They still seem concerned.
Dr. Laura adjusts her glasses and seems to choose her words with care.
揅onnor, are you sure this is the way you want to handle this? Best-case scenario, it抯 very presumptuous. Are you certain this isn抰 an excuse to keep Violet at arm抯 length? To protect yourself from forming an emotional attachment to another woman, and possibly being hurt again??
I think about all those careful words. For five seconds.
揧es, I抦 sure. It抯 not any of that.?
The D.U.H. posse is unconvinced.
Delilah raises her hands to the sky and prays.
揓esus, take the wheel. And make it a convertible, Lord, so you can smack Connor upside his stupid man head with a lowlying branch.?
There抯 a few muttered amens around the circle. Lou makes the sign of the cross.
揅onnor,?Dr. Laura tries again. 揥hat you抮e talking about sounds dangerously close to playing mind games. Acting in a way that doesn抰 reflect what you truly feel, but as a manipulation to achieve a desired outcome. Those maneuvers tend to end badly for everyone involved.?
I shake my head. 揑抦 not playing mind games. This is how committed relationships get started now. This is the foundation. Honesty comes later; right now I just have to keep her interested. It抯 like the Mandalorian says: this is the way.?
揊uckin?Mandalorian again,?Carl snarls.
And everyone groans. Because ever since the new crop of movies came out, he抯 deeply resentful of anything Star Wars related. Don抰 even get him started on the Jar Jar Binks conspiracy.
揟hat helmeted bastard could be leading you all off a cliff and you抎 follow him saying, This is the way, this is the way. Like zombies.?
揕et抯 not digress, Carl. We抳e talked about this.?Laura says.
揇isney is the Empire, Dr. Laura! Mickey is Palpatine. It抯 been there in front of us the whole time!?
Tikki covers her eyes. 揙h my God.?
揝hut up, Carl!?Maria yells.
揥e抮e supposed to be helping Connor,?Stewart says. 揂nd he, like, really needs it.?
揕ook, guys.?I hold up my hands. 揑 appreciate your concern, honestly. But I抳e got this. I抦 awesome! I know exactly what I抦 doing梕verything抯 going to be fine.?
If this were a movie, now would be the time when the narrator抯 voiceover comes on and informs the audience that I did not, in fact, know what I was doing and nothing梟othing梬as going to be fucking fine.
*
Violet
Maybe I snore.
Or talk in my sleep.
Maybe I kicked him and thrashed around. No one抯 ever told me that I抦 a restless sleeper, but it抯 possible.
Oh God梬hat if I farted in my sleep? It抯 a normal bodily function and Connor抯 not the prissy type, but maybe it抯 too early in the relationship for nocturnal gassing?
These are the thoughts that run through my mind all day Sunday as I obsessively check my phone, waiting for a text or a call.
That doesn抰 arrive.
I go over every moment in my head searching for the reason Connor bailed and is now ghosting me. But nothing stands out. No hint of hesitation on his part, or indication that he was anything but supremely into everything we did.
That he liked it, liked me . . . every bit as much as I did him.
I don抰 understand.
And that抯 the hardest part. The not knowing. If I was clear on what I did wrong, I could deal with it, and figure out a way not to do it again. But not having any clue about where it all went wrong is torture. Making me replay the day and night on repeat, again and again.
Reliving every look and touch and kiss, every pant and breath and blissful orgasm in slow motion until I抦 in a perpetual state of horniness and depression.
It抯 not a fun place to be.
I consider texting him. Something casual and lighthearted.
Hey could work.
Or something direct and bold. Inviting him to come back over for round two . . . or four . . . if we抮e getting technical. Or the simple, one-lined burning question of why did you leave?
But every time I move to type the words梩hey sound too pathetic. Too needy. No man likes needy.
The cold, plain truth is if Connor wanted to talk to me梙e would. He抎 reach out or he never would have left in the first place. And if I抦 being honest . . . he never made any promises to me.
Not once.
So I force myself to do nothing. To wait until I see him at work tomorrow. When I can see his face and hear the inflection in his voice and watch his body language . . . and understand what the hell went wrong.
In the meantime, I put on a record, one of my favorites, and blast 揂lways Something There to Remind Me?by Dionne Warwick through my house. The lyrics are sad but the melody is upbeat梐 perfect reflection of the clash of emotional titans going on inside me.
I write a poem to purge my feelings. It抯 terrible, even for me梚t doesn抰 even rhyme. I cross out and rewrite so many words, it just ends up looking like a giant ink smudge on the page. So that抯 what I title it: 揝mudge.?
And I put it in my mother抯 old jewelry box on my dresser, with all the others.
I take a calming bath and drink chamomile tea, even though I hate the taste of it. And I give myself a manicure. I need to keep my nails on the short side for work, but I clean up the cuticles, buff my nail beds to a high sheen, and paint them with a simple lavender polish. To feel pretty.
To try and feel happy again. Like I was yesterday.
But in the evening, when the sick, churning confusion refuses to ebb, I call my sister, Tuni. Chrissy抯 the dreamer, the romantic. But Tuni抯 the logical, straightforward twin. If anyone can help me sort myself out, it抯 her.
She picks up on the second ring.
揌ey, Vivi! What抯 up??
With dismay, I realize I抦 holding back tears. I抦 a hard crier. Sloppy and sobby like a dam that bursts and drowns any living creature below it in a deluge of hiccups, unintelligible words, and snot.
揂m I like Mom??I ask her in a thick, clogged voice.
It just comes out. Not something I抳e been dwelling on, but I realize now it抯 at the heart of my worry. Because my mother was warm and wonderful and for her whole life she loved a man who didn抰 stick around. Who slipped out the door in the middle of the night when she was sleeping. Who never loved her back the way she deserved.
揥hat??my sister asks, the previous joy in her tone evaporating like dry ice in the air.
揂m I like Mom??
I hear the scraping of a chair in the background, and a shuffling, like she recognizes this is a sitting down sort of conversation.
揧ou are definitely like Mom. And you should take that as the compliment it is.?
I pick at my newly dried nail polish.
揘o, I mean梔o you think I抦 like Mom when it comes to men??
揥ell, Mom only had a taste for one man梐nd it wasn抰 the healthiest choice in the pantry.?
揈xactly.?
揃ut Dad loved her.?
揇id he, though? Did he really??
揑 like to think he did, for her sake. I remember watching them together, and I know he made her happy when he was around. I think he loved her as much as he was capable of loving anyone.?
揃ut that抯 not enough, Tuni! She loved him with her whole heart, and it broke her when he didn抰 come back. I saw it break her.?
Would I love Connor that much?
I think I would梕ventually. I think one day I could love him so deep and so hard that I抎 let him shatter me . . . as long as I still got to keep a piece of him.
揑t wasn抰 right,?I insist.
揘o, it wasn抰 right.?Tuni concedes softly. 揃ut she could抳e chosen differently, Violet. She was strong enough to do that. But he was who she wanted梬arts and all. Just because you抮e like her doesn抰 mean you抣l choose the same.?