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Clementine has never been one for romance.
Gabe was more of a convenience if anything. He was always there, hovering in her peripheral, peering over her shoulder, flicking earnest glances at her from across the room. It was nice, she supposed, to be the center of attention for reasons other than whether the grisly chunk torn out of her forearm came from a rabid dog over a dented can of beans or a jaundiced walker.
So she reciprocated the “ flirting ”, or whatever it was called. She mirrored his overeager smiles with her own, albeit far more tepid. She reluctantly surrendered to his insistence on playing euchre. She even hugged him on her own accord, once. But at the end of the day, there was a reason why she left him behind in Richmond as she trekked on alone to reunite with AJ.
She’s telling Violet all of this in a hushed, hasty tone, the words flowing out of her mouth like she’s spilling some sort of closely-guarded secret. Tenn and AJ are in the room, hunched over separate sheets of paper, unspeaking. AJ’s grubby hands are curled around a blue crayon; his page is marred with brash lines and uneven shapes. Tenn, on the other hand, is much more refined in his artistry: long, brilliant strokes of mauve and crimson drape the page delicately like leaves falling from a tree.
“So you just left him there? You didn’t—you know…”
“I hugged him,” Clementine shrugs. A shudder goes through her. Reflecting on the past is a double-edged sword: comforting and agonizing at the same time. “But that’s all there ever was.”
“Oh.”
Violet’s reply is a perfect mask of indifference. Monotonous. Monosyllabic. But Clementine can see right through it. She’s heard it enough in her own words when people ask about Lee, Kenny, her parents. Clementine doesn’t question it, though. She figures whatever emotion Violet has forced down to the pit of her stomach isn’t meant for her ears.
“What about you?” Clementine voices. “Anyone special in your life? I saw you looking at Marlon pretty intensely the other day.”
“Oh please ,” Violet groans, and Clementine laughs. “Marlon and his dead cat can stay the hell away from me.”
“Louis, then?”
“Louis is insufferable.”
“Fair enough. How about Aasim?”
“Aasim is a seventy-year-old grandpa trapped inside the body of a teenage boy. God, what is this? An interrogation? ” Violet rolls her eyes and scuffs the wooden floorboards with the tip of her muddied combat boots. "How did we even get to this topic? And right after dinner? I think I’m going to be sick.”
Truthfully, Clementine has no idea how the conversation even strayed to relationships. Violet came in as usual after dinner with Tenn in tow, muttering about how she was sick and tired of eating stew every night. She had situated herself in the bunk across from Clementine’s as the boys discussed one of Tenn’s drawings, and started ranting about Omar’s culinary prowess. Clementine had made herself comfortable, even going so far as to remove her hat, and had let Violet’s voice wash over her in a gentle lull, soft and coarse, husky and smooth.
Somewhere along the lines, Violet migrated to Clementine’s bed, propping herself up against the paint-chipped wall and drumming the fingers of her right hand along the headboard. Clementine supposed that was when the topic shifted.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think you’re right,” Clementine commented.
Violet snorts. “Of course I am.”
When Clementine peers over, Violet doesn’t look away. The corner of her mouth is tipped upwards in a smirk. Her posture is slumped, and she’s got one arm curled loosely around the creaky bedpost. It’s a rare sight, seeing Violet so relaxed. Normally she’s stiff and stoic, arms crossed in a tight, unyielding knot. Her features are engraved with a permanent scowl. Her answers never go beyond a generic “ yes ” or “ no ”, or her trademark “ fuck off ”. The only time Clementine has seen Violet truly come alive is when her meat cleaver is buried in the forehead of a walker. And, Clementine supposes with a slight grin, after dinner each day, when Violet plops down on the opposite bunk and words start streaming from her mouth at an incredible pace as if she’s afraid Clementine will cut her off.
She never does, of course. There is something special about being the sole audience member to exaggerated stories of the origins of Marlon’s haircut, reenactments of how Louis once got Chairles stuck in a tree trunk, hushed readings of pages stolen from Aasim’s journal, and, when their raucous laughter dissipates, tamer things like oddities of the day and “ have you ever had a boyfriend? ”
“You’re pretty cool, you know?” Clementine blurts.
Violet laughs—a full, hearty chuckle that reminds Clementine of days long gone, when she awoke wrapped around her favourite stuffed animal, when her parents greeted each other with a cup of coffee and a kiss on the cheek, when the blueberry pancakes were steaming hot and sticky with syrup.
The bed dips as Violet inches almost imperceptibly closer. The joyful smile gracing her features is one Clementine has never seen before. A sliver of moonlight seeps through the boarded window and reflects in her eyes, turning them into a pale, almost grey, shade of green.
“Of course I am,” she whispers.
They hold each other’s stares for half a second before looking away simultaneously. She’s hyper aware; Clementine can practically feel the thudding of her heart, the whirring of her scattered mind, the comforting warmth emanating from Violet.
Like an invisible hand is beckoning her forth, the irresistible urge to bridge the few feet of space between them washes over Clementine, and it’s like being struck by an unexpected wave—head spinning, ears ringing, limbs floundering. The sensation is something she has never come across: worlds away from the spike of adrenaline when beheading walkers, the rush of affection when she spoke her final words to Lee, the bittersweet tingle when she hugged Gabe.
Guess she was one for romance after all.
“It’s late.” Violet’s voice cuts through the silence. Her tone is unreadable. “Tenn and I should probably get going.”
Clementine pulls herself free from her thoughts, shoving them into an imaginary box to peruse later. “You’re right. The boys are probably tired.” She stands and subconsciously offers Violet a hand, only realizing once it’s too late to retract.
For one frightening second, Violet doesn’t move. But then the corners of her mouth curve upward, and she takes Clementine’s outstretched hand.
Violet’s hands are slight, palms rough with calluses. Her grip is sturdy, much stronger than Marlon’s or Louis’s. A fingertip brushes along the valley in between Clementine’s knuckles before Violet steps away.
“Come on, Tenn. It’s time to go to bed.” When neither of the boys answer, Violet peeks over Tenn’s shoulder, causing him to whip the drawing out of sight.
“It’s not done yet,” he explains, hastily turning over AJ’s drawing as well. “You can see it when it’s done, Vi.”
“Fair enough.” Violet’s voice is mellow and soothing, like it usually goes whenever she’s talking to Tenn or AJ. “It’s time for bed, though. Clem and AJ might get sick of us if we don’t leave soon.”
“That’s not true,” AJ pipes up. “I’d never get sick of Tenn.” He swivels around in his seat to face Clementine. “And Clem, you really like Violet, right?”
Clementine chuckles and musses AJ’s hair affectionately. “That’s right, goofball. Violet is my favourite person here, except for you, of course.”
AJ’s eyes widen, and he turns to Tenn excitedly. “Whoa! Did you hear that, Tenn? Clem said—“
“Alright,” Violet cuts in drily. Her arms have found themselves back in their usual knot, but the amusement on her face betrays her stance. “That’s enough talking for tonight. Come on, Tenn. Let’s go.”
Sighing, Tenn gathers up his things and joins Violet by the front of the room. They stand, framed by the doorway with the dim candlelight casting flickery shadows along the ridges of Violet’s nose, the hollow of her cheekbones, the curve of her lips, and it’s like staring into a mirror. Violet and Tenn. Clementine and AJ. Two resilient, battle-worn survivors who, despite giving off the impression of unwavering courage and levelheadedness, are really just scared of teaching their faithful companions the wrong lesson.
A shiver trickles down Clementine’s spine. Violet’s watchful gaze is far too understanding for Clementine’s liking. Green eyes pierce through brown, and she gets the idea that it’s not each other’s eyes their boring holes into, it’s each other’s hearts.
“Good night, Vi.” It’s barely palpable, but she knows Violet will hear it.
“Sweet dreams, Clem.”