35. Rum & Revelations

thirty-five

Violet

If there's one thing I learned from my parents, it's that the easiest way to get your mind off something is to have a drink. I don't use this technique often, because the fear of addiction haunts my every move, but I do have to admit that it works.

Heat beams from the outdoor space heater, the snow on the patio furniture melted away long ago, leaving the metal barstools warm and dry. I hoist myself onto the chair, looping Reese's leash around the center leg of the table. A slow, steady beat flows from the inside of the building, surrounding me in a mellow melody. A gray-haired waitress approaches me, pen and notepad in hand, and I hope, in the deepest parts of me, that the teary puffiness of my face has gone down.

"Hey doll. What can I getcha?" she offers in a thick Boston accent.

"Can I have a Long Island?" I ask, looking down at Reese who's curled next to the heater like a baking croissant. This is the first time he's been out since the attack, other than our quick trips around the block. But I needed him. Everything stops when I look at him, all the hurt, all the regret. If I'm grateful for anything on this planet, it's Reese. "And a bowl of water for him?"

The woman nods. "Sure thing."

I watch her disappear into the crowd inside, and I wonder if anyone that's here was here the night that I met Cam. If they were a background character in this painful, unrequited story. She pushes past a tall, olive-toned man with buzzed hair, a box-dyed blonde woman with an array of quote tattoos, a—

Fuck.

A pale, slender, red-haired woman. Should I say "a" or "the"?

"Mallory."

The name surprises me the second it comes out of my mouth. I don't mean to say it, but the word slides out so naturally. Instinctually. Second nature. Right as I'm about to look away, right when I realize I've been staring, not subtly, at my ex-wife in the center of a crowd, Mallory's eyes lock onto mine. Her lips wear that familiar, expensive shine, her eyes the same, stunning shade of blue. I try to look away, hoping that if I pretend I didn't see her, she'll have the same courtesy. I can't do this, not now. But I can hear the tapping of her stilettos against the floor growling louder and louder.

I don't know what to do.

Should I grab Reese and make a run for it? Should I pretend I have amnesia? Running for it is probably the better move. But my foot doesn't so much as budge when I try. My legs refuse to cooperate. The clicking grows louder.

Just move damnit, move!

And louder.

Here we go.

"Violet!" Mallory's voice is slurred and shrill. She's clearly intoxicated, her drink swaying in her hand above her head. "It's so good to see yo—"

Mallory's more drunk than I had expected. I can see now the smudged lip-gloss and the drooped eyelids. And because of her quick, tipsy sway, the front of her red, open-toed heel catches on Reese's leash, catapulting her face first onto the concrete patio.

"Shit!"

My legs seem to have regained their strength. I hop down from the tall stool and grab Mallory by her arms, pulling her to her feet. "Are you okay?!" Mallory smiles up at me, her drunken blue eyes luminescent from the dim patio lighting. "Oh my god!"

Mallory's smile drops.

"What?!" she asks anxiously, stumbling backward. I tighten my grip on her arm to keep her from falling.

"Umm..." I trail off. Despite the divorce, I know plenty of things about Mallory Sinclair. I know she only likes red wine. She refuses to wear workout clothes that aren't Lululemon or Gymshark. She will never leave the house without a full face of makeup that costs more than my car payment. And I know, more than anything, that Mallory does not do well with blood. "You just have a little scrape," I lie. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"Oh my lanta!" The gray-haired waitress has returned with one Long Island, and one silver water bowl. Poor woman never saw it coming. In truth, Mallory's "little scrape" is more of a shallow gash, right in the center of her chin. It might not need stitches, but it is pretty gnarly. "You alright miss?"

I stare at the waitress wide-eyed, trying to tell her without verbal communication to not make a big deal of the nasty injury. Mallory just looks at me like a deer in the headlights. Like the answer to the woman's question is held in my hands. I look at the waitress.

"She's okay. I'm just going to get her cleaned up. Is it okay if I bring him with us?" I gesture to Reese, who somehow, is still passed out.

Oh, to be a dog.

"No problem sweetheart."

I unwrap the leash from the table and guide Mallory by the arm through the crowd, into the family bathroom.

"Oh my god!" Mallory squeals, staring at herself in the mirror. Her thin pale fingers hover over the swollen cut on her face. "Violet!"

The paper towels in my hand are pretty much disintegrating under the harsh tap flowing from the sink.

"These things are fucking useless," I mutter, tossing the wad into the garbage can. I push open a stall door and wrap layers of toilet paper around my hand, like a pre-teen who just started their period.

"Violet!"

A sigh escapes my lips as I run the wad of paper under the tap. "Mal, you're fine. It's just a scrape. I'll get this cleaned up and you can go—"

"Just a scrape?! My face is ruined!"

"What a tragedy," I mutter. Mallory shoots me a glare. "Will you just let me clean it please?"

Look, I'm not trying to be a bitch, but Mallory is being insufferable. I press the wet tissue to her chin, careful to dab it rather than swiping it so crumbs of paper don't get left behind. This might be the only time in my life that I have begged for silence. But it's taken almost as quickly as it's granted by a sound I never thought I'd hear again. Especially in these circumstances.

Mallory is laughing. And not a quiet, muffled chuckle. No. Mallory has erupted into uncontrollable, body-vibrating, witch type laughter as she kicks her feet around. She is sitting on a dirty bar bathroom floor, blood seeping from her face, and she's laughing.

"Did I... miss something?" I ask, pulling my hand away. Mallory only laughs harder. "What?!"

"Did you—" Mallory can barely speak through her intoxicated giggles. "Did you ever think we'd be here again?"

Listening to her laugh, I can't help but laugh alongside her. "Monsey's?"

I know what Mallory means, and I know she does not mean Monsey's. I kind of regret playing dumb, but I don't know what else to say. I expect Mal to tell me "no," to elaborate on the situation. To mention the fact that we're sitting on the floor of a bar bathroom together. Mallory just laughs, and I do too, shaking my head.

"I don't—I can't—" The skin on her chin stretches tight with her laughter, and I have to press the tissue paper against it again to stop the bleeding. Her eyes flick up to me, crashing waves shining in the blue depths of them. She blinks, once, before cupping my face, and pressing her thin glossed lips against mine.

They should feel familiar, but somehow, I feel like I've never kissed her before in my life. I pull back quickly, heat rushing to my cheeks. Mallory looks like she's scrambling to construct a sentence, but I don't even want to hear the next words coming from her mouth. This is wrong. Or at least, it feels that way. I know Cam and I are over. I know that it's entirely my fault. But still, something about this feels dirty. Boundary crossing, even. I know it isn't cheating, it quite literally can't be. Even when we had an agreement, the nature of it ensured that. So why does it feel that way?

"I'm seeing someone," I blurt out. It isn't something I planned to say, and really, it isn't even the truth. "Seeing someone" implies more than sex. It suggests that it's current, too. And as proven, in the small humid salon, neither of those things are true. But the words flow out of my mouth faster than I can even process them. "She's great. She's smart, and really fucking bossy, and she loves dogs, and—"

"That's awesome," Mallory cuts in, smiling. I study her face for a moment, deciphering if this is the type of "awesome" that Mallory would go home and rant about. The kind she didn't really think was "awesome". But there is no disingenuousness to her look. Pink rises in her cheeks, her eyes are teary but the care in them is real. Her smile is sweet. This may be, I realize, one of the only times Mallory has ever seemed authentic to me.

"It is," I say back. I look at the woman in front of me. My life, my history. And I know I should be feeling happy that I've proved I've moved on, in some way or another. There should be warmth swelling in my chest, triumph in my mind. I thought I was going to feel like I won when this happened. Like what she did wasn't enough to ruin me. Instead, guilt washes over me like a tidal wave on a fragile shore. Cam's voice echoes in my mind, but I don't think this feeling has anything to do with her. I mean, how could it? We were never together. It was never going to be something more.

"You don't let anyone know you."

That's what she had said to me. And it stung so badly because it was true. It is true. No, was. It was true. Hayden knows me now, and Cam does too, at least more than anyone else. More than Mallory ever had, that I know for sure. And even with her self-obsessed nature, I can't say that it's her fault.

"Mallory I—" I clear my throat. "I owe you an apology. Aht—" I put my hand up when Mallory's mouth opens, not allowing her to interrupt me. I need to say this, and then I need to leave. "I didn't let you in. At all. Twelve years, and you knew nothing about me. And that was on me. I didn't want anyone to know how I felt. It was scary. It is scary. But I recognize that it created distance between us. And I know that probably made you feel just as alone. So, I'm sorry."

Tears well in Mallory's eyes, her lip trembling with a soft but genuine smile.

I can't sit in here with her anymore. I can't spend another moment reminding myself of what we were, of what we would be if Mal never cheated. If I had just been vulnerable. What we were is in the past, and what we could be? We would have never been what everyone thought we were, as a couple, or as individual people. Everything we could be, everything that everyone saw us as, it was all fake. I know that now, because of Cam.

It's funny. You can spend your whole life with someone, and never truly know each other.

Her fingers graze against my cheek, cold and thin. "Violet—"

The bathroom door swings open, my head snapping to the opening in the frame. Standing there, between the wooden trim, is Cam.