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  I steal a glance over at him. He’s watching me. When my eyes meet his, he winks and rubs the back of my shoulder with his thumb. And for the first time since all this began, I realize that, as much as I’ve tried to avoid it and outsmart it, I’ve still managed to get myself into trouble. With an addict. A hot rocker who has an impulse control problem and a small portion of the world at his feet.

  But I feel something more in him. I feel the soul of someone better, someone who wants to be better. And I feel hope. Whether mine or his, I feel it. And maybe that’s the reason I can’t walk away.

  Maybe . . .

  Throughout the entire meeting, Jet teases my shoulder and my neck and my hair. With the tips of his fingers, he pulls every ounce of my focus toward him. Inescapably. In a room full of sex addicts, I can think of nothing more than what Jet’s fingers would feel like on my naked skin, in a dark room, with no one around but us.

  My cheeks are warm and flushed by the time Lyle breaks. I stand, ready to excuse myself to the restroom, when Jet takes my arm. He holds me still and studies my face as I look at him. In the harsh overhead lights, I see his pupils dilate and I know he knows why I’m excusing myself.

  He leans closer to me, so close I can feel his breath, but not so close that I can no longer see his eyes. I see the bright white flecks that shoot out from his pupils like starbursts.

  He speaks to me, so softly only I can hear. “You know I can take care of that for you. Only you. You have my word.”

  I feel short of breath. He doesn’t have to explain further what he means because I already know. I know exactly what he means. And I want to say yes. More than I’ve ever wanted to say yes to anything.

  The muted ring of my phone shatters the moment, giving me a reprieve I know I need, but I’m not sure I want.

  “Crap! I forgot to turn off my ringer,” I say, pulling away from his eyes and searching for my phone. When I find it and take it out, my heart sinks at the number displayed on it.

  “Hi, Stan,” I answer, much more brightly than I feel.

  “Looks like Thursdays just aren’t his night, Violet. He’s out early again.”

  I smother a sigh. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Take your time. He’s not bothering anybody yet.”

  Yet, I think with dread. That must mean he’s having a rough go of it tonight.

  I hit end and throw my phone back in my purse. Tia speaks from behind me. “Your dad?”

  “Close enough. It was Stan.” I meet Jet’s eyes again. “I need to go.”

  “Wait. What about me?” Tia says, coming around in front of me. “I had Dennis drop me off, remember?”

  “Crap!” I say again, feeling my level of frustration escalate. This night has not turned out at all the way I’d hoped.

  “What’s the problem?” Jet asks.

  I feel embarrassment well up inside me. I know I shouldn’t. It’s not my problem; it’s my father’s. But still . . . it’s kind of humiliating.

  “It’s, uh, it’s my dad. I need to go pick him up.”

  “Well, why don’t you let Tia take your car? I can take you to get your father and then we can pick it up later.”

  I’m torn between that awww feeling that comes from an unexpectedly kind offer and stuttering over an excuse to get out of it.

  “Well, he, um, there’s not really . . . I mean, I . . .”

  “Stop trying to make excuses. Tia,” he says, handing her his keys, “you can take my car to your house. I’ll pick it up later. I’ll go with Violet.”

  I want to ask why he doesn’t just offer to give Tia a ride home, but I already know the answer. And by the smile she’s wearing, so does Tia.

  She snatches the keys from Jet’s fingers, glancing down at the key ring. “BMW? Nice,” she appreciates with a grin.

  “Please don’t make me regret trusting you,” Jet adds as Tia bolts past him.

  “I won’t. You two have fun.” And with that, she’s gone in a blur.

  “You really didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  His smile is sincere. “I know. But I don’t mind helping you. It’s the least I can do.”

  Something about his face tells me he’s being truthful.

  I sigh. “Well, then I should probably tell you that my father’s at a bar. Drunk.”

  Jet dismisses my concerns with a wave of his hand. “Do you remember what my band is like? Do you know how many of these calls I’ve gotten? And how many of them have been placed on my behalf?” He laughs, taking me by the hand and leading me to the door. “There might not be a person alive who’s better equipped to help him than me.”

  I smile, feeling better about the evening already.

  TWENTY-FOUR: Jet

  When we reach our destination, we’re at an old-people hangout called the Teak Tavern. I’ve been in it once or twice years ago. To me, it’s always seemed like a place where dreams and men go to die. It’s a shame this is where Violet’s dad comes. It tells me all I need to know about the situation.

  I open the door for Violet and let her precede me. I see the bartender glance up and smile. And not just any smile. It’s a look I recognize. One that pisses me off a little.

  I lean forward just enough to speak into Violet’s ear. “He looks like he wants to take you to the beer cooler and show you his longneck bottle collection.”

  Violet glances at me over her shoulder and giggles. “Stop!”

  “Just sayin’,” I tell her as we start across the room toward a guy laid out in a corner booth. As we get closer, I recognize him as the man I met at my father’s house. Violet’s dad.

  She bends to gently tap his leg. “Dad, you ready to go home?”

  He rolls his head to one side and murmurs something. Even though I don’t know him, I can tell that his tone is sharp. It seems like he might be a mean drunk.

  “Come on, Dad,” Violet urges quietly, her voice calm and even. “Let’s get you home. You have work tomorrow.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” he moans hatefully. “Why should I work and keep a house waiting for her if she’s never coming home?”

  Violet glances at me and quickly away, like she’s embarrassed. “You keep your house for you, Dad, not for her.”

  “No, it’s all for her. She’s all I ever wanted. And she’s gone. How am I supposed to live without her?”

  “You’ve been doing just fine without her, Dad.”

  Violet’s father struggles to sit up, his face contorted in an angry scowl. “How would you know? You’re too cold to fall in love. You have no idea what this feels like.”

  His expression crumbles into one where his chin is trembling and he’s fighting tears.

  “I love you, Dad. Isn’t that enough?”

  “You must not love me that much. You left me just like she did.”

  Violet sighs. “I didn’t leave you. I moved a couple of miles away.”

  “You abandoned me, just like she did. If you ever cared one bit about me, you wouldn’t have left. You knew how lonely I’d be. But you left anyway.”

  “I’ll come by more often, Dad. And I’ll stay tonight so I can make you breakfast in the morning. I’ll make all your favorites.”

  Like an overgrown kid, Violet’s dad looks up at her with hopeful, watery eyes. “You promise?” he slurs.

  “I promise.”

  “And you’ll come this weekend for supper?”

  “I’ll come for supper, too.”

  Her father scoots to the end of the booth and reaches for her hand, now all sappy and sweet. “You know I love you, right, Vi?”

  Violet’s voice is as soft as her expression. “Of course I do, Dad.”

  He holds her hand to his cheek and then comes to a shaky stand. When he’s wobbling unsteadily in front of her, he looks at me, as though he just now noticed that Violet isn’t alone.

  “Where do I know you from?”

  “You do some work at my father’s place.”

  His eyes are blank for several s
econds before it clicks. I see the change instantly. “Oh, right. Beautiful place you’ve got there.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m thinking of planting some azaleas along that fence toward the back of the property.”

  “That’ll look great, sir.”

  He reaches up to clap me on the back, and I ease him toward the door as he chatters. “Needs some color back there. And they’ll be green all winter. Perfect for detracting from that house behind you.”

  I nod and agree with everything he says, steadily getting closer to the door. He stumbles once and grabs onto me. He’s a hefty guy, but I still catch him easily. The thing is, I bet he’s hard as hell for Violet to handle. I glance back at her. She’s walking behind us, just watching and listening, her expression clouded and unreadable.

  I realize two things as I make my way to Violet’s car, towing her dad along. Number one, I see why she parked near the front door. And number two, she’s a saint. And if she’s not, she’s got the patience of a saint.

  He nearly falls twice. Once while attempting to bend and speak to someone we pass, and a second time at the curb. I feel more sympathy for Violet with every minute that passes.

  When I have him tucked into Violet’s passenger seat, I climb into the backseat. She’s already inside. I can see her watching me through the rearview mirror, her expression still visibly unsettled. She says nothing on the way to her father’s house, so I don’t either. He fell asleep within a minute or two of getting on the road. I figure she’s trying not to wake him.

  She turns onto a quiet street lined with small, square brick houses and drives all the way to the end. At the bend of the cul-de-sac, she pulls into a driveway and cuts the engine. Without a word, I get out and open the passenger door, ready to help her dad out.

  “Wait until I can get the door open, then bring him,” she instructs. I nod, watching her scramble up the cracked sidewalk to the plain white front door.

  She digs something out of a bush (a spare key, I presume) before she opens the door, cuts on a light, and then hurries back down the walk to the car. “Dad, we’re home,” she says, jostling his shoulder to stir him. He doesn’t even break stride in his snoring. “Dad,” she whispers more sharply. More snoring. “Dad, wake up. You need to come inside.” Violet shakes his arm again, a little harder this time, but he just snores that much louder. Finally she turns to me, the pink spots on her cheeks visible even in the low light from the streetlamp that sits at the curb two houses down. “Guess he’ll be sleeping out here tonight.” Her smile says she’s not happy about it, but that it’s nothing new. And I hate it for her. I hate that this is what her life has been filled with for who knows how long now.

  “Do you mind?” I ask as I nod toward him.

  “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. He’ll be fine out here. It’s not supposed to be very cold tonight.”

  “I can get him inside. Just back up.” Her mouth opens and she starts to argue. I put my finger over them. “Not a word,” I tell her. “Let me help you.”

  I see both the gratitude and the humiliation in her eyes. But she gives in, taking a few steps back and gesturing for me to have at it.

  I grab her father’s legs and turn him in the seat, setting his feet out of the car and onto the ground. I take one of his arms and pull his upper body forward, enough so that I can get my shoulder into the meat of his belly. I pull on him and lean back to stand at the same time, hauling him up in a modified fireman’s carry.

  I hear his grunt when the pressure hits his stomach. I just stay still until he can adjust. When I hear his breathing return to that deep, even cadence it had before, I walk slowly up the walk, carrying him through the front door and into the small living room. I turn to get further direction from Violet. She’s right on my heels, scrambling to shut the door and then get ahead of me. She leads me down a short hall to another small room. A bedroom this time, one dominated by a queen-sized bed and a dresser that sits against one wall under a window. She pulls back the covers and pats the mattress. I bend, gently depositing her father a few inches from the edge. I hold on to his hand as I move away so that he doesn’t flop back before Violet can get his shoes off.

  Once they’re tossed onto the floor, I ease him down on his back and then pick up his legs and put them up on the bed, straight out from his body while Violet adjusts his pillow then tugs the covers up over him.

  Quietly, we make our way out of the room. I hear her sigh as soon as she shuts the door behind us. She doesn’t look at me, but keeps her eyes facing forward as she leads me back out into the living room.

  Finally, nervously, she turns and asks, “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Violet,” I begin.

  She hikes a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the kitchen. “There’s beer or soda. Or water, if you’d rather have that.”

  “Violet,” I begin again.

  “Or if you’re hungry, I’m sure there are still some snacks in there. Or I could fix you something.”

  “Violet!” I say more sternly, taking hold of her shoulders. She stops and stares up at me with her wide, innocent eyes.

  “What?”

  “Stop. I don’t need anything. I don’t need you to take care of me. Why don’t you sit down and let me get you something to drink, okay?”

  “It’s no trouble. I can—”

  “Violet, sit. And that’s not a request,” I say as gently as I can.

  Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t look mad. Just surprised.

  “You don’t know where anything is,” she argues.

  “I’ll find it. Now sit,” I repeat, pointing toward the sagging old sofa.

  I make my way through the house into the galley-style kitchen. I find glasses and the fridge easily enough, of course. There’s a case of Sprite in the bottom of the pantry, so I take a can and crack it open. I open the freezer for ice and find a bottle of vodka stuffed in on its side by the frozen dinners. I get some ice for each glass, add a splash of vodka, and fill the rest with Sprite. I figure Violet could use a little calming, whether she knows it or not.

  I carry the glasses into the living room, cutting off the kitchen light with my elbow. Violet is sitting on the couch, her bent arm on the back of the cushion, her head resting in her palm. When she looks up at me, I notice that she seems tired. More so than she had at the meeting.

  I sit beside her, handing her a drink. “This has just enough of a kick to relax you.”

  She sniffs the glass and then frowns. “Thanks, but I don’t need anything.”

  “Maybe not, but trust me, you look like you could use it.”

  “Are you saying I look bad?”

  I give her a derisive smirk. “You could never look bad. I just mean you look tired. This will help you relax and sleep.”

  “But I don’t want anything to help me relax.”

  “You don’t have to forego every little thing in life, on the off chance you could get addicted, Violet. For most people, it doesn’t work that way. One drink, one time isn’t going to kill you.”

  “I know that. It’s the circumstances. If I just wanted one that would be different. I don’t want to need one. Becoming dependent on it is the problem.”

  “So you steer clear of everything that you feel like you need?”

  “Of course not. I mean, there are necessities in life. But there’s a danger in wanting something too much or liking it so much you feel like you need it.”

  “Is that what happened to bring you to the meetings?”

  Her expression totally shuts down. “I’d rather not talk about that right now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fair enough,” I say agreeably, taking a sip of my own drink.

  After a long, tense silence, Violet speaks. “Thank you for tonight.”

  “Nothing to it. No thanks necessary.”

  “You were really good with him.”

  “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  She smiles. “Sometimes
it works better than others.”

  “Was tonight a bad night?”

  “No. He settled down pretty easily. This has been a great night compared to some.”

  “How often do you have to do this?”

  “Now? Maybe a couple of times a month. Thursdays seem to be his magical night these days.”

  “Is that because you are gone to meetings on Thursday nights?”

  Violet shoots me a strange look. “You know, I haven’t thought of it that way, but I guess it could be. I’ve only been attending these for a few weeks.”

  “Where did you go before?” She gives me a withering look, and I put up my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Retracted.”

  “I thought it would get easier for him, but sometimes I think he’ll never get over her.”

  “Is that why he drinks?”

  “It’s why he drinks in excess. He never went on benders when she was here. He just can’t handle life without her sometimes.”

  I finally realize what I see on her face. It’s pity. And frustration. And disgust. “You think he’s weak.”

  “What?”

  “I just realized that you think addiction makes you weak. You think that having a weakness makes you weak.” For some reason, I’m stung by this insight into her.

  “I . . . I . . .” she stammers, her expression that of a cornered animal.

  “Is that how you see me? Like I’m some kind of weak person who can’t control himself?”

  Her cheeks burn bright pink and her mouth opens and closes around words she can’t say. Because any explanation she gives won’t be true.

  “Having a weakness doesn’t mean a person is weak. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

  “It’s not . . . I just . . .”

  I stand, feeling increasingly pissed off and knowing there’s not a good, rational reason to be. I just am.

  “You know, Violet,” I say, setting my glass down on a coaster on the banged-up coffee table, “maybe one day you’ll come across someone or something that will make you see the difference.”