There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(19)
Author: M. Leighton

“That’s an awfully jaded viewpoint, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “Maybe. But it’s true, jaded or not.”

“And just what are you hiding?”

I don’t respond. I just watch her. Obviously, I can’t tell her my biggest secret. She’d be out the door in two seconds flat. “Ask me anything,” I respond.

“I just did.”

I grin, nodding at her quick mind. “Ask me anything specific.”

She narrows her eyes on me like she’s debating how ruthless to be. I’m not sure what to think of where she starts. I don’t know what that says about her, but I like the fact that she seems to want to get to know me. Even though I shouldn’t, I like it a lot.

“What’s it like living in that big, beautiful house?”

“I wouldn’t know. My father lives there. I don’t.”

“You didn’t grow up there?”

“Hell no! My father and his new wife moved in there a few years ago.”

“Ohhh. You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“I’m not. He cheated on my mom at least a dozen times. But this last one had money, so he decided he’d keep her around. Instead of his real family, of course.”

Violet’s eyes are full of sympathy when she reaches across the table to wind her fingers around mine. “I’m sorry I brought it up. We can talk about something else.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m more mad about it than anything.”

“I don’t suppose I need to ask why.”

“Probably not. I’d say half the country can relate to the whole thing. He married the perfect woman, one who worshipped the ground he walked on, gave him three healthy kids, took care of his house, cooked his meals, and treated him like a king. But it was just never enough. He couldn’t seem to stop his wandering eye. Just couldn’t say no.”

“Do you blame him for your problem?” she asks.

At first, I’m confused. I want to ask her, What problem? But then I remember.

I can’t keep the sneer out of my voice. “I’m nothing like him.”

Violet is perceptive enough to know when to stop, so she does. “Oh, okay.”

I wait several seconds before continuing. I don’t owe her any explanations, but I feel the need to give her one anyway. It bothers me that she’d even suggest such a thing—that I might resemble my father in any way.

“My father hurt people with his ways.”

“But you don’t.” It’s not a question, but it feels like one.

“No, I don’t.”

She’s tentative when she asks, like she knows I’m sensitive and she’s trying to be as gentle as possible, “What about your mother? Does it hurt her?”

Violet is tweaking the only real raw nerve that I have—my conscience. And, even though I’m trying not to let it bother me, it’s still pissing me off.

“What I do is none of her business,” I reply firmly.

“Then I’m sure she’s fine with it,” Violet replies.

She glances down at her coffee and leaves me to think. Her words say one thing, but her tone says something else.

“Why should she not be?”

Why can’t I let this go?

Violet shrugs. “Well, if she sees you following in his footsteps, I could see how it would bother her. Or hurt her.”

“For one thing, I’m not following in his footsteps, but even if I was, I’m not doing it to her.”

“But you’re her child. I’m sure she would want more for you. It might hurt her to think of you ending up like him. Or for your children to end up feeling like you do. It’s a vicious cycle, and I’m sure she knows that.”

My smile is tight when I say, “Damn. I didn’t realize I’d get coffee and therapy.”

She has the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

“And what occupation is that?” I ask, more eager at the moment to get the focus off me than anything.

“Social worker. Not that we do therapy. I just hear a lot and see a lot. A lot,” she finishes.

“I bet you do. So tell me about the background of a social worker. What was your perfect childhood like?”

To end up with a sexual addiction, it must have been a bitch.

Suddenly, Violet seems inordinately interested in her napkin. “I’ve been surrounded by addiction in one form or another my whole life. My mother is a rock band groupie. She has all the habits to go along with the lifestyle. She couldn’t even stop using drugs and drinking long enough to carry my younger sister to term. Marlene was born with a heart defect. She died at sixteen months. Mom just couldn’t make the transition to settled life. She’d disappear for months at a time then show back up like nothing happened. Until four years ago. She left and never came back.”

Now I feel like a dick. “Violet, I shouldn’t have—”

She holds up her hand. “No, it’s fine. It’s no secret. I’m used to it. My father has a drinking problem. Both my aunts have substance abuse problems. My cousin is addicted to painkillers and men. Even my best friend has a pretty significant impulse control problem. I guess I learned at an early age to look beyond the surface, to look for the reasons and the causes, to try and figure out why so I could help fix it. But I shouldn’t have done that to you. Your reasons and causes are none of my business. I’m very sorry.”

“Violet, please. Don’t be. I was an ass**le, and you didn’t deserve that.”

“I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s fine. And the reason I reacted the way I did is because you were right. It does hurt my mother. And I feel like shit about it.” I take a deep breath and lean back against the cool wood of the booth. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I guess I just like to get lost in things that feel good. That take me away from everything that sucks. Maybe that’s the real weakness my father left me—that I can’t face the hard stuff in life. That I’ll find something to drown it in—a bottle, a woman, a song.”

Every word that’s coming out of my mouth feels like it’s being dragged out from under a mountain of repressed emotional baggage. And it disturbs the piss out of me to know that every word of it is true.

“Nobody likes the hard stuff. We all cope in different ways, some good and some bad. The trick is to do something about the bad ones once you recognize them.”