Jessica Sorensen - The Probability of Violet and Luke

“I can tell when you’re lying, Violet,” he says and it makes me cringe. I’ve never been one for letting people get to know me enough to read me, but apparently Greyson can. “Now, if you want to tell me the real reason why, then I’d be more than happy to fill in for you. But if not, then I guess I’ll see you tonight at the diner.”

“Fine.” I grimace. “I can’t make it to work because I’m on a little bit of a road trip.”

“With who?”

“Someone…”

“Violet.”

“Oh my fucking hell.” I drop the food and sodas on the countertop, ignoring the dirty look the fifty-year-old cashier lady gives me for my language. “I’m on the road with Luke okay… heading to Vegas.”

“ What ?” He’s shocked and I don’t blame him. During one of our little after-work-drinking-sessions we’ve been having, I’d accidentally let it slip out what happened between Luke and me, well some of it anyway. I’m usually good at keeping secrets to myself, but apparently having friends meant turning into a babbling girl who can’t keep her mouth shut or her problems to herself. “How the hell did that end up happening?”

“A freak accident, caused by destiny once again,” I say as I lay a ten-dollar bill down on the counter. “Look, I really don’t want to give anymore details because they’re really not mine to give. But you can call up Luke and see if he feels like telling you what’s going on.” The cashier lady gives me my change and the bag with my stuff as I put the money into my pocket.

“Fine.” Greyson sighs. “I’ll fill in for you, but you’ll eventually give me the details of how this happened and what happens while you’re on the road.”

“Alright, it’s a deal.” I push out the door and head for the truck, noting that Luke’s not there. He must be inside in the bathroom or something.

“And Violet?”

“Yeah?”

“If you need anything, you can call me whenever, okay?” Greyson says. “In fact, promise me you’ll check in.”

I have my hand on the door handle of the truck about to climb in when he says it, but I pause. I’ve never had anyone say that to me. Never had anyone worry about me enough to say it, well besides Luke. Not since my parents died. It makes me feel uneasy, out of my element, exposed, and I’m on the verge of tearing up like some kind of sap. God, what is happening to me? I used to be so tough .

I clear my throat several times before I speak again. “Okay, I will.”

“Good. And be careful... And try to stay out of trouble.”

“You sound like a parent.” I roll my eyes as I toss the bag of food into the truck and hop inside.

“That’s because I worry about you,” he says as I shut the door. “And care.”

I’m not sure how to respond and start choking up again, so I avoid saying anything. “I’ll call you later, okay.” I hurry and say then hang up, my hands slightly shaking as I put my phone into my pocket. Then I roll the window down, letting in some fresh air, and rest my head back, trying to figure out when Greyson and I became friends. I still haven’t told him a lot about me, like the stuff that’s been going on with Preston, my drug dealing, my adrenaline addiction, but apparently we’ve crossed some sort of line where he worries about me and where I agree to try and ease that worry by checking in. “That’s a new one,” I mutter.

Moments later my phone vibrates from my pocket. I think it’s probably Greyson again, wanting to know what times and days I work since I forgot to tell him. But when I take the phone out and see the message is from an unknown number, a chill goes up my spine and all the feel-goods I had in me, vanish.

Unknown: So I’m guessing by your silence that u don’t want to know who did it.

I want to respond that I already know, but I also don’t trust the person on the other line. It has to be another bored reporter, trying to get a story.

Unknown: Tell me Violet, how disgusting does it make u feel, knowing you’ve slept with her son.

My heart stops—dies inside my chest. I forget to breathe. They have to be talking about Luke in reference to being Mira’s son. But how do they know about him? No one does outside of the police, Greyson, and myself. And the police don’t know that I’ve slept with Mira’s son, just that I know him, nor do they fully believe that she’s guilty yet, so why would they text me something like this—why would anyone text me like this?

My heart starts thudding inside my chest, blood howling in my ears.

There was someone else there.

There was someone else there.

There was someone else there.

They know.

They know.

They know.

My breath falters as I text back.

Me: Who the fuck are you?

Unknown: You haven’t figured that out yet? I guess I’m not surprised, considering who your parents were. It always took them a while to figure out things too.

I start to shake with rage and chuck the phone without thinking. It ends up going out the window and when it hits the ground, the back pops off and the battery goes flying into a puddle.

“Dammit.” I shove the door open and hop out of the truck. Then I pick up my phone and stare at the battery in the puddle. It’s useless now. And so is my phone for the moment.

“Is everything okay?” Luke asks as he walks up behind me.

I shake my head. “Not really.” Part of me is relieved that they can’t get a hold of me anymore but the other part is frustrated, worried they actually know something and now I’ve ruined my way of finding out. I need to call Detective Stephner and at least tell him, but his phone number is saved in my contacts.

Sighing, I turn around and face Luke to show him my phone, then point at the battery on the ground behind me. “I think it’s broken… I’m going to have to find a way to get a new one as soon as we get to Vegas.” I flip the phone over in my hand, trying to figure out if it’ll still work with a new battery. There’s a scratch or two, but that’s it. “Maybe just a new battery though.”

“That’s fine, but…” He frowns. “What happened? Did you drop it?”

I shake my head. “No, I threw it out the window.”

He struggles not to ask why, crossing his arms, an energy drink clutched in his hand. “Can I ask why?”

So polite. “Because I got a text message that made me angry.”

He wants to drill me with questions—I can see it on his face. But he doesn’t. “Should we hit the road? We still have a couple more hours to go and I’d like to get there before lunch time.”

He’s changed his t-shirt, but still has the same pair of jeans on. There are bags under his eyes, his lips look chapped, his skin pale, and he’s kind of hunching to the left, probably because it hurts where the guy hit him. “Do you want me to drive?” I offer. “You look tired. And sore.”

He shakes his head and raises the energy drink. “No, I’m good. I just need to drink this and… check my blood sugar… I might need a shot… then I’m good to go.” Even his voice sounds weary.

I stick out my hand. “Let me drive, so you can get some rest.”

He hesitates, then stuffs his hand into his pocket and gets out his keys. As he hands them to me, his knuckles graze my palm and I find myself shivering even though I’m not the slightest bit cold. It’s obvious to him by the look he gives me, but he doesn’t say anything about it as I get in the truck and he grabs something out of his bag. When he climbs into the truck, he has this small leather case in his hand. He takes out the pen-shaped object that checks his blood sugar and pricks his skin, reminding me of the night when I found him in the bar and had to do it for him. He checks the screen then shakes his head, clearly annoyed as he retrieves another object out of the bag that has a needle at the end. He takes the cap off, lifts his shirt, but then hesitates, glancing over at me with a mount of wariness in his eyes. I half expect him to tell me to look away. I almost want to too, but I can’t seem to break eye contact, our gazes somehow welded together.