The Coincidence 05 The Certainty of Violet & Luke (24 page)

With tears still flowing from my eyes, I lean forward and press my hand to my mother’s headstone. ‘I do miss you … God, I miss you …’ The tears flood my eyes, overpowering me. My initial reaction is to force them back, stop them, but it’s why I’m here. Live and learn. I move my hand to my father’s next and start to sob. ‘I wish you could be here to meet everyone … I wish a lot of things … but I guess that’s another thing that I’ve learned. Wishes are just wishes. Destiny is just destiny. And neither really has control over your life. Shit happens, shapes our lives, but it doesn’t have to shape who we are. And I’m trying now, to be a daughter you can both be proud of.’ I suck in another breath and say the last thing I need to say. ‘I love you both. I’ll love you forever.’

I let myself cry until my tears become frozen to my eyes, until the sadness in my heart shifts to contentment, then I get up and make my way back to the truck, wiping the tears from my eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ Luke asks as I hop in and shut the door.

I give one last look at the cemetery and then turn to him. ‘You know what, I really, really I am.’ I can’t help myself. I lean over and kiss him because in the end, it’s all I need. Just Luke and I, and the certainty of our future.

Two years and one month later…

‘This scarf smells like cheese,’ I say, biting back a laugh. Please, let me take it off before the smell gets stuck in my nostrils.’

‘Still not taking it off,’ he says, clearing amused with himself.

I’ve been cracking jokes left and right for the last hour to entertain myself, since Luke won’t tell me where we’re driving to. It’s driving me crazy; Christmas day, a spontaneous trip for which I have to be blindfolded the entire time. What the hell? Yeah, that was pretty much my response when I opened my present and there was the little piece of paper which he’d put in the box with the scarf. It wasn’t a good a present as last year, but I’m assuming it’s because our whole ‘seize the holiday’ motto is starting to die down.

‘Pretty please.’ I clasp my hands together and give him my best begging look.

He chuckles. ‘No way.’

Dammit. It’s the eyes that always win him over. That’s why this isn’t working – because he can’t see my eyes.

Sighing, I give up and sit back in the seat, enduring the last half an hour in eager anticipation, listening to a tape that I know is labeled with my name.

Finally the truck stops and I hear him put it in park. I wait for him to tell me to take off the blindfold, but instead all I hear is him switching tapes, then he gets out of the truck.

What the hell?

I reach to take my blindfold off as ‘The River’ by
Manchester Orchestra
starts playing through the stereo, really, really loud. A memory tickles at my mind and I throw off the blindfold. ‘Oh my God.’ My jaw instantly drops at the sight of the snowy mountains and trees before me, highlighted by the headlights of his truck.

Luke is waiting for me at the front of the truck, kicking the tips of his boots against the snow with his hands in the pockets of his coat. It takes me a moment or two to get the courage to do so, knowing that once I step foot out the door everything is about to change. I have to really think about it. Do I want that change?

Yes, I do. God, do I want the change.

With a trembling heart and fingers, I push open the door and step outside, leaving the door open so the music can flow outside. Luke doesn’t look up at me until I’m halfway around the truck, about to step up to him.

His eyes are filled with nerves and he’s shivering either from the cold or from the fact that he’s clearly nervous. ‘Now, if you listen really quietly,’ he says, cupping his ear as he leans toward the trees. ‘You can hear the faintest sound of crazy animals.’

I press my lips together, trying not to smile at the fact that he remembers that almost two years ago I set up this scenario, when a guy proposed to a girl in a restaurant in what I thought was a very cliché way.

I make my way over to him and he reaches into his pocket to take something out. I hold my breath in anticipation but then frown in confusion when he holds out the silver bracelet that belonged to my mother.

‘I thought you should have this on when this happened, so that your parents could be with you in a way.’ I try not to cry as he puts the bracelet on my wrist, but a tear or two slips from my eyes. Then he steps back and pats his pockets before letting out a breath. ‘Now, I know getting down on one knee is a little cliché.’ His smile is all nerves but it’s ridiculously adorable. ‘But I’m going to do it anyway.’

I suck in a deep breath as he drops down to his knee right there in the snow. Then he pulls out a small black box from his jacket and holds it up. ‘Violet Hayes, will you marry me?’

He opens the box up and if I wasn’t already going to say yes, I would have now. Because what’s inside it is my ring – the purple one surrounded by onyx gems that I was once given as a Christmas present, before it was taken away. Of course it’s not the exact same ring. It looks a bit smaller, but a bit shiner. It looks a bit more perfect.

I’m not going to cry
, I tell myself. Because even though I let myself feel everything now, I don’t want to be that girl that sobs like a baby because she’s going to get married.

But I turn into that girl, tears pouring out of my eyes as I nod my head. Then getting back my dignity, I say, ‘Hell yeah, I’ll marry you.’

He laughs, but it looks like tears are staining his eyes too, the big softy that he is. Then he gets to his feet, puts the ring on my finger, and kisses me the way he’s been kissing me every day for two years.

With passion.

With certainty.

With love.

Read an extract here – the book is available to buy now.

(Eight years old)

I hate running, but it always seems like I’m doing it. Always running everywhere. Always trying to hide. I hide just as much as I run, but if I don’t then bad things will happen. Like getting found. Or getting forced to do things that make me sick to my stomach. Getting forced to help
her.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” my mom singsongs as I run out the front door of my house. Her voice is slurred, which means she’s been taking her medication again. She takes her medication a lot and it doesn’t make any sense to me. I have to take medication sometimes, too, but because I get sick. Whenever she takes it, it seems to make her sicker.

She used to not be like this, well not as bad anyway. About a year ago, when my dad was still around she would act normal and not take medication. Now, though, she does it a lot and I think she might be going crazy. At least she seems that way compared to everyone else’s moms. I see them picking up my friends from school and they always look happy and put together. My friends are always glad to see them and they don’t run and hide from them, like I do all the time.

I race around to the back of the house, running away from the sound of her voice as she chases after me, looking for me. She’s always looking for me and I hate when she does—hate her sometimes for always making me run and hide. And for finding me. I usually hide underneath the bed or in the closet or somewhere else in the house, but she’s been finding me quicker lately, so today I decided to hide outside.

As I make it to the back porch stairs, I slam to a stop, panting to catch my breath. There’s just enough room for me to duck down underneath the decaying boards and hide underneath it. I pull my legs up against me and lower my head onto my knees. The sunlight sparkles through the cracks in the wood and down on me. I’m nervous because if the sun can see me, then maybe she might see me, too.

I scoot back, closer to the bottom step and out of the sunlight, and then I hold my breath as I hear the screen door hinges creak.

“Luke,” my mom says from up on the top step. She shuffles across the wood in her slippers and the screen door bangs shut. “Luke, are you out here?”

I tuck my face into my arms, sucking back the tears, even though I want to cry—she’ll hear me if I do. Then she’ll probably want to hug me better and I don’t like when she does that. I don’t like a lot of things she does and how wrong she makes my life feel.

“Luke Price,” she warns, stepping down the stairs. I peek up at her through the cracks and see her pink furry slippers. The smoke from her cigarette makes my stomach burn. “If you’re out here and you’re ignoring me, you’re going to be in trouble.” She almost sings it, like it’s a song to some game we’re playing. Sometimes I think that’s what this is to her. A game that I always lose.

The stairs creak as she slowly walks down to the bottom step. Ashes from her cigarette scatter across the ground and all over my head. A few land in my mouth, but I don’t spit. I stay as still as I can, fighting to keep my heart from beating so loudly as my palms sweat.

Finally, after what seems like forever, she turns around and heads up the stairs back to the house. “Fine, have it your way, then,” she says.

It’s never my way and I know better than to think so. That’s why I stay still even after the screen door shuts. I barely breathe as the wind blows and the sunlight dims. I wait until the sky is almost gray before I peek up through the cracks in the stairs. If I had my way I’d stay here forever, hiding under the stairs, but I’m hungry and tired.

I can’t see or hear her anymore so I lean forward, poke my head out from under the stairs. The coast looks clear so I put my hands down on the dirt and crawl out onto the grass. I get to my feet and brush the dirt and the rocks off my torn jeans. Then, taking a deep breath, I run around to the side of the house and hurry quickly up the fence line until I make it to the front yard.

I’ve never liked where we live that much. Everyone’s grass always looks yellow and all the houses look like they need to be repainted. My mom says it’s because we’re poor and this is all we can afford thanks to my dad leaving us and that he doesn’t care and that’s why he never comes to see me. I’m not sure I believe her since my mom’s always telling lies. Like how she promises me time and time again that this will be the last time she makes me do things I don’t want to do.

I stand in the front yard for a while, figuring out where to go. I could climb through my sister’s bedroom window and hide out there until she gets home, then maybe she can help me. But she’s been acting strange lately and gets annoyed whenever I talk to her. She’s lucky because mom never seems to notice her as much as she notices me. I don’t know why. I do my best to blend in. I don’t make messes, keeping the house clean and organized like she likes it. I keep quiet. I stay in my room a lot and organize my toys in categories, just the way she likes them, yet she’s always calling for me. But Amy seems invisible to her.

She’s so lucky. I wish I were invisible.

I decide to go for a walk down to the gas station at the corner where I can get a candy bar or something because my stomach hurts from hunger. But as my feet touch the sidewalk, I hear the front door swing open.

“Luke, get in here right now,” she says in a frenzy, snapping her fingers and pointing to the ground below her feet. “I need you.”

I freeze, wishing I were brave enough to take off running down the sidewalk. Just leave. Never come back. Sleep in a box because a box seems so much nicer than my sterilized house. But I’m not brave and I turn around and face her just like she wants me to. She’s holding the door open, her hair pulled up messily on top of her head and she’s wearing this purple tank top and plaid shorts that she always wears. It’s pretty much like a uniform for her, expect she doesn’t have a job. Not a good one anyway where she has to wear a uniform. Instead, she sells her medicine to creepy men who are always staring at her or Amy when she walks out of her bedroom.

She crooks her finger at me. “Get in here.”

An unsteady breath leaves my mouth as I trudge to the front door, a nauseating feeling of puke rising in my stomach. It happens every time she needs me. I get sick to my stomach at the thoughts of what she’s going to make me do creep inside my head.

When I reach the stairs, she moves back, not looking happy, but not looking sad either. She holds the door open for me, watching me with her brown eyes that remind me of the bag of marbles she made me throw away because they didn’t look right. Once I’m inside, she closes the door and shoves the deadbolt over that’s at the top. She fastens the small chain and then clicks the lock on the doorknob before turning around.

The curtains are shut and there’s a lit cigarette on a teal glass ashtray that’s on the coffee table, filling the room with smoke. There’s a sofa just behind the table and it’s covered in plastic to keep “the dirty air from ruining the fabric,” my mother told me once. She always thinks the dirt in the air is going to do something to either the house or her, which is why she rarely goes outside anymore.

“Why’d you run off?” she asks me as she walks over the sofas and flops down in it. She picks up her cigarette and ashes it, before putting it into her mouth. She takes a deep inhale and seconds later a cloud of smoke circles around her face that’s covered in sores. “Were you playing a game or something?”

I nod, because telling her I was playing a game is much better than telling her I was hiding from her. “Yes.”

She takes another breath off her cigarette and then stares at the row of cat figurines on one of the shelves lining the living room walls. Each row on the shelf is organized with figurines, according to breed. She did it once when she was having one of her episodes from too much medication, the one that makes her stay awake for a long, long time, not the stuff that makes her pass out. The glass clinking together and her incoherent murmuring had woken me up when she was rearranging the figurines and when I’d walked out she was moving like crazy, frantically trying to get the animals into order or “something bad was going to happen.” She knew it was—she could feel it in her bones. I think something bad already did happen, though. A lot of bad things actually.