Free The Violets of March by Sarah Jio

when he said he would. For a moment I even hoped he wouldn’t show up. It was more than a bit ridiculous that I was actually going through with this—having dinner with a high school boyfriend. Who does this? I panicked. What am I doing? Then I saw headlights coming down the road. He was driving fast, as if trying to make up for every lost second.
    I clutched the doorknob and took a deep breath.
    “Have a good time,” Bee said, waving me off.
    I walked outside to the patio and watched as he pulled his car into the driveway—the same old light blue 1980s four-door Mercedes he’d driven in high school. The years hadn’t been as kind to it as they had been to Greg.
    “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said, jumping out of the car. He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again, nervously. “Things got really busy in the wine department just before my shift ended. I had to help a customer find a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. She stood there debating between the eighty-two and eighty-six forever .”
    “Which did she pick?”
    “The eighty-six,” he said.
    “A very good year,” I said mockingly. I once dated a man who had the whole wine bit down to a science. He swirled and sniffed and followed up his first sip with things like “a first-rate vintage,” or “such a brilliant meritage of flavors.” These were the reasons I stopped returning his calls.
    “It was a good year,” he said, smiling boyishly. “It was the year we met.”
    I couldn’t believe he remembered. I hardly remembered. But when I did, I remembered everything .
    I was a flat-chested fourteen-year-old with stringy blond hair. Greg was a tanned hotshot sophomore with hormones pumping through his blood—and I mean pumping . He lived a few houses down the beach from Bee’s. It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, at least for Greg. But by the end of the summer, I was wearing makeup and push-up bras, courtesy of my cousin Rachel, and Greg seemed to notice me for the first time.
    “Nice arm,” he said, as he watched me tossing a Frisbee to Rachel on the beach one day.
    I was so startled that I didn’t say anything back. A boy had just talked to me. A cute boy. Rachel dropped the Frisbee and ran to my side, jabbing her bony elbow into my arm.
    “Thanks,” I finally blurted out.
    “I’m Greg,” he said, extending his hand. He didn’t say anything to Rachel, which, at the time, I couldn’t make any sense of. Boys always noticed her first, and for some odd reason, Greg was looking at me. Just me.
    “I’m Emily,” I said in almost a squeak.
    “Want to come down to my place tonight?” he asked, leaning toward me. He smelled of Banana Boat suntan lotion. My heart was beating so loudly, I almost didn’t hear the next part. “Some friends of mine are coming over. We’re having a bonfire.”
    I didn’t know what a bonfire was. I thought it sounded illegal, most logically something one did while smoking marijuana. But I said yes anyway. I would follow this boy anywhere, even to a possibly illegal, drug-fueled bonfire .
    “Good,” he said. “I’ll save a spot for you.” And then he winked. “Right next to me.”
    He was cocky and sure of himself, which made me like him even more. And when he turned to walk back down the beach to his alluringly ramshackle house, Rachel and I watched, mouths gaping wide open, as the muscles in his back flexed with each step.
    “Well,” she said, sounding very offended. “ He seems like a real jerk.”
    I just stared, too stunned to speak. A handsome guy just asked me out. But if I’d been able to open my mouth then, I would have said, “He seems absolutely perfect.”
    Greg ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door for me. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said, grinning. “Because you’re going to love this restaurant.”
    I nodded and climbed inside the car, which looked like it had seen better days. I brushed what seemed to be a petrified french fry from the seat