Salvage, page 6
I didn’t even pour all of my time and energy into the new business I started with Diego. As it turns out, opening a gym wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, even with a great business partner. Violet ran Bullseye alone, and she made it look easy. She was gifted like that. Everything she touched was a success, from her short-lived career as an junior MMA fighter to Bullseye.
Our relationship was the only thing that had crapped out on her. I knew why. We both did.
It was all me.
I ran my hand back through my hair. It was getting so long I was in desperate need of a cut – or a hair elastic. Between that and the beard, I’d soon be mistaken for Sasquatch.
With a steadying breath, I slipped my key from my pocket and slid it into the lock. I stumbled on the movements as the weightiness of the moment snapped into my mind. I hadn’t set foot inside since Violet broke up with me at the bonfire at Bastian’s girlfriend’s place.
If I could run into a burning house, I could walk into Vi’s.
On the other side of the door, the dogs barked enough to shake the walls. If I were a robber, casing the joint, I’d leave in a second flat, but my dogs wouldn’t hurt a fly. They were big softies at heart.
I was barely inside before Picasso leaped into my arms. Dali yipped, not-so-patiently waiting her turn for cuddles. Picasso was a big dog and not exactly young. He shouldn’t be jumping up so high with his bummed hip, but I couldn’t reprimand the furry dude. His body trembled in my arms as he licked my neck and ears. He let out small mewls, still shaking.
It broke my damn heart. He clearly missed me something fierce. When we adopted him, we were warned that he would be prone to some intense separation anxiety.
I hadn’t thought it would be this bad.
“Missed you too, ya lunatic.” I set him down and kicked off my shoes before giving Dali a good belly rub.
Shit, but it was weird to be home knowing it wasn’t my place anymore. Not that I’d be able to guess that from the frames still hanging on the walls. There were pictures of Violet and me throughout our lives. Our high school and college graduations, a few Christmases, the family portraits we took when we got Dali last year.
What a day that was. Picasso was finally settled and no longer a nervous wreck. When we brought Dali home, Picasso was shy at first. Dali was so tiny, all white, with none of her spots out yet. He was quick to adopt her as part of his pack. In the photo, Violet sat on a log with Dali in her arms. I knelt beside them with my arm wrapped around Picasso. We’re all smiling. One happy little family.
You couldn’t tell from our grins that we added Dali to our home in hopes of improving my morale.
A staggered breath ripped out of me as I ran my finger against the glass over Violet’s face. I missed her. A lot. Coming here wasn’t the best idea, but I wasn’t here for either one of us. It wasn’t to fulfill some sick and twisted need to see my ex.
Even if I was still in love with her. Even if I always would be.
Picasso bumped his head against my leg, pleading for more attention. I chuckled and ruffled his soft fur. Something caught my eye at the base of the wall, right where I usually left my gym bag: claw marks and wide gouges. It didn’t take a fancy vet degree to understand Picasso had tried to chew himself through the wall.
“Oh, buddy,” I sighed. “You really missed me, huh? Any chance your mom misses me too?”
He groaned and sat back on his haunches with a silent – but way too loud – no.
“I’m gonna have to fix this for her.” It wasn’t my place to repair things for Violet anymore, but the damage was my fault. If I wasn’t such a destructive ass, she wouldn’t have broken up with me. Picasso wouldn’t have regressed, and there wouldn’t be an almost-hole in the wall.
Add it to the tally of my carnage.
I inhaled long and hard, letting the smell of home, of Violet, sink deep into my soul. It was perfect. It was overwhelming—sensory overload. I had to ease back into being here, or I’d never want to leave.
Scanning the living room for something to do, I spotted a cloth bone, one of the dogs’ favorite toys. I grabbed it and wagged it for them before tossing it up.
Picasso took off like a shot, Dali on his heels. Their claws clipped against the already damaged hardwood floor as they scampered and play-fought. I promised Violet about twenty thousand times that I would sand down and revarnish the floors. I hadn’t. Not because I didn’t have time or because I was too lazy. I never got around to it.
It… slipped my mind.
The house was full of projects I was supposed to get to. Eventually.
When Violet bought the old farmhouse years ago, we had agreed that it would be a good place to make our own. Slowly renovate a room at a time. It hadn’t exactly worked out that way.
Now it never would.
Picasso brought back the bone, tail wagging proudly. Dali huffed her annoyance. I let him win, her eyes claimed.
“Let’s go for a walk.” The magic word sent both dogs bolting for the back door.
Despite the fall afternoon’s biting chill, it was sunny. I pulled at the lapels of my plaid jacket and stuffed my hands into my hoodie’s kangaroo pouch as I walked the dogs around the massive property surrounding the house. Picasso kept on running back to me, pleading for a pat on the head before chasing off after all kinds of critters. His constant need for reassurance was troubling. Maybe my sporadic pop-ins would make things worse. Hopefully this new vet knew what she was doing.
After an hour of roaming, a few games of fetch, and one case of the zoomies, my phone beeped.
Shit.
The alarm reminded me Violet would be home soon. I was cutting it close – probably on purpose.
Thanks, subconscious. You’re a right treat.
Violet made it pretty damn clear that she didn’t want to see me. I didn’t know what I wanted. Not really.
I wanted to see her, but I didn’t know what I would say.
How do you talk to an ex? How was I supposed to go on without my best friend?
Sure, we fought like maniacs lately, but there was love there. I clenched my teeth hard before whistling for Picasso and Dali. They took their time making their way back to me, prancing in the field’s dying long grass. Dali was such a princess, gamboling with her muzzle up in the air, tail wagging like a royal staff. Picasso beelined for my legs, nearly toppling me down. As I steadied myself, I noticed Violet’s red truck bumping its way down the gravel laneway.
Another untouched project.
Violet parked beside my pickup like she had thousands of times before. The decision was made for me.
Deep down, I hoped for this.
Masochistic asshole, party of one.
I knew Violet. I could see the wheels in her mind reeling, even at a distance. She didn’t want to get out of her vehicle until she was sure she had herself under lock and key. The dogs barked excitedly, waiting to greet her. Violet sighed before tensing her shoulders.
Then I saw the missing running board on her truck.
What the damn hell?
I rushed forward and reached out to help her down. The second my fingers touched hers, my skin prickled with recognition. My heart sang with longing. If walking into the house was coming home, touching Violet was landing in the only safe place I knew. I ground my teeth against every little and powerful thing I felt for her. She mumbled a thanks.
“What happened to the truck?”
Vi threw her bag over her shoulder. “The board broke off a few days ago.”
“And you kicked the door as punishment?” I jutted my chin toward the dusty footprint. I couldn’t help the humor creeping into my voice as I teased her. “An MMA champ against a door? Is that really a fair fight?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “I haven’t been a champion since I was sixteen, Rowan. The truck can handle a tiny nudge.”
I arched a brow at her. “Your hands were full, weren’t they? That’s why Cherry took a beating?”
She tried to kill her smirk, but I’d known her too long. I noticed.
Time sputtered as we stood there, looking at each other. The past crackled between us like dry lightning, never making it into existence.
I hadn’t been nervous around Violet since we were kids. I rubbed a hand across my neck, looking for a safe topic, one that wouldn’t bring up the past or the future. Or anything else that might set us off.
“Vi, I—”
“Ro—”
We spoke at the same time and shared a smile. She blew out a breath and looked up to the sky. Thick, heavy gray clouds rolled in from the Caribou River. The air was dense with the promise of a good thunderstorm. Vi loved those. The veins of lightning across the sky fascinated her. It always made her a little hyper – and a little horny – to see storms pass. The weight of memories took over my cognitive functions. I swallowed a few times to get my bearings back but didn’t find anything to do beyond stuffing my hands in my pockets.
“Do you need to grab some stuff from the house?” She broke the too-long silence.
I licked my lips, playing for time. What were you expecting, jackass? That she’d ask you to come back home?
“Yeah. Thanks. I need my gloves.”
Vi winced. “So Picasso might’ve destroyed them.”
“Shit, okay.”
“I think it’s because they smell like you. He misses you.”
Do you miss me? That’s what I want to know, Vi, because I’m standing here, and all I want to do is kiss you, hold you, and never let you go. Even though I don’t deserve you.
“Poor little dude.” The furry beast chose that moment to sit on my feet, sensing it was time for me to go. “Are you okay? I mean…” I puffed out a breath I’d been holding for two weeks. “I’m worried…”
“Worried about me?” she interrupted. The sting in her tone made me flinch.
“I know you can take care of yourself. I just meant…” Shit, but I made a hash out of this. “The truck. The dogs destroying the house…”
If we were still together, I’d take her hand in mine. I’d hold her and run my hands down her back and explain that I love her despite how I behaved.
But I didn’t want to use my love as a deflection.
It raised my hackles to think of Violet all alone. Love was the catch-all for everything I felt for Violet Ross.
I longed to kiss her? Love.
I wanted her naked in our bed? Love.
I pushed her away when I got too stuck in my head? Love.
I pulled back when I no longer deserved her? Love.
There was a time in my life where loving was easier. Those days were long gone now.
“Rowan, my sweet man, if anyone is worried here, it’s me.” Her blue eyes turned cold with tears, killing the humor she was going for. “I need to get inside.” Her voice was thick with hurt. It went straight to my chest, bringing with it all kinds of memories. Good ones. Bad ones, perfect ones, too. Like the first time I told her I loved her. The first time she said it back.
Violet walked away from me, but I wasn’t ready to let her go. I reached out for her, my hand wrapping around her arm. She stilled before turning to face me, letting me tug her closer. I held her to me, soaking in her warmth, her scent.
The storm in my head settled. It was magic. It was Violet. It was us. It smoothed the edges of my pain.
Desperate for more of her, I cupped her face, my fingers lingering there for too short a second.
“Rowan,” she pleaded. For me to let her go? For me to fight for her? I didn’t know.
That was the crux of it.
I didn’t know anything anymore. I was so fucking lost in my own mind. Give me two minutes, and I’d be snapping at her to give me some space. I was all jumbled up, like a puzzle strewn about a dump. My pieces wouldn’t fit together. Not anymore. Damaged, dirty, sullied.
What did I need? What did I want?
It was a fucking mystery.
“Violet.” Her name was a rough whisper – as broken as I was. I wrapped strands of her hair around my fingers, relishing the sensation of her silky tresses. She still wore my Eastwood Fire Department hat. She couldn’t be completely done with me. It had to mean something. “You can call me,” I murmured, the words rumbling out of me, caught somewhere between a plea and a suggestion. I brushed my lips against her forehead. “Anytime.”
Violet leaned into me and gripped handfuls of my sweatshirt. Her breath sawed out of her. She held on tight, anchoring us for beautiful, fragile, painful seconds. I wanted to apologize, explain, claw my way back to us. I inhaled, my head spinning for the right words.
She broke from my embrace and disappeared into the house without a backward glance. Picasso waited for me on the porch. I tricked him into the house, knowing I wouldn’t see Violet again. She would be pacing somewhere, no doubt cursing me for holding her.
I stood on the porch for a long time, imagining what our life could have been like. There was no direct path from here to there.
Back in my truck, I pulled my phone out, tapping the device against my leg as I tried to fixate on a single thought. I might not know what to do, but I had a vague starting point. I flipped through my contacts before finding the right name.
“Yo,” Bastian answered after a few rings.
“Hey, bud. Need to talk to you about something.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, apparently. Couldn’t text like a normal person?”
“How do you fix gouges in a wall?”
Bastian was quiet for a beat. “Did you… punch a wall?”
“The fuck?” I couldn’t blame him for thinking that. “Nah. I need to fix something Picasso did.”
“Come over to Élodie’s. We’ll talk.”
I clicked off the call and slid my phone back into my pocket. Breathing was a little easier now that I’d added another goal to my list of things to fix.
One fuckup at a time.
That was the new map.
8
Introducing Violent Rose
Violet
Glancing at the clock above the hallway mirror in the entryway, I swung my gym bag over my shoulder. Picasso padded over, head bowed low. He laid down in front of the door with a mournful and throaty plaint.
“Buddy,” I spoke softly, kneeling down to pet him. “I’m gonna be gone for a few hours at the very most, but Rowan is coming over to hang out with you. You like spending time with your dad.” Sensing free cuddles, Dali joined us. She bumped my hand, the universal signal for a good scratch behind the ears.
“You guys,” I sighed. “I know we’re not your actual parents. I also know you can’t fully comprehend, but I promise you. Rowan and I love you so much. Humans are idiots sometimes, okay? Your dad and I are King and Queen Dumb. If we could’ve gotten our shit together, you wouldn’t be hurting. If only I could crawl into his head and fix things. I’m sorry I can’t do that. He’ll be here soon, though. There’ll be playing and a long w-a-l-k.”
I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and snapped a picture of the furry pair. I sent it to Rowan with the caption: Your biggest fans can’t wait to see you.
It was a weird thing to do. Texting Rowan. I probably shouldn’t have done it. He might get the wrong idea.
Oh, who was I even kidding?
I would get the wrong idea. The only consolation — a tiny one — was that couples with kids needed to talk, no matter how bad things got between them.
One text message about the dogs was not a gateway back to Rowan Walker.
It was wholly for the sake of our dependents.
“Behave, you two,” I warned lovingly.
Picasso moved away from the door, but barely. Sensing his distress, Dali sidled up to him.
“See?” I forced some cheer. “You’ve got each other.”
Off in the distance, I heard, actually heard Penny driving up my long laneway. It was impossible not to. She listened to her music way too loud. I kissed the furbabies goodbye and locked the door behind me to a blaring tune streaming out from the bright turquoise crossover vehicle. With Pénélope behind the wheel, it fit that the brand of the car was a four-letter word.
“Allons-y, mademoiselle.” Penny wiggled her eyebrows and (thankfully) turned the volume down on the radio. The low thrum of whatever metal band was playing made my heart thump despite the decreased volume. “Are you ready to kick some serious ass?”
“Yup.” I threw my bag into the backseat before buckling up.
Pénélope snorted, her fingers tapping her steering wheel as she maneuvered the vehicle backward, foot to the floor. Noticing my clenched fists, Penny threw an accusing glance my way.
“You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re so convincing. J’te crois même pas,” she added in her native tongue.
“Which translates to…
She flipped me the bird with a good-humored chuckle. “French is one of two official languages in Canada. You really should learn a bit.”
“I know, I know. And if we had more French-speaking instructors, we wouldn’t be losing our clients to the gym in Saint-Canton.”
“Ding, ding, ding. I can teach you, though I’m not the greatest teacher.”
I scoffed. “Says the woman who spent the last month pleading with me to let her teach a yoga class.”
She waved me off, pulling an exceptionally dangerous maneuver to merge onto the highway. My stomach rolled, and I gripped the holy shit handle.
“You drive like a lunatic. I really wish you’d let me drive into Ottawa.”
“I’m a wonderful driver,” she argued. “You need to unclench that fine ass of yours.”
A peek at the speedometer told me that she was driving thirty kilometers over the speed limit. Penny also had a hard time using her signal lights.
“You’re tense.” She passed a little green car on the inside, earning her a loud honk from the driver.
I motioned to the road. “Can you blame me?”
“We’re literally on the way to a roller derby game where bloody noses and bruises are par for the course. Don’t be so precious.”
