Free The Violets of March by Sarah Jio Page A

before sitting down. Inside, the car smelled just like the Greg I remembered: the heady scent of unwashed hair, engine oil, and a hint of cologne.
    When he put the gearshift into Drive, his hand grazed mine. “Oh, sorry,” he said.
    I didn’t say anything, but hoped he didn’t see the goose bumps that had erupted on my arm.
    The restaurant, less than a mile away, must have been a favorite on the island, as the parking lot was jammed with cars. Outside, he led the steep climb toward what looked like an elaborate tree house perched on a hill overlooking the sound. I reached into my purse and discreetly popped two aspirin into my mouth.
    “Pretty cool, isn’t it?” Greg said, looking around as the hostess went to check on our table.
    “Yeah,” I said, wondering if this was such a good idea, me going out with Greg.
    He said something to the hostess, who pulled out two menus and led us to a table on the west side of the restaurant.
    “I thought we could catch the sunset,” Greg said, smiling.
    I couldn’t remember the last time I’d caught a sunset. It occurred to me that this is something people do on Bainbridge Island, something New Yorkers had forgotten about. I smiled at Greg and looked out the window to see clearing ahead, and two orange sunbeams poking through the clouds.
    Our waitress brought a bottle of red wine that Greg had selected, and we watched as she filled our glasses. There was a certain quiet crispness to the air. Anxious air, as Annabelle would call it. The wine trickling into each glass sounded unusually loud.
    “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
    “No,” I said, on top of Greg’s “Yes.”
    I laughed. He apologized. It was awkward.
    “I meant, ‘Yes, we’re fine,’ ” he said, tugging at his collar.
    We both reached for our wineglasses.
    “So, is it good to be back, Emmy?”
    I relaxed a little in my chair. He hadn’t called me Emmy since, well, 1988. It felt good to hear him say it.
    “It is,” I said unapologetically, spreading a thick layer of butter on a dinner roll.
    “It’s funny, I never thought I’d see you again.”
    “I know,” I said, looking at his face a little longer, now that the wine had entered my bloodstream.
    “So, how did it go with Lisa?” I asked, after another long sip.
    “Lisa?”
    “Yeah, Lisa, the girl you dated in college. Your sister mentioned her when I came to see you on the beach that next summer.”
    “Oh, Lisa . That lasted about as long as . . . English 101.”
    “Well,” I said, giving him a half grin, “you still could have called.”
    “Didn’t I call?”
    “Nope.”
    “I’m sure I called.”
    I shook my head, feigning anger. “You didn’t.”
    He tried to manage a smile. “And to think, if I had called you, we could be sitting here, married. An old Bainbridge Island married couple.”
    He meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed.
    After a tense pause, Greg poured a little more wine into both of our glasses. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe I said that after all you’ve been through—with marriage and all.”
    I shook my head. “No apology necessary. Really.”
    “Good,” Greg said, looking relieved. “But I have to say, just sitting here with you now—I’m kind of wishing I could rewind history and go back and do things right. And end up with you.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s just the wine talking.”
     
     
    “There’s something I was hoping to show you tonight,” Greg said, looking at his watch after the waitress brought the check. “It’s not too late for a quick drive, is it?”
    “No, of course not,” I said.
    He set his credit card down before I could even begin to protest. I felt guilty. Even though I hadn’t written a book in years, I knew I probably earned him under the table. But it didn’t matter. Not on Bainbridge Island. Here, I was just Emmy, Bee’s niece, and I kind of preferred her to divorcée-washed-up-author-with-issues anyway. I slipped my purse