FORTY: Jet

I never knew words could hurt so much, and I’ve heard some pretty shitty ones. My mom. My dad. A few other people I’ve cared about. They might’ve bothered me. But hurt? Nah. Not really.

Not until now.

Violet’s words hurt. Hearing her say that I’m nothing to her was like being run over by a ’54 Buick.

I watch her drive away, holding my breath until I see her taillights disappear, hoping she’ll stop. Or turn around. Or come back to me. But knowing she won’t.

And she doesn’t. She just keeps going. Driving out of my life. Probably never planning to come back.

I wish she’d given me a chance to explain. Not that it would’ve made any difference. I knew that if she ever found out she would hate me. I guess that’s why I never wanted her to know, why I didn’t have the balls to tell her. I could’ve confessed when she did, but even then, I didn’t have the courage. Not like she did. That’s what separates us. She’s a good person, a strong person, and I’m an asshole. Just like I’ve always been. Just like everybody knew I was. Even my own mother.

As I stand staring at the empty parking spot, my mind wanders, wanders to the what ifs and the if onlys. If only things had been different . . . but not so different that I wouldn’t have really seen her. But what if I’d met Violet under different circumstances and I hadn’t really seen her? What if I hadn’t been able to appreciate her? Or what if I wouldn’t have been attracted to her?

I know the answer to one of those. I know I would’ve been attracted to her. She’s hot, plain and simple, regardless of the situation. But would I have taken the time to get to know how kind and beautiful her soul is? Would I have recognized her strength? Or would I have hit on her, been rejected, and then moved on to another?

It’s hard to say. I imagine I’d have moved on, but it’s impossible to know for sure. Right now, it seems like the guy I was a couple of months ago is a complete stranger. Somehow, while I thought I was just enjoying myself, Violet was making me a better person. Not because she was trying to or because she didn’t think I was good enough. She did it through no fault or effort of her own. It’s just who she is. Being with her made me the man that my mother could let back into my brothers’ lives. Being with her made me see what a dickhole I’ve been, and how I don’t want to be that guy anymore. And being with her made me realize that I’m an addict. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but I’m an addict nonetheless. Addicted to feeling good. To hiding from anything slightly uncomfortable or unpleasant. At least I was an addict. I don’t know what I am now, other than lost. Without her, I’m just lost.

Needing her, wanting to be with her snuck up on me. Loving her came too easy, too naturally. I hadn’t even gotten used to it and now it’s gone. She’s gone. And I don’t know what I’ll ever be without her.

Other than less. A lot less.

That I know for sure.

FORTY-ONE: Violet

My anger only lasts a few miles. It only burned hot enough to withstand the hurricane of my anguish for a short while. Now it’s gone, leaving me with devastation again. Cold, miserable, hopeless devastation. Nothing more.

When I’ve stopped sniffling enough to speak coherently, I dial Tia’s number. She answers with a question.

“Please tell me you went. Did you go?”

“Oh, I went all right,” I reply.

“And?”

Just like that, the flood starts up again, as if there is an endless supply of tears locked away somewhere deep inside me.

“Oh, God, Tia! I was part of a bet!”

There’s a short, tense pause and then, “Say what?”

I snort and hiccup. “Th-the other guys in h-his band bet him that even he wa-wasn’t such a playboy that he’d bed a sex addict. And-and he did it. He t-took the bet and I was the . . . I was the pawn.” The last word is virtually drowned out by the sob torn from my chest.

“Are you shittin’ me?” Tia says, her voice dangerously calm.

I can’t even collect myself enough to answer her right away. “Of course not,” I finally manage.

“Tell me where to find him, Vi. I’ll pull that bastard’s dick off with a pair of pliers and shove it so far up his ass he won’t be hungry for a week!”

Normally, a comment like that would elicit some kind of reaction in me—laughter, chagrin—but not tonight. Tonight, I don’t want her anger, even though it’s on my behalf. Tonight, I need something else from her.

“Tia, tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to make this go away.”

“Make what go away, honey?”

“The pain. It hurts so bad,” I cry. “I feel like I’m dying inside. Please. Help me.”

“I wish I could, Vi. But the only thing that takes away the pain is time. It will, though. I promise. It goes away. Eventually.”

As fun and free as Tia is, I’ve seen her with a broken heart before. It was one of those times that I was glad to be the way I am. Or the way I was. I wanted nothing to do with pain like that. I’m not sure she ever recovered. Not fully. Her wild ways seemed to get wilder and then never completely go away after that. Ryan was his name, and he damaged Tia. Maybe permanently.

Just like Jet probably damaged me—permanently. With no hope of ever being repaired.

Unfixable.

Unhelpable.

Hopeless.

“Do you need me to come over? Because I will.”

I’m sure she would, but this isn’t exactly Tia’s strong suit. If I were in need of a night out, she’d be my girl. But this? I think this puts her in a place where she’s not comfortable, a place where she doesn’t want to go again. So I won’t ask her to.

“No, I’m fine. I think I’d rather just be alone anyway. But thank you.”

“If you change your mind, call. Or send up the Bat Signal. Or smoke signal. Whatever you can find and I’ll be there.”

“I will,” I say, even though I won’t.

“I love you, Vi.”

“I love you, too.”

“You’re too good for him anyway. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I reply, wishing I really thought that was true. But even now, even after everything, I can’t forget the tenderness I saw in him, the brokenness. That might’ve been a lie, too, but right now I can’t bear to think of it that way. Losing that might just be more than I can take.

FORTY-TWO: Jet

I have no idea how long I’ve been outside. More importantly, I don’t give a shit. I’ve lost enthusiasm for anything but figuring out a way to get Violet back, to at least talk to her and make her see . . . make her see . . .

I stomp back inside. I’m angry. At myself. At my band. At everybody. Except Violet. She’s the one innocent person in all this. But everyone else can suck my dick!

I fling open the door and shoulder my way through the crowd. I ignore the girls who try to talk to me, who get in my way and put their hands on me. I’d just as soon they all go to hell. Everybody.

I barely take notice of the complete lack of women backstage when I walk through the door. I just want to get my shit and leave. It’s the quiet that really gets my attention. Everyone, from Sam to Trent, is standing or sitting in the small room, just watching me.

I glance from face to face. “What?” I snap.

It’s Sam who speaks. “You all right, man?”

I clench my hands into tight fists. I’d love to punch him right in the face. For laughing earlier. For not caring earlier. For daring me to do something so twisted. For just being around on a night when I don’t want to see anybody. Except Violet.

But I bite it all back. I don’t even want to waste my time fighting. As good as it would feel, I’d rather just be alone.

Or with Violet.

“Hey,” Sam repeats. “You all right?”

“What the hell do you care?” I yell. “This is your fault!”

“How is it my fault?” he asks indignantly.

“What kind of shit do you have in your soul, man? Who would even think to dare someone to do a sick thing like that?”

“Dude, I was just yanking your chain. Nobody actually thought you’d do it. You can’t blame me for sick, man. That’s all on you.”

I know he’s right, but that doesn’t stifle my fury one bit. With a growl, I lunge at Sam. I have every intention of breaking his arrogant jaw. With as many punches as it takes.

But the others are between us before I can get close enough to touch him.

“You’re an asshole, Sam! Did it ever occur to you that people could get hurt?”

“Of course it did, you idiot. But I never thought it would be you.”

That sobers me—that Sam thinks I’m so hard and twisted that it wouldn’t bother me. It’s not lost on me that he would care so little about hurting someone else either. The whole thing is just disgusting.

And it’s nothing worse than what I was doing. In fact, I’m the real villain here. All the disdain I feel for him is being directed at the wrong person. It belongs on me. Like the blame and the shame and the fallout. It all belongs on me.

Furious, with myself and with everyone else in the room, I grab my stuff and head right back out the door. I’m ready for this night to be over.

FORTY-THREE: Violet

It’s finally Friday, the end of one of the worst weeks of my life.

It began with the “Monday of Puzzled Devastation,” as I like to call it. After the disheartening trip home from New Orleans, I woke feeling unsettled and . . . raw. Little did I know what tsunami of sadness was headed my way.

Wednesday. I might forever look back on it as the day my heart was permanently broken. And then encased in a fragile box of glass just behind my ribs. I’ve never felt more emotional agony or hopelessness in my life. And it seems that all it has taken to bring me to tears since that night is a sharp word or a stern look. The glass case is cracked on every surface, and ready to crumble at a moment’s notice. It’s all I can do to hold it together.

For today. Friday. When I can fall apart and no one will care. No one is depending on me to be at my job, to be focused on helping them. I get to be selfish for forty-eight hours. I get to tend to the ever-bleeding wounds that lie just beneath the surface.

I unlock my front door and step inside the dark, quiet interior of my sanctuary. Quickly, I shut it behind me, like I’m running from something that’s hot on my heels.

Which I am. I’m running from the truth. From reality. From the realization that I fell. And I landed flat on my face. On a bed of nails.

I throw my purse on the entry table and kick off my shoes, pushing them haphazardly out of the way. Out of habit, I glance down at my phone. It’s still silent. Like it has been since the last time I talked to Tia.

It kills me that I keep waiting for Jet to call—and that he doesn’t. And that it even bothers me, which it shouldn’t. I should be glad he’s not calling me. I should be relieved. But I’m not. It hurts every time I look at my phone. Maybe more each time.

Deep down, I wanted him to beg. To grovel. To plead with me to listen to him, to give him one more chance. Maybe I thought that would mean that he actually did care. Which he didn’t. That much is obvious.

I throw my phone onto the couch. It’s that or throw it onto the floor and dance on it until it’s nothing more than black powder.

Dejectedly, I make my way back to my bedroom to change into suitable hibernation clothes. Obviously, that means finding the ugliest, rattiest, holiest items that I own. In this case, a pair of blue sweats that have a huge tear in the leg and a white, threadbare T-shirt that’s spattered with every color of paint under the sun. It also sports a tear. Right in the middle of my stomach. I’ve had both the pants and the shirt since high school and it shows. But they’re comfortable and soft, and right now it’s like slipping on a better time of life. And that’s what I need more than anything.

I make a pass by the kitchen for some hot cocoa before I swipe three of my favorite heartbreaking romance movies from the closet. Might as well wallow in it while I have the chance. Most of the time, I have to hide what I’m feeling and put on a strong, happy face. But not tonight. Tonight, I can let it flow—the misery and the pain, the disillusionment and the grief.

I’m less than twenty minutes into movie number one and I’m already crying like a baby. Not because anything sad has happened yet, but because I know it will. I know it’s coming. And I feel the pain of it more than ever. Before Jet, I’d always sympathized with these characters in a detached, clinical sort of way. I had never felt such intense emotion, nor did I really want to. I saw it as something that made a person weak. And, sure enough, it does. Finally experiencing it feels like it’s killing me in slow degrees.

I’m sniffling and wiping streaks of mascara off my cheeks when the doorbell rings. I look around for my phone, finding it wedged between the cushions of my couch. The screen shows no missed calls or texts, which confuses more than reassures me. I hope nothing is wrong . . .

Without so much as checking my reflection, I rush to the door and fling it open.

To find Jet on the stoop.

My heart slams to a stop before it starts back up at runaway train speed.

A kaleidoscope of emotions melt and swirl and shift inside me. Pleasure at seeing him. Anger that it took him so long. Disgust over what he did to me. Humiliation that I let him.

Those are the biggest ones, but there are more. Smaller, underlying feelings. A desire for him that never ceases, and regret that things ended the way they did.

Once my inner turbulence settles down, I react. I start to slam the door right in his face, but Jet’s arm shoots out too fast, stopping me before I can physically shut him out.