’ve been valedictorian of Sprucevale High. I got a full ride to college. I took care of my mom and still graduated Summa Cum Laude before finding a good job in a town that doesn’t have too many of those. All that, and I still live in Pine Estates.

All that, and I’m certain Eli Loveless still thinks I’m trailer trash. I’ve got a knot in my chest. I’ve had the stupidest day and I just want to cry, the pressure behind my eyes demanding release, but I don’t. I wash out the glass, put it in the drying rack, wipe down the counter, and go to bed.