Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Did you hear, Uncle Leon?” Josh tugs on my hand. “I have a cousin. Do you think he’ll play cops and robbers with me?”
I smile. “I’m sure he will.”
“Cool,” he says. “Now Violet should have a girl, then Josie can have a cousin too.”
That makes me laugh. “Zoe and Maxime’s baby is Josie’s cousin as well.”
“Yes, but he’s a boy.”
“Boys and girls can play together, can’t they?” I say.
“Some girls in my playgroup don’t like to play robbers.”
“And that’s perfectly fine,” Lina says. “There are other games you can play.”
I catch Violet’s gaze. When I married her, I didn’t have concrete plans of building a family or a home. I fantasized about it, but I just wanted her to be mine, to catch her before she could get away. I don’t expect anything from her, certainly not to let me plant my seed in her belly and make her grow big with my child. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have entertained throwing such an idea at her. But now, as I stare into her pretty, reserved eyes, I can’t help but look at her not only as my wife but also as the future mother of my child. And what reflects at me from the violet depths of those expressive pools isn’t acceptance. No, the idea of having my baby doesn’t appeal to her. What I see in her eyes is aversion.
CHAPTER 15
Violet
Families are enigmas. They’re made up of individuals who serve their own agendas. Homo sapiens pack life is filled with landmines. Living together means forever walking on egg shells. Lina and Damian’s family is the happiest one I’ve met. Then again, my experience is limited. My lack of friends doesn’t help. I haven’t spent time with families other than Aunt Ginger and my own, and Gus and my mom aren’t the best example of blissful happiness.
My classmates’ favorite nickname for me in primary school was bionic woman. Because of the teasing, I didn’t make friends. I retaliated by being closed off and unapproachable. My choice of defense was attack. I struck out before they could shoot me down, sparing myself from being repeatedly hurt by the insensitive remarks. My unlikeable character turned me into a loner and an outcast, and I ended up isolated.
As the saying goes, old habits die hard. Keeping everyone at a distance spilled over into high school. It was safer to protect myself than risk being the girl everyone made fun of, or worse, the girl everyone pitied. While other kids hung out at each other’s houses, I spent all my free time in my toxic environment. My drawings became my escape. In a way, they also became my prison. Instead of living in real life, I lived in my head. Instead of climbing that tree, I drew a picture of it.
I’m not sure where Leon and I fall on the family spectrum. We’re not my mom and Gus. My mom is too indifferent. We’re definitely not Lina and Damian. Can we ever be?
I contemplate the questions when I wake up on Monday morning, but I can’t think clearly. I’m still in that space of emotionlessness, my feelings dulled. Leon is trying hard. He brought me flowers and chocolates. He kissed me gently. Even now as I blink sleep from my eyes, the smell of bacon and coffee comes from downstairs. He’s making breakfast.
He didn’t leave money.
A part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and let him break through my defenses and demolish this wall of nothingness that rose overnight around my heart, but another part of me, the part that has been conditioned in childhood, is scared. I’m terrified of giving in to flowers and kisses, only to be kicked to the ground again. It’s not easy making myself vulnerable.
After a quick shower, I pull on a dress. Jeans still bother my new tattoo too much. I apply minimal make-up and brush my hair before going downstairs. Leon stands in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of sweatpants. The pants ride low on his hips, exposing his lean waist and powerful back and shoulders. His wet hair tells me he swam after working out. Maybe he rinsed down in the outdoor shower.
I enter the kitchen cautiously, treading through those all too familiar landmines.
Flipping a pancake, he says from over his shoulder, “The eggs and coffee are ready. Grab a seat.”
How did he even know I entered the kitchen? My feet are bare. He couldn’t have heard me. I sit down at the table, balancing on the chair as he slides a fluffy pancake onto my plate.
“Morning,” he says with a crooked smile, leaning down and pressing his lips on mine.
Before I have time to process the kiss, he returns the pan to the stove and serves me scrambled eggs from a second pan.