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Okay, the things were not exactly scattered. I might’ve changed in a lot of ways, but my penchant for neatness remained.
But Swiss’s cologne was mingled with my perfume on the dresser, and some of the rings he wore were sitting in a small bowl, again mixed up with some of my jewelry.
A pair of his jeans were draped over one of the armchairs, the book he was reading was on ‘his’ side of the bed—closest to the door, as any man’s side should’ve been, I’d learned.
At our old home, Preston and I had separate dressers. Closets. Our things never touched, never mingled with a familiarity, a casualness like this. A way that suggested I put my earrings on while Swiss brushed my body with his as he sprayed his aftershave. It communicated a closeness that Preston and I’d never had.
I watched Violet take all of this in, her expression unreadable.
“He’s a biker, this man?” Violet surmised.
“He is.” I was surprised she was able to come to that conclusion.
“I can’t imagine how confused you are right now,” I said gently.
She stared at me in a penetrative way that was utterly foreign, a way my daughter had never looked at me before. Like she was seeing me as something else than just her mother. Like she was realizing I was also a human being. A separate person with needs, with dreams.
“I’m not,” she shrugged. “Seriously,” she added, seeing my raised brow. Violet looked around the room once more. “I’ve never heard you happy, Mom,” she whispered, emotion leeching into her tone.
Tears instantaneously filled my eyes.
“I didn’t realize it until right now,” she continued, voice full of tears of her own. “Until I saw a house that you belong in, fit into more than you ever did ours. You always moved like a…” she scrunched up her nose, deep in thought. “A guest,” she said finally. “Like nothing was yours. Like you were afraid to spill, to break something. I didn’t see it before because—”
“Because it wasn’t your job to see that, sweetheart,” I interrupted softly, cupping her cheek. “It was my job to make sure you didn’t see that.”
Violet was still frowning. “I’m not sure I agree, Momma,” she argued just as softly. “But I want to understand. I want us to talk about what really happened with Daddy.” She sighed. “But first, I would really, really like to have margaritas with your friends. And I’d like to see the man who created this,” she waved her hand down my body. Then she scrunched her nose up. “No, that’s not right. The man who gave you the opportunity to grow into this.”
I was dumbfounded by the complexity of what my daughter understood, things that I’d been so sure I’d hidden. Things that I’d been sure were much too adult for my child to comprehend.
But there it was, the truth that she was no longer a child.
I smiled. “We can do that, although you will be limited on the margaritas. Macy has a very strong pour.” I thought back to a blurry night only a couple of weeks ago when I’d had four of those margaritas, then Swiss and I had had sex on the patio.
Then I blinked my daughter back into focus, chastising myself for thinking about sex in her presence.
My daughter rolled her eyes. “Mom, you know I was in Europe where the drinking age is eighteen, and it’s safe to say I’ve developed a tolerance.”
I felt comfort in the familiar dynamic, in seeing the eye roll, hearing the sarcastic tone.
“We’ll see,” I muttered, deciding now was not the time to argue with my daughter about alcohol consumption, even though she might’ve technically been right.
“Towels are in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything else.” I leaned forward to kiss her head. “I’m so glad you’re here, honey.”
Violet’s eyes shone. “Me too, Mom,” she said sincerely.
My walk back toward the kitchen was somehow lighter. Though there was a crapload of shit to wade through, my daughter did not hate me. My daughter was… dare I say, happy for me? My daughter was a well-rounded, sensible young adult who was compassionate and caring.
Yeah, the walk was lighter. But I was still dragging a very heavy anvil of truth. One that I was wrestling with.
“Figured you’d need this.” Macy handed me a freshly made margarita with a salted rim.
I took it thankfully. “Yeah, I really fucking do.”
“Fucking,” Macy repeated, sipping her own. “It must be intense then.”
Although I cursed now, I did it mostly in the confines of the bedroom with Swiss, when we were naked. Or when I sliced into my finger cooking dinner. I enjoyed the act of it, it felt rebellious. Yet I was still somehow hesitant, too, still acting a part that no longer belonged to me.
Macy knew me. Noticed things, just like the rest of the women did. They noticed things and didn’t pretend they didn’t see them, didn’t use those perceived weaknesses as footholds for manipulation. No, they cared. They changed our interactions accordingly.
