by Daya Daniels
Maira sighed. “It’s cold outside you boys.”
“Oh Maira, let them go.” Peter whispered with an exhausted breath.
“It isn’t!” The two of them whined in unison.
Peter and Maira slipped into friendly bicker about the likelihood of the boys catching a cold from being outside in the wintry temperatures. I relaxed against the back of my chair and giggled at the lively interactions going on around me. Elijah groaned something to himself about them giving him a headache but all I could think about was how wonderful this all was, having everyone together. We talked. We ate together and we laughed. At one point Maira began to cry when she talked about the day Elijah left to go off to college, which was sweet.
“Stop staring at her!” Kieran scolded Rory.
Elijah laughed.
“I’m not staring.” Rory mumbled.
“Yes, you are, perv.” Kieran teased.
“Hey you guys stop! Your uncle has a guest.” Asher said.
“He thinks you’re hot, Violet.” Kieran teased.
“Stop Kieran, seriously before I punch you.” Rory barked.
“Hey, hey!” Peter shouted, calming the two of them down.
“Oh, my God.” Elijah whispered. “Do you want another beer?” He asked me.
“No, thanks.” I told him.
I knew what I did want.
“What then?” Elijah asked softly.
I grinned. “It’s nothing.”
“Come on, tell me baby.”
“Baby?” I questioned with the quirk of my brow with a blush.
“Yes.”
“What are you two lovebirds over there whispering to each other?” Asher slurred out.
“Make that your last one, Asher.” Elijah growled,
“I’m not driving!” Asher belted out. “Mom is.”
“God, I can’t stand that guy sometimes.” Elijah muttered.
“I’d be taller than Dylan now!” Rory shouted.
“No, you wouldn’t.” Kieran said.
“Boys, please.” Peter said standing, his voice passing over my head in a growl.
“Dad, it’s fine.” Elijah said in a whisper.
I had a sneaking suspicion that no one talked about Dylan but from the stories I’d heard he was a great kid.
I remained silent, while Elijah took a few deep breaths and began to speak. “You know what you guys.” He said with a hint of a smile in his voice. “I bet the three of you would be the exact same height by now.”
And like clockwork Maira began to sob.
“Fuck.” Peter hissed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Violet
“Violet, please let me explain.” Jonathan rattled out through the phone.
“You’re fired!” I yelled, tossing the receiver across the kitchen of my loft. The sound of shattering glass followed swiftly behind it.
Brooke screamed right before she grappled with me, attempting to pull the receiver from my hands.
“Jonathan, please let me call you back.” She shrieked, into the other cordless phone she’d found. She heaved for breaths, after she hung up.
I sensed her anger but it was something I really could give two less fucks about. I’d had enough of Jonathan.
“Brooke this is the last time.” I warned when I stomped towards her voice.
“Violet, stop!” She snapped.
“Jonathan is fired.” I said with finality.
“You have a contract with him, Violet. If you sever ties with him now, he will sue. And I need him! What is it that you don’t understand?”
“If I’m within two feet him of him Brooke, I swear I’ll stab him. He does not control the scope and timeline of my work.”
“Fuck, Violet!” She yelled. “I told you not to do this and you did it anyway.”
“He’s a leach Brooke and I refuse to pay him anymore. We can find someone else.”
“There is no one else, Violet! He was it and now you’ve just pissed him off as well as piled more work on top of me. I’m barely staying afloat now. I needed him.”
“We don’t need him, Brooke. We -.”
“Violet.” She said softly.
“What?” I snapped, clearing a few strands of hair away from my face.
The air was thick, full of tension and emotion. Brooke was my everything and she’d always been. We were sisters.
I started to speak again before she interrupted.
“Violet.”
“Brooke, I -.”
“I quit.” She said firmly.
“What?”
“I said, I quit.”
I stifled a snicker at her joke and folded my arms across my chest.
“I quit, Violet. I can’t do this anymore with you. I’m tired of doing this. You don’t listen. You do whatever the fuck you want.” She said, slamming something down. “I’m sick of your temper tantrums, your violence, your epic meltdowns. You don’t appreciate me – when have you ever?” She laughed but it was a mirthless one. A laugh that told me her fists were likely balled up and her jaw was tight.
“Brooke, please.” I pleaded, feeling nearly compelled to explain.
“I spend so much time taking care of you and your needs that my own Goddamn life gets neglected.”
“Brooke.”
“No, Violet. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Brooke.” I said softly, feeling panic rising up in my throat.
“You know why you can’t love, Violet. It’s because you’re a jerk. You care nothing about the feelings of others, only your own. You think the whole world owes you something and that being blind somehow entitles you to treat other people like shit. The world doesn’t owe you anything, Violet.”
“I never said it did.” I said raising my voice.
“It’s just everything. I can’t live my fucking life taking care of you, Violet. I’ve always taken care of you! Don’t you think sometimes I want to be free of you and your problems? I’ve been dealing with them all my life!”
My eyes welled with tears that I desperately struggled to keep from spilling.
“I want to have a life and a husband and children of my own!”
I’d always felt like a burden to Brooke. At least now, she’d had the courage to say it aloud.
“Well go and do that, Brooke!” I yelled.
“I can’t, Violet. It’s like you are my child! I don’t have space in my life for any more of them!” She laughed.
“I’m not your fucking child.” I said firmly, gritting my teeth.
“Yesterday was my birthday.”
Fuck.
I sucked in a harsh breath, realizing that I’d forgotten about it completely. “I’m sorry, Brooke. I’ve been busy in the studio and spending so much time with Elijah.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“No. I’m done.”
“I just said I’d fucking make it up to you!” I roared, feeling my cheeks heat.
It was silent before she took a few deep breaths. “I’m not dealing with this shit. It’s only a matter of time before Elijah leaves you too if you keep alll this shit up.”
“Fuck you.” I spat out.
Her heels clattered loudly against the wooden floors until the sound dissipated and I knew she was nearly gone.
“Let me remind you that the millions of dollars that you now have are courtesy of my work! That apartment you own, I bought it! The car you drive. I bought that too! How dare you, Brooke!” I screamed and then the door slammed.
“Yeah go and leave just like everyone else.” I mumbled, plopping down on the floor.
I knew she wasn’t coming back.
Elijah
“Michael, how are you?”
“I’m okay, Dr. Griffon. Well, maybe not.” He chuckled.
“Have you been eating?”
Michael Reese was twenty-six years old. He had a host of conditions. He suffered from anorexia nervosa, generalized anxiety disorder an
d from depression.
“Yes, I try to as consistently as I can but then I have my periods where I just can’t.”
Michael weighed a little over one hundred and four pounds now. He was still underweight for his six-foot frame but we had made significant progress over the last six months.
“Is your father speaking to you now? How is the relationship going?”
His father has also cut him off financially two years ago after he admitted to him that he was homosexual. After that, his anorexia and anxiety issues became worse and he began to slip into a depression.
“A little. He calls me sometimes.” He laughed. “Which is probably too much.”
He also had a sense of humor, which made our conversations interesting.
“I was reading this article this morning.” He said. “About Prozac. It wasn’t good.” Michael chuckled.
“Okay.”
“Does it help? What is it exactly? I mean I know I’m taking it but I have absolutely no idea what it is.” He laughed.
In my opinion it did help him. He was gaining weight steadily and his mood had drastically improved.
“The other name for Prozac is Fluoxetine. It’s in a class of drugs called selective serotonin uptake inhibitors (SSRIs). These drugs increase serotonin levels, a brain chemical connected to mood.
“Medication can’t cure an eating disorder if that’s what you’re asking me but they can help to manage excessive preoccupations with food and diet. Anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications may also help with symptoms of depression or anxiety, which are frequently associated with eating disorders.
“You’ve done well on the drug, Michael. I wouldn’t recommend you stop taking it.”
“Okay, Dr. Griffon.” He paused. “Did you watch the game the other night? The Yankees are on top as always.”
“I missed it actually. I was a little busy but I’ll catch the replay tonight for sure.” I told him, before hanging up.
After spending the last few hours on the phone, it was five o’clock and I knew Violet would be here soon. Tonight, we were eating finger food. I had made meatballs and picked up crab wontons from P.F Chang’s. They were her both her favorite.
I thought about the call I’d just had this evening with my last patient Cameron who was an amateur skateboarder. Much of the time he was calm but occasionally he suffered from manic episodes that were a result of his bipolar disorder. I thought about how far Cameron had come but he seemed to be slipping backwards. I’d be monitoring him closely and had increased our one session per week to three.
I squeezed the small stress ball in my right hand and stared out the window, while my thoughts shifted to Dylan again.
“Dad, can we go to Nitrocircus this summer?”
I look up from the screen of my laptop, while I sit in a chair in the den with my feet up.
Dylan’s a huge fan of Travis Pastrana. He’d spend hours watching his stunts on TV. Pastrana is a well -known motorcross competitor and extreme stunt performer. He had jumped out of an airplane once without a parachute and somehow managed not to die.
“Where will it be?”
“Moda Center in Portland.”
“And the date?” I ask, taking my glasses off.
“February 17th, three months from now.” He sing-songs doing a fist pump in the air.
I laugh at his excitement.
He straps on his helmet and grabs the skateboard from off the floor.
“Later, Dad.”
I peer out the window from my office to see Dylan outside in the driveway doing ollies and indie grabs. I smile when I realize how good at it he is. He steadies himself on the skateboard using his foot to gain speed and then would do a jump, where the front wheels of the skateboard would leave the ground first. There’d be a snap of the tail from the backfoot and then he’d slide his front foot forward causing the board to tile.
It’s incredible watching him in his element.
The sight of a black SUV pulling into my driveway propelled me to stand. I spotted a man I’ve never seen before escorting Violet out of the vehicle and towards the house. I snatched the newspaper up and bounded down the stairs to let her in. I pressed a kiss to her cool lips. She doesn’t speak, only ambled towards the den without saying a word and plopped down on the sofa.
“Davi.” The man said extending his hand in introduction. “I’m a-a Violet’s new driver.”
I stood a little surprised but gave him a nod and a handshake, certain confusion was still written all over my face.
“Okay, Violet. I will be out.” Davi said before heading back out of the door.
“Hey.” I said quietly approaching her, still holding the newspaper in my hand. “I thought you’d want to hear this, Violet. It’s absolutely fantastic.” I began to read Helena Marder’s review aloud, who worked for The Telegraph in London on Violet’s latest exhibition Colere.
“I had the pleasure of receiving an exclusive invitation to established and well-respected artist Violet Sawyer’s latest exhibition at her new gallery space on Davis Street in Portland.
“Sawyer called the collection Colere. The French word for angry.
“The collection numbered around thirty large scale pieces of acrylic on canvas.
“Sawyer often paints with her fingers. A technique that results in swirling, dramatic depths that leave a strong lingering effect on the viewer.
“The title of the collection was a complete contrast to the work that was displayed. It consisted of bright colors, vibrant pinks, vivid greens and bold oranges. The color white was used delicately on each piece, linking the collection together.
“We anticipate more to come from this innovative artist that has taken many budding artists under her wing and her brand in the last five years.
“Sawyer’s longtime publicist, manager and friend Brooke Washington, hinted that Sawyer will be putting her brush down for the next collection, which will all be sculptures.
“For a woman that is blind, Sawyer is truly a visionary.”
When I lifted my eyes from page, my heart sank when I took in the sight of Violet’s pink cheeks and the thick tears that streamed from her eyes. I rushed towards her, dropping to my knees in front of her right when she began to sob.
“What’s the matter? Isn’t that great? That review was amazing. Wasn’t it?”
She continued to cry, babbling out her words. “Brooke quit.” She whispered. “She’s moving to Eugene with Kyle.
“She really hates me.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. Please don’t think that. You’ve been best friends all of your lives.”
“She resents me.”
“I’m sorry, Violet.” It was all I could say. I didn’t know Brooke well enough to say anything else.
I let out a deep breath and pulled her against my chest.
“Aside from dinner, I have something else that might cheer you up.”
“What?” She asked in a tiny voice through her sniffles.
“Want to hear a funny joke?”
She only shrugged in response while I clutched her tighter.
“What do you call a fake noodle?”
“I don’t know.” She mumbled into my T-shirt.
“An impasta.” I chuckled, earning a small smile from her that warmed my insides.
“That’s dumb.”
“Then why are you laughing.” I said into the soft skin of her neck.
“I don’t know.” She giggled still sniffling.
Violet
Warm. Hard. Dip. Rise. Of each carved muscle.
I listened to his breathing allowing every inhale and exhale he made to sink into me as I skittered my fingers across his midsection. I wrapped myself in the sheets after we’d finished making love after dinner last night. I couldn’t sleep. I fell in and out of rest, conscious that by now it might be close to morning. All I could think about or imagine was the possibility of having my sight back. How beautiful would it be to see everything I’ve touched and felt
since I was a little girl, only wishing that my eyes could take in the realness of this world.
I inhaled the scent of the salty ocean and listened to the waves crash against the shoreline in the distance. The seagulls cried out and a cool breeze flowed over where we lay, even though it’s largely warm inside. Elijah always left one or two windows cracked never shielding us completely from the nature outside and the calming sounds of the sea.
I lay next to Elijah, unsure if he’s awake or asleep and ran my fingers over his skin, down his chest, feeling the light hair there and along his middle over the carved muscles of his abs. My fingers travel farther and meet the apex of this thighs.
Hot. Hard. Powerful.
I drag them up higher, skimming them lightly over his balls and run them over his cock that is by far the biggest one I’ve ever felt and wrap my hand around it. To behold it with my eyes would be a delicious treat. For now, I can only feel.
To feel.
I’d spent the last few weeks in my studio whenever I was at home working on sculptures for my next collection. It was one thing to paint but to sculpt was a different animal entirely.
I knew the shape of this man. The circumference of his head. The line of his nose. The shape of his lips and the concave just above them. I knew the sharp angle of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Everything I felt traveled from my fingertips to my imagination.
I inhaled the natural scent of his skin that feels like it’s imprinted in my memory, my soul.
The iPod dock on the nightstand comes on. Angela by The Lumineers sounds softly from it.
I shifted closer to him, running my fingers through his hair, feeling the soft strands between my fingers. They dragged over the left side of his face. Immediately, he jerked, lets out a loud exhale and grabs my hand.
“Please.” I begged.
“No.” He said shifting next to me.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay.”
I crashed back down into the sheets and rolled away from him.
He scoots closer, putting his hard chest to my back, bringing his heavy arm around me. A kiss is pressed to the top of my hand when he lifted it to his soft lips. He ran kisses along the skin between my ear and collar bone.
