Standing next to her, Spencer sees me first.
揇ad! We抮e making homemade doughnuts!?
Brayden holds one in his hand at the counter, his cheeks puffed out with pastry like a chipmunk.
揟hey抮e soooo good.?
Violet flashes me a smile before setting the spoon down and turning off the stove. 揋ive those a minute to cool and then you can dip them in the glaze,?she tells Spence.
But as she approaches me, her eyes roaming my face, her smile sinks.
揃ad night??she asks softly.
It was never Stacey抯 fault that she didn抰 work in an emergency department. That she couldn抰 understand what a bad night meant, no matter how hard she tried sometimes.
But Violet does. She knows exactly what this feels like, because she抯 felt it.
And there抯 a comfort in that. An embracing, easy respite from the persistent weight of guilt and melancholy.
揧eah桰抣l tell you about it later.?
From the laundry room off the kitchen, the dryer alarm buzzes, signaling a load is done.
揟here were wet clothes in the machine that were turning musty,?Violet explains. 揝o I rewashed them.?
揧ou didn抰 have to do that.?
揑t抯 no problem; I was here.?She shrugs. 揃ut I ran out this morning and picked up a new bottle of fabric softener. No offense梱our fabric softener was kind of crappy.?
揟old you,?Brayden calls in a singsong voice as he slides on his socks into the laundry room. He comes out holding a freshly washed T-shirt, pressing it against his face and inhaling so deeply the fabric is momentarily snorted up his nostrils. When he speaks, it抯 in the voice of a stoner who just took a massive bong hit.
揙h yeah . . . that抯 the good stuff.?
I should probably start keeping a closer eye on him.
Before I can think any more about that, my firstborn pain in the ass graces us with his presence.
He strolls into the kitchen, not a care in the world.
And I try to stay calm, to hold on to my composure. . .
揥here the fuck have you been??
. . . but I don抰 quite manage it.
He has the audacity to look surprised.
揑 told you桵ia and I were fighting. I couldn抰 just leave in the middle of it.?
揑t抯 ten thirty in the goddamn morning, Aaron桰抳e been texting you for hours!?
揥e drove to Sandy Hook to talk. We ended up falling asleep. My charger crapped out and my phone died. Why are you freaking out? Everything抯 fine梚t抯 not a big deal.?
It抯 the flippancy that really gets me going. The total disregard for anyone else抯 feelings except his own. You can teach your kids right from wrong, set an example of hard work and responsibility梑ut you can抰 make them give a shit.
揑t is a big deal. You抮e seventeen, you have a curfew桰 expect you to respect that.?
揑抦 going to be eighteen in six months. I抦 practically an adult already!?
I rein in my response梑ecause he抯 a kid and he抯 stupid and he抯 at an age where he just can抰 comprehend that he抯 not invincible.
揑 lost a patient tonight. A kid just a few years older than you, in a car accident. I had to look his mother in the eyes and tell her her son was dead. That he was never coming home again. And then I had to go through hours of you not picking up your phone! I was ready to send your uncle out looking for you!?
揙h, please. You weren抰 worried about me.?He jerks his chin toward his brothers. 揧ou抮e just pissed because I wasn抰 here to watch the babies.?
Spencer glares from across the room梙is voice small and wounded.
揧ou suck, Aaron.?
揧eah, that抯 low, man.?Brayden agrees. 揥e watched Hereditary.?
揥e could抳e died!?Spencer insists.
But Aaron ignores them梩ossing his resentment at me like an adolescent monkey flinging poo.
揧ou抮e no different than Mom. Neither one of you gives a shit about us. You only care about yourselves.?
If you have kids, at some point in their lives you抮e going to want to look them in the face and tell them to go screw themselves.
They don抰 mention that in What to Expect When You抮e Expecting.
But I grind my teeth and clench my jaw.
揧ou抮e grounded. Two weeks梟o going out, no car梘ive me your keys.?
揟wo weeks?! But it抯 the summer!?
揧ou want three? 扖ause I抣l make it three, Aaron.?
And now I sound like the asshole vice principal from The Breakfast Club. Perfect. Every dad抯 dream.
Aaron抯 furious gaze burns into me for a few seconds. Then he smacks his keys on the table.
揟his is bullshit!?
And he stomps his way up to his room梥lamming his door so hard the walls rattle.
And I stand in the kitchen and . . . deflate.
My shoulders cave in and my head throbs and my eyes ache.
Because Spencer is right桝aron sucks.
And I suck. Everything sucks.
Such a goddamn mess.
Then I feel a hand on my arm梔elicate but strong. Violet抯 palm slides up to my shoulder, massaging the knotted tendons, her caress so warm and soft and needed I want her to touch me forever.
揃et you抮e glad you decided to help me out and stay over now.?
My words drip with sarcasm.
But Violet抯 response isn抰 sarcastic. It抯 honest and bare and rock-solid supportive.
揧es, I am.?
I let myself fall into her gentle brown eyes. Take comfort in her warmth and understanding. I absorb her tenderness like a succubus條etting it soothe my sore soul梘reedily taking all she so readily gives.
And everything seems to suck just a little bit less.
Because she抯 here . . . because she抯 her.
揑抦 glad too,?Spencer says. He takes a doughnut off the counter and gazes at it like he抯 just fallen in love for the very first time. 揑抦 never eating Dunkin?Donuts again.?
The smile tugs at my lips and a chuckle rolls up my throat.
揌ey Spence梙ook me up with one of those.?
My son hands me a gooey, warm doughnut dripping with glaze. I sink my teeth in and moan, because梙oly shit梚t doesn抰 taste quite as good as one of Violet抯 blow jobs feel . . . but it抯 really close.
揙h my God,?I manage to mumble around another bite.
The three of them laugh at me梞ocking my ecstasy.
And I almost forgot what this is like. The sweetness of sharing these moments梘ood or bad梬ith someone who抯 a partner, a lover, a friend.
But I remember now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Violet
As summer shifts into August, Connor and I slip further into each other抯 lives. Smoothly. Effortlessly.
We uncover even more about each other. For instance, I learn that Connor has watched every episode of The Office梩hree times梑ut it still makes him laugh. On one Saturday afternoon when I抦 driving us to the farmers market because his truck is getting new tires, Connor discovers my occasional tendency to road rage.
Beep beep.
When a middle-aged woman in a shiny new Lexus commits the unforgiveable sin of doing 40 mph in the left lane of the frigging Garden State Parkway.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
揗ove over! Get into the right lane!?
She eventually moves over. But as I抦 passing her on the left, she gives me the finger.
And my head practically explodes.
揊uck me? No梖uck you! Learn how to drive!?
Connor just stares at me from the passenger seat. In shock. Bewilderment, perhaps.
揥hat??I ask. 揑 would never talk that way if the boys were in the car.?
揘o, it抯 not that, it抯 just . . . are you sure you weren抰 born in Jersey? 扖ause it really sounds like you were.?
I learn new things about the boys too梥ometimes in not so great ways.
Like the night I pick up takeout for all of us from a Mexican place that抯 one of Connor抯 favorites. I get to his house while he抯 still hung up at his parents?place with his brothers, installing a new television in the living room. An hour after I get there, he comes through the door.