VIOLET
The next morning I find an enormous bouquet of chocolate-dipped fruit in the shape of flowers.
The message on the card reads:
I want you back.
~Alex
I’m tempted to throw the whole thing in the garbage, but it’s such a waste, and the fruit looks amazing. Plus, it’s covered in chocolate. I put it in the fridge instead. I’ll share it with Ms. Bullock later.
When I get to work, Charlene is already at my desk with a cinnamon roll and a coffee. I tell her about Alex stopping by and the fruit bouquet. I even manage not to cry, which is an improvement. Charlene decides we need a girl’s night out, and I agree. Partly because I’m scared Alex will show up at my apartment again and I won’t have the restraint necessary not to let him in this time.
The cab pulls up in front of my apartment building. Neither of us is driving since the plan is to get shitfaced. I climb into the back seat and she follows after me, giving the cabbie directions.
“I think you should talk to him.”
I respond with silence.
My mom has been hinting—not so subtly—that I should rethink my Alex Waters boycott. I don’t agree. I won’t survive if he breaks my heart again.
Okay, I’ll survive, but I’ll cry a lot, and I’ll end up gaining twenty pounds from excessive junk food consumption. Then I’ll rebound and have meaningless sex with some other dumb jerk. Like Randy Balls. Or maybe even Melvin. He’ll think it’s more than rebound-depression sex and want a relationship.
“Violet, come on. He’s been trying to see you for weeks. He came to your apartment. He was willing to talk to you through your door. He got an asskicking from an old lady. You can’t give him the silent treatment forever. Besides, Darren says all this has to do with his former agent.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you on his side now?”
“Of course not!” Charlene’s expression softens. “Honestly, Vi, I’ve never seen you so broken up about a guy. Maybe it’s worth it to talk to him. If nothing else, you can get some closure.”
This doesn’t make me feel better. He’s hurt me worse than Steve, the turdburger, ever did. Still, a huge part of me—which I hate, incidentally—doesn’t want closure. My stupid heart is still in love with him, even if my head knows I shouldn’t be.
“Can we not talk about Alex tonight? I want to get hammered and forget him for a while,” I say as we get out of the cab.
Char squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever you want, Vi.”
We snag a table and order a pitcher of margaritas. There’s a crappy cover band playing, which makes conversation difficult. At least I don’t have to talk about Alex, even if I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Violet?”
The overpowering scent of cheap cologne singes my nose hairs. Shitballs. It’s the flower delivery guy. “Hi, Fred.”
“You remember my name! I totally thought it was you. I haven’t seen you in a while.” He stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, nodding. He’s an odd dude.
“Yeah. I moved recently.” I swish my drink around in my glass, hoping he won’t ask questions about why I moved.
The bobble-heading is contagious. I have the urge to look at Charlene to see if she’s bobble-heading, too.
“So, I, uh, read you and the hockey player aren’t a couple or anything . . .” He kicks the leg of my chair while he stares at the top of the table.
It’s all anyone asks me about these days. I’m sick of it and sick of missing Alex. “Nope. Looks like we were just friends even though I’ve had his dick in my mouth.”
It isn’t until Charlene chokes on her drink and Fred’s eyeballs look like they’re about to pop out and roll onto the floor that I realize how inappropriate my comment is.
“Right. Huh.” Fred nods some more and blinks like he’s creating his own personal strobe light. “So, uh, since you’re not dating him, maybe you want to go to a movie or something?”
I stare at him because what the hell else am I supposed to do? He delivered Alex’s gifts to my house for weeks. I’ve probably tipped him more than a hundred bucks. He likely thinks the tips mean I’m into him. A movie date is crossing the customer-delivery guy line. Besides, I’ll choke to death if I have to deal with his cologne for an entire evening.
I know my silence has stretched on too long when he clears his throat. “Uh . . . I . . . uh . . .”
“Look, Fred. It’s cool of you to, um . . . want to cheer me up. I’m not in any state to be going to the movies with anyone but Charlene, here.” I thumb across the table at my best friend. “She’s the only person who can reasonably deal with my emo ass. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” He bobbles his head in understanding. “Well, see you around.”
I feel bad for rejecting him, but it’s for the best. Besides, he asked me out immediately after I mentioned Alex’s dick having been in my mouth. I’m sure he thinks if he takes me to a movie, I’ll blow him. If he talked to Alex, he’d know it takes much less to get that out of me. Or it did. I’m turning over a new leaf, one that no longer includes blow jobs without definite commitment.
“That guy wears a lot of cologne.” Charlene waves her hand in front of her face. “It’s too bad since he’s hot.”
“He does and he is.”
“Didn’t I tell you he had a thing for you?”
“You sure did. You could start a side business as a psychic. All you need is a crystal ball.”
One day I’ll have to start dating again, but Fred is not the guy and now is not the time. Charlene may have a point about talking to Alex if I’m going to get over him and move on. No matter how the conversation goes down, it’s bound to be painful.
On Saturday morning I realize I’ve run out of clean clothes. One of the major drawbacks to apartment living is the inconvenience of using communal laundry facilities. I cart everything into the elevator and navigate my way to the laundry room. All the machines are in use. The whole room smells like onions and detergent thanks to some burly guy in ripped sweatpants who’s eating a sub. I don’t feel like waiting or socializing, so I pack up my stuff and head to my mom’s. I’m also low on groceries, so I plan to scam a meal out of her.
I’m folding my third load of clothing, eating my second turkey and cheese sandwich, and watching hockey highlights when my mom drops down beside me. She’s holding a magazine in one hand and a martini in the other. She smacks the entertainment magazine on the table with a dramatic flourish. Alex’s scruffy, lumbersexual face is plastered on the cover. His face is everywhere these days.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow night,” she says with finality. My mom never uses that tone, so she must mean business.
“What game?” I maintain a neutral expression. I think.
My mom knows I know what she’s talking about. Chicago have made it to the Stanley Cup finals. I’ve watched every game up to this point, often while hugging the Waters beaver. Tomorrow they’re playing what could be the title game.
“This is the first time Buck has ever been in the finals.”
“But—”
“No buts, Violet. You’re coming with us. So is Charlene.” She gives me her angry mom stare. It’d be funny if the turkey sandwiches in my stomach weren’t thinking about staging a revolt.
“Fine.” I’ve dodged every home playoff game at this point. I can’t avoid Alex forever and I should be there to support Buck. This could be the silver lining on his hockey career. I gesture to the magazine. “What’s this?”
“There’s an article in there you should read. I think you’ll find it very entertaining and informative.”
I give her a look as she flounces out of the room. She thinks if she leaves it here after saying something like that, she’ll entice me into reading it. It’s difficult not to give in, but I manage not to look.
When I get back to my apartment, I find a gigantic box of maple sugar candies in front of my door. Alex has been by again. My stomach rumbles in anxious anticipation.
Ms. Bullock must have been waiting for me to get home because she pokes her head out the door, cigarette dangling from her lips like a semi-flaccid, burning penis. Holding it between two gnarly fingers, she hides it behind her back so it’s in her apartment rather than the hall. “Your friend stopped by again.”
“I see that. When was he here?”
“He left a few minutes ago. Stayed for a good three hours, he did. The only reason he left was because he got a phone call and it sounded important. He brought me a little present, too.”
Three hours is a damn long time to wait around. His perseverance makes more than my heart hurt. She disappears from the door and returns a minute later with her own little box of maple candies. Goddamn Alex for being a smooth bastard.
“Did he say anything?”
“Oh yes. He had lots to say about you. Lots of questions, too. That boy has it bad for you.”
“I don’t know about that.” I pick up the box of maple candies. Underneath is the same magazine my mother tried to entice me to read as well as a USB stick and note.
Violet,
I know you’re hurt and angry,
but please watch the interview on the USB.
It airs tonight at eight. I miss you.
Love, Alex
It says “love.” In all the notes and emails Alex has sent, not once has he used the word. If he’s looking to get my attention, it’s worked. I toss the magazine in the recycle box without looking at it, but I can’t find it in me to dispose of the USB stick. After five minutes, I crack under the pressure, insert the USB stick into the port on my flat screen, and pull up the movie file. My stomach feels as though a dying fish is flopping around inside as I wait for the video to cue up.
Alex’s face greets me as an interview with a popular entertainment news show pops onto the screen. He’s dressed in a button-down and casual pants, and he’s still sporting the beard. Alex looks uncomfortable and uncertain as he answers the invasive questions. I hang off every word and nearly fall off my couch when he says:
“I’m in love with Violet.”
I pause and replay it several times, processing the words. He’s talking about me. On a show watched by millions. This is one heck of a way to get my attention. I would’ve preferred to hear those words face-to-face, but then, I haven’t given him the opportunity to say them to me with all my avoidance techniques. After I get past the initial shock, I listen to the rest of the interview.
When I’m done, I’m certain of two things. One: Alex is in love with me. Two: Nervous Alex is adorable, and his former agent is an asshole. Okay, that’s technically three things I’m certain of. Whatever. The point is there.
I nab the magazine from the top of the recycling and flip to the earmarked page. There it is in print:
“I’m in love with Violet.”
My heart is all sorts of gushy over his public declaration. I almost want to forgive him. Almost. Just because he’s said he loves me doesn’t mean it’s true. While the article definitely makes a statement, it could easily be another publicity stunt meant to help redeem him in the eyes of his fans. I don’t want him to have advance warning that I’m going to be at the game. It’s only fair since I had no warning when he threw our relationship under the bus and ran it over.
I call Charlene and freak out. She already seems to know what’s going on, so there’s no explanation necessary.
“Should I call him before the game tomorrow? I don’t think I should call him. He doesn’t deserve a call.”
“Do you want to call him?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“This is probably an in-person conversation,” Charlene says.
“Right. Okay. Can you come over? I think my head’s going to explode.”
Charlene spends the rest of the day with me. I make a list of pros and cons, which ends up being a list of all the things I miss about Alex. Surprisingly, his MC doesn’t even make the top five. Afterward, I make Charlene watch the interview with me four thousand times. I should probably do yoga, or meditate, or take art therapy, so I can stop being an idiot.
Lying in bed later, my mind continues to spin for several hours before I finally pass out. I have the weirdest dreams ever. Alex’s monster cock is a superhero. He saves me from a giant boob ball that’s rolling through the streets and crushing people. Super Penis has googly eyes, and he talks out of the come hole. His balls are his feet, and he wears a red cape with MC emblazoned on it. Oh, and he has a little mustache and a French accent. Like I said, it’s a bizarre dream.
The next day, I do something I usually try to avoid: I go to the spa with Charlene and my mom. We all get mani-pedis while drinking mimosas. Then we get our hair done and buy new outfits.
My stomach is in knots when we arrive at the arena. I’m so anxious, and Charlene’s reassurance is the only thing capable of keeping me from bolting. We have the same awesome seats as we did the first time I saw Alex play. Other than looking at him through my peephole, it’s been a month since I’ve seen him in person.
“Oh. Here.” My mom reaches into a huge bag at her feet and pulls out three black, puck-shaped pillows. She hands one to Charlene and one to me.
“What is this?”
“It’s called a butt puck.”
“I’m sorry, what?” That’s way too close to other things I don’t want near my butt.
“It’ll keep you from freezing your ass off on these chairs and”—she turns the puck over—“it’s a cheerleading pillow!”
On the front of the pillow puck are the words “GO Butterson!” Charlene’s says “GO Westinghouse!” And mine says “GO Waters!” Upon closer inspection, I find a hand-shaped pocket on the back of the puck pillow, so I’m able to wave my butt puck in the air with little effort.
I sit on the pillow, still snickering at the pervy name. Talk ceases as Chicago takes the ice. Charlene grips my arm, and my mother whistles with her fingers. Raging anxiety renders me silent and immobile, both of which are highly uncommon.
When Alex skates out onto the ice, I inhale a sharp breath as my chest constricts. For a second, I think I’m having a heart attack, but I realize it’s just that I’m in love with this man. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I’m still conflicted about the article and the interview. He’s so close, the plexiglass barrier the only thing dividing us.
Even faux-unkempt, he’s hot. His beard is neatly groomed, unlike some of the other guys who look like they crawled out of the alleyway and decided to play professional hockey.
“Oh God. Darren is sex on skates. I can’t wait until after the game. It doesn’t even matter if they win or lose!” Charlene yells over the cheering crowd.
“How can you say that? Of course it matters.”
“Think about it, if they win, I have hot victory sex. If they lose I get to have sexy make-Darren-feel-better sex.”
I nod slowly, absorbing the information. She’s totally right. It doesn’t matter if they win or lose, she wins by sex default. I’m envious of her certainty regarding either victory or solace sex. I wish I knew what tonight will bring and whether or not I’ll ever be reunited with the monster cock. My beaver doesn’t seem to realize a reunion isn’t imminent, considering the way she’s lubing up in preparation for what might never happen again. I hope I can get my shit together enough to have a real conversation with Alex. One thing at a time; the game is first.
Alex’s brow is set in a deep furrow, and his pouty lips are mashed in a straight line. He doesn’t even look around; he simply waves at the cheering crowd as he skates to the bench. I want him to notice me sitting here, but I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. So I stare.
As the end of the first period closes in, Chicago ties with Philly one-one. I have to pee, but I don’t want to leave my seat, worried someone will recognize me. Alex is killing it out there, but he can’t seem to get the puck past the goalie. I can practically taste his frustration. The puck is a black blur across the ice as Philly gains control. I crane my neck to see what’s happening when a body slams against the plexiglass and scares the living bejesus out of me.
It’s déjà vu. Those pretty, pretty eyes bore into mine the way they did the first time I saw him play. They hold shock, surprise, and a whole lot of sexy as his mouth drops open. I wave shyly. He’s so close; if it weren’t for the damn plexiglass, I would be able to touch his sweaty, fuzzy face.
Our eyes lock for the briefest moment before he pries himself off the glass and bolts down the ice after the puck. For the rest of the period, I feel Alex’s gaze on me and meet it often when he’s on the bench. He looks hopeful, worried, desperate, and determined at the same time. Interestingly enough, it’s a reflection of my own emotions. I can’t sit still, nervously wringing my hands every time we make eye contact.
It’s an intense game with a close score. I’m already in celebration mode in the third period. That is until Philly scores a goal with two minutes left, tying the game. The crowd goes insane. Fans scream at the goalie and freak out on the defense. Unable to recover, they go into overtime. I’m on the edge of my seat, my butt puck no longer underneath me but pressed up against the glass as I scream Alex’s name.
He steals the puck from the Philly center and flies down the ice. I can see ten years of figure skating come into play as he maneuvers around his opponents with incredible grace. He dances with the puck, getting in close to the net only to pass to Darren and skate around behind it.
Philly’s goalie is focused on Darren, so he doesn’t notice Alex come around the other side. Instead of taking the shot, Darren passes back. By the time Philly realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. Alex taps the puck; it sails past the goalie’s stick and ricochets into the net.
And just like that, Alex scores the goal to win the Cup.
The crowd goes absolutely wild, and so do I. It’s a high like I’ve never experienced before. Chicago swarms the ice, slamming into each other in aggressive, enthusiastic hugs. Wives and kids meet their sweaty, excited husbands and fathers in the middle of the rink, where the media film the action and broadcast it on the huge screens.
The Cup, in all its majestic glory, is passed among the team. Alex raises it above his head and skates around the center of the rink, his triumphant grin directed at me. A camera is suddenly trained on me, and my face is plastered on the huge screen for the entire arena to see. I raise the butt puck, shielding my face, and return his excited smile.
Eventually we make our way out of the arena, and Sidney drags the three of us toward the locker room. I want to be here, but my stomach is in knots. My mom and Charlene flank me in an attempt to protect me from the media slores. They’re so busy questioning the team they don’t notice me. Not yet, anyway.
A million microphones are pointed at the team, with Alex front and center. They’re all beaming, gripping the massive trophy. One reporter shoves the mic in Alex’s face.
“How does it feel to score the winning goal?”
“It feels good to be able to come through for my team on such an important night. We worked together to make it happen.” Alex throws an arm around Darren, who stands beside him. “I’m proud of my teammates for bringing the Cup home.”
This is the version of Alex I thought I knew; the one who shares the victory. His eloquence and humility are sexy. I want this to be the real him, the man I’ve fallen for.
He scans the crowd and when he finds me, his smile widens, those dimples deepening. He passes the trophy off to Darren and grabs the microphone from the closest sportscaster. To her credit, she tries to hold on. It’s comical the way her arm extends as Alex yanks it out of her grasp.
“I need to say one thing.” He reassures her, then seeks me out once again. “Violet Hall. I’m an idiot for not saying this sooner. I’m in love with you.”
A split second of silence follows his declaration. The subsequent roar of the crowd is deafening. Reporters’ questions blend together in the cheers and screams. Cameras flash incessantly, blinding me and making it impossible for me to see past the spots in my vision. Microphones are shoved in my face. I can’t hear their questions. Besides, I’m too stunned to speak.
Alex Waters stole his own thunder in front of the entire sports-watching nation.
