The Violets of March by Sarah Jio Read Free Book Online Page A

he was older now, more weathered. I wondered if I looked weathered . I instinctively glanced at his left hand for a wedding ring. There was none.
    “What are you doing here?” I said. It still hadn’t hit me that this was his place of employment. I’d always imagined Greg as an airline pilot or a forest ranger—something bolder, something bigger, something, well, more Greg. But a grocery store clerk? It didn’t fit.
    “I work here,” he said, grinning proudly. He pointed to his name badge and then ran his hand through his bleached-blond hair. “Wow—it’s so good to see you,” he continued. “It’s been, like, what, fifteen years?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Wait, maybe even longer . That’s crazy.”
    “You look great,” he said, which made me feel self-conscious.
    “Thanks,” I replied, tugging at my collar. I looked down at my feet. Oh God. The rubber boots. Everyone fantasizes about running into old flames while wearing slimming cocktail dresses, and here I was in a balled-up wool sweater from the back of Bee’s closet. Oops.
    Even so, Greg, with the same boyish good looks and gray-blue eyes exactly the color of the sound on a stormy day, was making me feel as good as he looked.
    “So what brings you back to the island?” he said, smiling, propping his elbow against the wall. “I thought you were some fancy writer in New York.”
    I grinned. “I’m visiting Bee for the month.”
    “Oh really,” he said. “I see her here shopping every once in a while. I’ve always wanted to ask her how you were.” He paused. “But I guess I always chickened out.”
    “Chickened out?”
    He rubbed his hand along his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess at our core, we’re all still sixteen, right? And didn’t you break up with me?”
    I smiled. “No, you left for college.” He had a certain warmth, a certain energy that I liked.
    “So why here, why now, after all these years?” he said.
    I sighed. “ Well , it’s a little complicated.”
    “I can do complicated.”
    I rubbed the finger where my wedding ring had once been. “I’m here because . . .” I paused and searched his face for approval, or disapproval, which was crazy because what did I care what my boyfriend from a million years ago would think of my marital status, and then I finally blurted it out: “I’m here because I just got divorced, and I needed to get the hell out of New York City.”
    He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He said it as if he meant it, which made me decide that I liked Grown-up Greg a lot more than Teenage Greg.
    “I’m OK,” I said, praying that he wasn’t a mind reader.
    He shook his head in disbelief. “You haven’t changed at all.”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Thanks.” Greg was only saying what every person says to someone they were once romantically involved with, but it woke up my lethargic self-esteem like a dose of epinephrine. I nervously smoothed my hair, then remembered that I needed a haircut—three months ago.
    “I could say the same about you,” I said. “You look great.” I paused. “How has life treated you? Any better luck in the marriage department than I’ve had?”
    I don’t know why, but I had somehow pictured Greg blissfully married, living the good life on Bainbridge Island. A great house. A pretty wife. A half dozen kids buckled safely into car seats in a navy blue Suburban.
    “Luck?” He shrugged. “No, none here. But I’m happy. I’m healthy. That counts for something, right?”
    I nodded. “Of course it does.” I have to admit, it felt good to know that I wasn’t the only one with a life that hadn’t exactly worked out according to plan.
    “So really, you’re doing all right? Because if you need to talk to anyone, I . . .” He grabbed a towel that hung from his apron and began dusting off a few bottles of red wine on a lower shelf.
    Maybe it was the dim lights, or the presence of so much wine, but I felt oddly at