Okay - this was cool, this was totally fine. He thought when she grabbed his arm. He wasnât at all nervous or scared at how awful this could turn out. Not at allll. Well, yeah - no. Ron couldnât even pretend to be calm - his mind was racing. Should he try to defend himself now? Should he try to tell her what happened that day? Should he say anything at all?
He was careful not to look suspicious or nervous or weird while he was taking her outside - worried that if her parents saw, theyâd come rushing to her aid and potentially like, kill him or something. When they made it through the crowd of people (not without bumping against others, of course), he spotted the bench and led her there. He removed his arm from her grip and plopped down himself.
âSoâŠumâŠhow have you been?â She might have been too drunk to answer that at this point, but he definitely couldnât handle sitting in silence without getting nauseous himself. His anxiety could be a cruel fiend. âYou know, since high school and everything? I havenâtâŠlikeâŠtalked to you at all.â Duh. She didnât want to.
What was making her sick? The alcohol? The thought of her parents finding her? That, out of everyone she could have run into in this state, the one deemed with the task of whisking her away was the one boy she didnât want anything to do with? All of the above. It was silly, maybe, to have held onto such a grudge since high school. And in ways, sheâd healed from the experience. The thoughts of Tony Rydinger no longer kept her up at night, crying silently into her pillow. She could sit on a pair of bleachers without thinking back to the times theyâd sneak away to sit under them, to talk or to kiss or to be together. She was able to watch sex scenes on TV shows and movies without feeling the sudden urge to throw up. It was progress. Things she couldnât do one, two...six months after the breakup (was it a breakup if theyâd never been together in the first place?). But itâd been nearly six years, at this point. And yet, looking at Ron...all she could hear was laughter.
She was definitely going to be sick. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as she was guided around the community center, knowing if she opened them, the dizziness that met her would result in a scene she rather not make. She only knew they were outside when the cool night air hit her arms, and her lips parted then, gulping at it as if sheâd been suffocating moments before. Itâd sure felt like she had been.
Suddenly, a bench was underneath her, and Violet was grateful for the sturdiness it provided. Now with her arms freed, she wrapped them around herself, tightly, hunched over her knees and staring at the floor. Trying to sober herself up, as if by sheer will power. If that wouldnât do it, then maybe their conversation could. âAre you seriously...asking me that? Right now?â Her words were slow and slurred, head beginning to shake, but quickly stopping. Nausea rose in her stomach. âWe both know thereâs...thereâs a reason for that.â
