Desires of the Dead (16 page)

Chapter 20

Violet studied herself in the mirror and understood why her mom hadn’t given her a hard time about staying home from school. She looked like a train wreck. Her skin was pale and sickly, her eyes red and puffy. She winced as she wiped her nose, which was raw and sore.

She blamed Jay for the dismal image that stared back at her.

And Megan, of course.

Violet made her way back to bed. She had been tired before, but never like this. She felt defeated, stripped of all rational thought. She was certain she’d be incapable of making it through a single class, let alone an entire day.

She tried
not
to think about Jay. Whenever she did, she felt her heart collapsing in on itself.

She told herself that she should be concerned about Megan, a girl who’d been capable of some pretty terrifying stuff, but she couldn’t make her mind stay there. Jay’s refusal to stand by her when she needed him was more than Violet could bear. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the thought away.

She was too weary to play this game again. But it was too late; he’d already found his way back in, and she could feel the tears, despite her best efforts to hold them back.

God, how was it possible that she even had any tears left?

She hated this. She hated feeling so frail, so miserable. She should be angry, or afraid, but instead here she was, lying on her bed, unable to function. All because of Jay.

And what did it all mean? That he was choosing Megan over her? Or that he was simply unable to accept that Megan was capable of that type of violence?

Did it matter?

Either way, Jay hadn’t supported her.

He’d tried calling Violet, and when she didn’t answer, he’d sent her a single text message, asking if he could come over. Asking if they could talk.

Violet typed out her response, pausing for just a moment before hitting Send.

I don’t want to see you.

It felt so permanent, so final. So painful.

She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand, drawing her knees up to her chest as she choked on her sobs. But the worst pain came from a place she couldn’t physically reach. Her heart felt as if it had been crushed—it was lonely and miserable.

Violet worried for it. She wondered if she could trust it to keep beating.

She felt as if it had given up.

She
felt like giving up.

She tried to tell herself to stop being so dramatic, but it didn’t
feel
dramatic.

She’d lost Jay. And more than just losing the one person she’d fallen so wholly in love with, the person she’d given herself to
completely
, she’d also just lost her very best friend in the entire world.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, balanced at the edge of sleep and wake. It was a tenuous place for Violet to be, with her subconscious permitted to contribute to the images that gathered there.

At one point, Violet put her iPod on, to block out her thoughts, to block out everything, but nothing could stop the corrupted dreams that lingered whenever she dozed, or the torment that attacked when she woke.

So she tossed and turned, trying not to think and not to feel.

It was almost dark when she felt the side of her bed sink, and she opened her eyes. Chelsea gazed down at her.

“What are you doing here?” Violet asked, scooting up on her pillow. Her throat burned.

Chelsea shrugged. “I was worried about you.” Her face scrunched up. “You okay?”

She wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even close.

Violet wanted to tell her friend that she was fine, that she was sick and that was why she hadn’t been at school, but she just shook her head. Her voice was hoarse. “We broke up. Jay and me, we broke up.”

“Aww crap, Vi.”
Chelsea took Violet’s hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be all right. I’m sure it’s just a fight. It’s
you and Jay
. Everything’ll be fine, I know it will. Do you want me to talk to him?”

Violet shook her head again. “Please don’t, Chels.”

Chelsea looked pained, worried, confused—too many emotions that were unfamiliar to her—all at once. Finally she sighed. “Scoot over.”

Violet didn’t argue. Instead she made room for her friend.

Chelsea climbed in beside Violet. She lay on her back so they were both staring up at the ceiling. “Well, if he’s stupid enough to let you go, then he doesn’t deserve you,” Chelsea clucked, reassuring Violet in her own way, nudging her beneath the covers. “Besides, you’ll always have me, and I’m
way
more fun than Jay could ever be.”

Violet managed a watery laugh through her tears. She didn’t know how to tell Chelsea how grateful she was that she’d come by tonight without sounding corny, like some cheesy greeting card. But she couldn’t imagine anything better than having her friend beside her, whispering encouragement as darkness fell.

Violet knew that her mom had come in to check on her after Chelsea had gone, because she’d felt her mother’s cool hand brushing over her cheek and lying against her forehead.

She doubted that her mom really thought she was sick, but she never said a word. She just slipped in silently to make sure that Violet was all right and slipped out again. For that, at least, Violet was thankful.

During that endless night Violet came to a conclusion: She was damaged, sure, but she was stronger than that. She wasn’t broken. She would survive this. She had to. And she didn’t want Jay to know how badly he’d hurt her.

She wanted him, but she didn’t
need
him.

She closed her eyes, feeling no real peace. The best she could hope for at this point was for a little of the numbness to find her at last, and to dull the ache in her heart.

But sleep was all she actually got.

Violet stayed home from school again the next morning, not because she was exhausted, although she was. Or heartbroken, which she also was. Instead she stayed home because it was her birthday.

Happy freaking seventeenth to her!

She wandered out of her room, relieved that the house was empty at the moment. And even though she wasn’t hungry, she poured herself a bowl of cereal. It wouldn’t do any good to starve herself.

The note on the counter said that her mom had gone out to run some errands, which Violet interpreted as shopping for the
nonparty birthday dinner
that she had planned for Violet. Just thinking about it, about spending an entire evening with her family—her parents and her aunt and uncle—celebrating her birthday, made her stomach twist into painful knots. The fact that Jay wouldn’t be there made it almost unbearable.

She was carrying her half-eaten bowl of cereal to the sink when she glanced at the clock. It was still only nine fifteen. Suddenly spending an entire day cooped up in the house again sounded worse than being at school. Violet needed to get out, and there was only one person she could think to call.

She hurried, hoping to be out of there before her mom came home. She threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and pulled her hair back in a ponytail that looked nothing like the ones she’d seen on the pristine Sara Priest. Violet’s hair was wild and unruly, even on a good day.

She did a last-minute mirror check to assess the damage. It wasn’t
so
bad. At least not once she got past the dark circles and the sallow skin. And that vacant look behind her still swollen eyes.

She decided it was probably better
not
to look in the mirror for too long.

She scribbled a quick note, letting her parents know she’d be back in time for dinner, and she rushed out the door, feeling better the moment her car’s engine sputtered to life.

That was when she pulled out her cell phone to arrange a meeting she wouldn’t have predicted in a million years. With the last person she’d ever expected to call.

Rafe was already inside, looking at ease for the first time since Violet had met him. She spotted him before he noticed her, and she watched him through the glass, with his inky black hair falling in front of his face. He leaned back in the wobbly-looking bistro chair, his arms folded across his chest, his chin down. He was someone who was accustomed to going unnoticed. He seemed to prefer it that way.

She’d recognized it the moment she’d met him. It was that indefinable quality she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He was . . .
different
. It was as if he didn’t belong. As if he was a boy who couldn’t quite find his place in the world.

Like her.

The thought made her instantly uncomfortable. She didn’t like the possibility that she didn’t belong, even though she’d considered that very thing more times than she could count.

He had picked the meeting place, a coffee shop in the city. A dark little café tucked within the crowded streets and redbrick buildings of Pioneer Square, an area of Seattle rich with art galleries, restaurants, and antique stores. It was also a popular gathering area for the local homeless.

Violet stepped through the doorway, the raw wooden planks thumping hollowly beneath her feet. The smell of coffee was dark and rich.

Rafe glanced up and saw her there. When he didn’t smile, didn’t respond at all, Violet was surprised by her disappointment. She wondered what she’d expected.

And she worried that she’d made a mistake, calling Rafe.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly nervous as she pulled out the chair across from him.

He lifted his chin in a brief nod and continued to watch her guardedly. He’d ordered before she’d arrived, and steam rose from the coffee sitting between them.

“Thanks for meeting me. I know I didn’t give you much notice.”

He shrugged as he cleared his throat. As always, his voice was hushed. “I was sorta surprised you called.”

Violet felt
exactly
the same way. “You’re the one who gave me your number.” She challenged him with a look, but she wasn’t sure what else to say. Now that she was sitting here, she felt so . . . awkward. “I was just hoping we could talk . . . maybe you could, I don’t know, answer some questions for me.”

He looked down, as if he were having trouble holding her gaze. “You’re right, I did give you my number. It’s just . . . I’m not really good at talking. Sara’s much better at it.” His eyes shifted up then, finding hers, and she was struck again by how intense they were. “I’m not really sure I’m the one you should have called.”

Violet shook her head but couldn’t find the words to argue. She could practically
see
the walls he had up, the defenses he had no intention of letting down.

“If you want, I can call Sara and set something up between you two, but I just don’t think I can do”—he pointed from her to him, shrugging, his face apologetic—“this.”

Violet didn’t answer; she suddenly felt like a jackass for thinking that she might be able to talk to Rafe in the first place.
What have I been smoking?
she chastised herself. Her eyes burned, stinging, and she blinked hard. She couldn’t believe she’d been foolish enough to think they might have some sort of
connection
. But after everything she’d been through, the tears were still too close to the surface, and she was afraid that if she started crying now, in front of him, she might actually die from humiliation.

She shoved away from the table, nearly toppling her chair in her haste to leave.

But Rafe reached for her, grabbing her wrist and stopping her before she could turn away.

Violet flinched at his touch, as electricity sparked between them, shooting all the way up her arm. She jerked her hand back, clutching it tightly to her pounding heart.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking just as confused by the strange current as she was. He flexed and unflexed his fist, and Violet could see that his fingernails had been filled in with Sharpie. His eyes lifted to hers. “Look, Violet, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.
Please
. . . don’t go. Not yet.”

She hesitated, trying to decide, but she couldn’t ignore the sincerity she heard in his voice. Finally she pulled her chair back to the table and sat down. But now she was the one with the mistrustful look in her eyes.

He smiled then; it was a sly, wicked sort of smile. It suited him. “I told you I was bad at this.”

Violet winced, not yet ready to let him off the hook. “That’s kind of an understatement.”

“Can we try this again? What did you want to
talk
about?”

Violet exhaled noisily as she propped her elbows on the table and tried to explain. “I don’t know why I called you, really. I just . . . I didn’t want to be alone anymore. And that doesn’t mean I think we have to be
friends
or anything.” She made a face at him. “It’s just that you’re the only one who knows about Sara Priest. And that I found that little boy. At least, the only person I can talk to.” She thought about Jay, about how she should have been able to tell him.