Still, sometimes I’d rather just manage a sore throat and a sinus headache with cough drops and normal decongestants and cold medicine from a pharmacy.
I wrestle the phone from her hand and drop it on the couch behind her. “No cold remedies,” I repeat, becoming aware that in my haste to get her phone away from her, I’ve basically tackled her and am now pinning her to the couch with my body.
Her eyes are wide when she looks up at me, her lips parted. She pats my shoulders with her hands in a weird staccato motion, like she can’t decide if she’s trying to placate me or stop herself from shoving me away. “Alright. No remedies. I promise.”
She shifts under me, her hips pressing into my belly, her thighs straddling my torso, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. I want to move with her, climb up her body to line up my hips with hers, her legs with my waist. I shouldn’t, though. I should sit up. Get off her. Move away. But I can’t. I’m frozen, arrested by the feel of her body under me, the way her pupils have grown larger, the soft weight of her hands.
I want her to move again. Press her hips up against me. Anything to show that she’s okay with this. Open to more.
But her eyes move all around, and she huffs out a painfully forced laugh. “Okay.” She pats my shoulders again. “I believe you. I won’t make Blaire’s cold remedy. You don’t have to take it. You can get off me now.”
Right. “Sorry,” I mutter, irritated with myself for once again believing she might want anything from me. Sitting up, I shove my hand through my hair, trying to contain my frustration. I guess she does want something from me. Friendship.
Though if she’s been paying attention at all, she should know that I’m a shitty friend at the best of times. And this is definitely not the best of times.
I watch her retrieve her phone out of the corner of my eye, run a hand through her mussed hair, and straighten her shirt. She lets out another forced chuckle. “Do you tackle all your friends when they ask if you have a cold?”
I force a smile. “Just the ones who threaten me with Blaire’s revolting remedies.”
Her return smile is genuine, her eyes lit up with amusement. “That sounds like some kind of horrible brand name.” She spreads her hands through the air like she’s envisioning some kind of sign. “Blaire’s Revolting Remedies,” she says in a goofy announcer voice. “Now on sale at discerning retailers everywhere.”
I can’t help chuckling. Is this what Viola being herself is like? Goofy jokes and silly voices? I could get used to this. “Do the world a favor and don’t pitch that idea to Blaire. Knowing her, she’d probably run with it, and then even more people would have to choke down whatever she puts in those.”
She gives me a disbelieving look. “Don’t be such a baby. It can’t be that bad. And if it helps, then suck it up and do what’s good for you.”
This time my chuckle comes out low and wicked. “You should’ve figured out by now that I don’t put much stock in doing what’s good for me. I’m more interested in things that are enjoyable.”
Her smile fades as she holds my gaze, replaced by something … but she breaks the spell of the moment and looks away, her eyes once again roaming the cabin. I follow her gaze, noticing that Kendra is watching us, a speculative look on her face. I meet her eyes, raising my eyebrows. She responds by raising her own, but doesn’t look away.
With a shake of my head, I end our staring contest. Whatever she saw or thought, it doesn’t really matter. Viola clearly sees me as nothing more than an obstacle to overcome. The only one in the way of her achieving general likability and ability to relax into her new job.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want to be the asshole who makes her life miserable anymore.
She shifts, and I expect her to stand and leave me alone, but she perches on the edge of the couch and looks at me. I meet her gaze and raise an eyebrow. “Is there something else?”
Opening her mouth, she seems to hesitate. But then she straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin, that same defiance she gave me in her hotel room that morning I barged in to apologize, unable to wait for her to come to me. “For some reason you’ve chosen not to address me by name. Even now, when you haven’t deliberately called me the wrong name in weeks, you still won’t call me Viola. I don’t know if you just have an aversion to my name, or what your deal is, but if you can’t call me Viola, can you at least call me V?” Her throat works as she swallows, like just asking that question took all her courage and now she’s trying not to puke.
I drag my hand down my face and shake my head. When I look at her again, I see that she’s deflated, and she’s nodding like she’s accepting an answer I haven’t given.
“V sounds good. I can remember that,” I tell her, my voice once again gruff with an emotion I don’t want and refuse to name.
She blinks at me a few times, then gives me a trembling smile. “Thank you.”
The words are far too sincere for such a paltry gesture, but I don’t have time to say anything else—her name, another apology, anything—before she stands and strides back
