“Well don’t you look beautiful,” he says, his eyes scroll over my outfit and I feel myself let a relieved breath out of my lips. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding it.

“Thanks. I do try my best.” I swish the skirt a little as I make my way across the living room and to the kitchen. I pull out a barstool and take a seat, propping my feet up on the bottom bar.

Preston’s wearing a plaid shirt that’s unbuttoned and shows a series of tribal tattoos on his chest and ribs. His sandy blond hair is a little long, running down to the bottom of his chin and he has a five o’clock shadow, but he usually does. His jeans are missing a button so I can see the top of his striped boxers and when he steps back from the counter, I notice he’s barefoot.

“Wow, you sure dressed up tonight,” I joke, folding my arms on top of the counter. “Aren’t you throwing a party or something? You usually do on the weekends.”

He glances at me as he puts the cigarette into his mouth. “Not tonight,” he says, smoke snaking from his lips. “I’m getting a little tired of people at the moment.”

“Getting too old for those crazy kid parties, huh?” I tease, then zip my lips together when he glares at me.

He grazes his thumb across the end of the cigarette, holding it over a coffee mug, and spills the ashes inside it. “I’m not that much older than you, Violet.”

“You’re ten years my senior,” I argue in a playful tone. “Which does make you old.”

“Eight years your senior,” he corrects. “I’m only twenty-seven… don’t be adding years on me.”

I shoot a conniving grin at him. “When you get that old, does it really even matter anymore if I add a year or two?”

He shakes his head with forced annoyance as he extends his arm over the counter and grabs the ashtray next to my elbow. He puts his cigarette out in it, then his hand moves for the front pocket in his shirt. “So I’m going to have you stick to herb tonight,” he says, taking out a small baggie of weed out of his pocket. He tosses it down on the counter in front of me, getting down to business. “And I heard that the cops were going to be out a little heavier around town, so be careful.”

“How do you know that?” I ask. “Is your friend Glen tipping you off again? He’s such a dirty copper.”

“ ‘Dirty copper’?” He chuckles under his breath. “I think you’ve been watching a little too many cop shows, Violet. No one talks like that.”

“I don’t watch cop shows,” I lie, tracing one of the many cracks on the countertop. “I read that expression in a book.”

“What era does the book take place in? 1930?”

“No, 2012.”

“You’re such a liar,” he says, crossing his arms as he slumps back against the counter. “You seriously are the worst I know and one day it’s going to get you into trouble.”

“I don’t lie all the time.” I pick up the bag of weed. “I just make things colorful when they’re gray.”

“You are the most entertaining girl I know, Violet Ha…” He trails off, probably remembering the one and only time I yelled at him—when he called me by my last name.

I quickly change the subject before it can get to me. “So, are you going to let me crash here for the summer or what?”

A flirtatious smirk curves across his face. “You know you’re always welcome here. I’ll even share my bed with you.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take my old room.”

“What? I’m not good enough to share a bed with?”

“No, I’m sure you are, but you know I don’t share a bed with anyone.”

He leans over the counter. “I know and I’d really like to know why.”

I give a one-shoulder shrug. “For the same reason I don’t share anything else. Because I don’t like people touching my stuff.” That’s not entirely true. I used to hate sleeping alone—being alone in general.

After I found my parents murdered, I stayed in the house with them for twenty-fours hours, and it was the longest twenty-four hours of my existence. The longer I stayed in the house with the bodies the farther I sank into the loneliness and myself. I kept telling myself to get up, but I knew once I did that it’d be over. That I’d have to say good-bye. Finally the silence broke me down, though, and I had to move.

I didn’t cry right away after the funerals. It’d taken a few days and then I couldn’t stop. It went on forever and I just wanted someone to comfort me. And I hated sleeping alone with the nightmares filled with loneliness. I tried to get someone to hold me, hug me, help me not feel so alone, but in the end, no one wanted the job. And finally I decided not to be so weak. I made myself be strong. Be okay with being alone. Be okay with only having myself.

“Earth to Violet.” Preston waves his hand in front of my face. “You’re spacing off on me.”

“Sorry.” I go to put the bag of weed in my pocket, but realize I forgot my jacket. “Shit, I don’t have any effin pockets in this dress.”

Preston cocks his head to the side and strands of his hair fall into his liquid blue eyes. “Personally I like the dress…” He looks me over and I try not to let his penetrating gaze make me uncomfortable, but it kind of does. “I have an idea.” He rubs his scruffy jawline as he winds around the counter and I turn in the barstool to face him. He sticks his hand out. “Give me the bag.”

I drop it in his hand and he folds his fingers around it and reaches for my chest. I flinch, but don’t say anything, focusing instead on keep my breathing even as his hand brushes the top of the dress.

“You’re not wearing a bra.” He bites his lip, his hand lingering on my chest for a moment, then he moves it toward my hip, reaching around to my back where the dress opens up and my bare skin shows. He barely slips his fingers underneath the fabric and then tucks the bag just beneath the waistband of my thong, my skin blazing with heat at the contact of his fingers. It’s not like I’m innocent. Guys have groped me and I let their hands wander wherever they want as long as it’s nothing more than business. It’s easy to ignore everything when they’re just a face, think of something else, like how much laundry I have to do. But if there’s the slightest spark of emotion then I push away.

The idea of connecting with someone emotionally and intimately never has appealed to me. Emotions haven’t in general. They serve no point other than to lead to disappointment when you realize you’re feeling something for someone who doesn’t reciprocate. Preston knows this about me and it makes me sort of question why he would touch me like this. He can joke with me all he wants, but touching is off limits with people I have some sort of relationship with whether it be foster dad or friend, whichever he is to me… it sometimes gets confusing.

I’m battling to get oxygen into my lungs without gasping as my head swirls with confusion and the urge to ram my fist into his jaw.

“Just don’t get too crazy with your dance moves,” he says, withdrawing his hand and winking at me. Then he circles the corner of the kitchen counter. “There’s a party in Fairtown,” he tells me, carrying on the conversation as if nothing happened as he digs through his cupboards for something. “You should hit it up. That town’s full of potheads.”

I swallow the anger down and force my voice to come out as upbeat as a cheerleader on crack. “Okay, sounds good.” With my back turned to him, I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself that he’s all I got and when faced with the choice of being entirely alone or taking this, I choose this.

Luke

I have a beer in my hand and a few shots in my system, building my safety net for the night. Without them, I’d feel like I was helplessly falling nowhere. I know it’s a dangerous road I’m headed down, especially because I’m a diabetic. There have been a few instances where I pushed my body’s limits and doctors have told me that if I don’t stop, I could end up dead. The problem is that living without alcohol is a life I can’t live.