Page 4 of Almost Yours
I know her.
I know the way her bottom lip pulls in when she’s overthinking. How her fingers twitch when she’s about to lose it. She’s doing it now, busying herself with supplies like she needs to be doing something, anything, to avoid looking at me for too long, because if she does, it might undo her completely.
Which is more than fair because I’m already halfway gone just standing in this room with her. She has no idea I’ve been carrying her around with me since the day I walked away.
And when I said her name… That damn near did me in.
Her eyes snapped to mine like she’d been holding her breath for six years straight. Fuck, I missed that look. I missed her.
I blink, and she’s seventeen again.
We were sitting on the hood of my rusted-out Chevy in the school parking lot. Violet was beside me, legs tucked up under her, notebook open in her lap. She was always scribbling something.
She was talking—something about a test. I didn’t catch all of it because I was too busy admiring the sound of her voice and the scent of lavender that always seemed to cling to her.
She turned to me that afternoon with a slow smile. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”
I wasn’t. I never could when she was that close to me, looking so completely at ease, as if the world couldn’t get to us while we were up there.
She didn’t know how bright she was. She wasn’t—still isn’t—just the kind of pretty that turned heads. It was the way she moved through the world like it was still worth believing in. Like people were still worth the effort.
Like nothing had ever tried to break her.
I used to watch her and wonder how that was possible. Especially when everything around me had teeth. The trailer park walls were so thin I could hear the neighbors screaming through them. Not to mention the nights that smelled like stale beer and something burnt, something angry. My old man always slumped in a chair, eyes glassy, temper sitting just under his skin, waiting for a reason.
I learned at a young age how to keep my head down, take a hit, and not swing back unless I had to.
Still ended up with busted knuckles more often than not.
Wrong place. Wrong people. Wrong life.
And then there was Violet. She didn’t belong anywhere near my bullshit.
That was the first thing I knew about her. Before I ever let myself think about the way her laugh caught me off guard orhow her eyes lit up when she talked about anything and everything.
She was light, and I knew better than to reach for it.
You don’t take something clean and drag it through the dirt you come from. You sit close enough to feel it, yeah. You memorize it when she’s not looking. The way her nose scrunches when she’s annoyed, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous.
And then you walk away before you do something stupid like kiss her and make her think you’re a future instead of a mistake.
She had dreams. I had a dad who couldn’t stay sober long enough to remember what day it was. A sister who overdosed the same week she got her acceptance letter to college. A mom who packed a bag one night and never looked back.
So I kept my hands to myself.
But I loved her. God, did I love her.
I still do.
It’s not faded or dulled by time. If anything, it’s settled deeper. Like something that never healed right and aches when the weather shifts.
“Rowan?”
Violet clears her throat, pulling me out of my memories and back to the present. “Where did you find her?”
I drag my hand down the dog. All ribs and matted fur, eyes too big for her face but still hopeful. “Side of the road a few miles back. Nearly hit her with my truck.”
Violet leans over the table, her hands gentle as she checks over the canine. She doesn’t look at me. “She’s lucky you found her,” she says quietly. Then, after a beat, and still not meeting my eyes, she asks, “How did you know I was here?”
