I pulled on a pair of jeans and a worn tee that hugged my curves. Slipping on a pair of boots, I was ready to go. I reached for my phone to check the time, but it wasn’t in its usual spot on the dresser. Shit. I must’ve left it in the car.

I grabbed my keys and headed for the back door. As I pulled it open, my steps faltered, the sight in front of me a sucker punch in the same way it was every year. I bent down to pick up the bouquet of violets and the envelope. I inhaled deeply, the sweet scent of the blooms wrapping around me, both painful and a comfort.

I slipped a finger under the seal and carefully ripped it open, wondering what memory I’d get this year. There was never a note, only a bouquet of violets and a copy of an old photo of my sister. I had no idea who brought them, but I’d gotten them every year since Violet’s death, always sometime the week of her birthday. For a couple of years, I’d thought it was Ford, his way of comforting me from afar, but I’d given up on that silly hope and started to just appreciate the gesture for what it was. Marking a life that had meant so much to me. Honoring all the memories she’d left behind.

I pulled out the glossy paper and let out a strangled laugh. The photo was one of my favorites from the memorial website my parents had created for Vi. It had been taken after Violet and I had worked on an art project in the back yard. My mother had given us each an old shirt of my father’s to wear as a smock. Violet’s had two or three small smears of paint. Mine, on the other hand? It was covered in every color of the rainbow. There was even paint on my face and in my hair. It was so perfectly…us.

A pang hit my heart, a crack of energy that was both agony and gratitude. That potent mixture almost brought me to my knees. I clutched the photo to my chest and took a deep breath. I had to trust that Vi knew the truth, that I desperately missed her, even though we hadn’t been in the best place as sisters when she died. I needed to trust that wherever Violet was, she knew that I loved her.

2

FORD

“Hey, Ford!” The girl who called out over the pounding bass looked vaguely familiar. A model maybe? Or an up-and-coming actress?

“Hey, babe.” She batted her eyes, but I kept moving through the bar towards my office. I wound my way through the sea of bodies, careful to avoid tipsy partygoers with precariously balanced drinks.