“Nothing important. Let’s play something violent.” He hands me a controller and picks up his own.

I don’t argue or push for more information. It’s better if he doesn’t tell me.

“I know it hasn’t been long, but maybe you need to go on a date or something. Get out there and have some fun.” He’s trying to be helpful; it’s nice but not realistic.

“This is fun.” I gesture to the screen where Buck is running over a pedestrian.

“You know what I mean. Sometimes you need to get back in the ring and fight.”

I raise my eyebrow; a boxing metaphor for relationships is actually quite fitting.

“I know you’ve had some bad luck recently, but there’s this guy, he plays for New York, they’re looking at trading him—”

“Buck, I don’t want to date another hockey player.” I set down my controller so I can shovel more of the sundae into my mouth, uncaring of the suffering that will follow this frozen dairy heaven.

“Not all of us are dogs, Violet. Randall’s a great guy.”

“His name is Randall. How awesome can he be?”

Buck mows down a group of people playing road hockey. “He goes by Randy.”

“Even better. His name is another word for horny. Sounds perfect for me.” I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.

It’s not Randall’s fault his parents named him in relation to horniness. I can’t even entertain the idea of dating anyone else right now. Besides, I could never get serious with a hockey player again, or a dude named Randy. I’d make thrusting motions every time I said his name. It’d be awkward.

“Wait a minute. Didn’t Alex get suspended for kicking the shit out of some guy named Randy?” I’m almost positive this is the case.

“That was Randolph Cockburn. This is Randy Balls.”

“Are you serious?” What’s with these guys with terrible last names?

“Yeah, why?” Buck, my perverted stepbrother, doesn’t connect the outlandishly pornographic last name with the first name.

“Randy Balls?” I burst out laughing. “You want to set me up with a guy named Randy Balls? Can you even imagine what would happen if we got married? My last name would be Balls. Violet Balls!”

“Huh.” He makes a scrunchy face. “That wouldn’t be so good, would it? ’Specially if you hyphenated. Hall-Balls.”

I continue to laugh until I start crying, which turns into hysterical, desperate sobs. I don’t want to end up as Violet Balls. I wanted to be Violet Waters—it sounds so romantic—and Alex ruined it all.

My life sucks Randy’s balls.

Buck has no idea what to do. He offers to go out and get more ice cream, but my stomach is already cramping thanks to my dairy intolerance.

“I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t realize how serious you guys were.”

“It’s not your fault.” I swipe my tears away, but there are new ones to take their place.

“I introduced you to him. I should’ve stopped you from meeting up with him.”

“How were you supposed to know I was going to hook up with Alex? Besides, you tried to warn me. I’m too much of an idiot to take your advice, that’s all.” I believed he was a hockey whore in the beginning, and I still slept with him.

He flexes his biceps. “I can punch him in the balls if you want.”

“That’s kind of you to offer, but if I ever see him again, I want to do it myself.”

Buck pats my shoulder and gives me an awkward hug where my face ends up in his armpit. I hold my breath until it’s over.

“I’ll totally let you beat me.” He motions to the TV.

I indulge Buck in a few rounds, but he has to work pretty hard to lose. After an hour of Xbox, it becomes pretty obvious I’m not invested in the game, and my stomach starts to gurgle.

Buck puts a beefy hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“The sundae isn’t sitting well.”

“Shit. You’re gonna have the moops, aren’t you?”

I grimace as another stomach cramp rolls through. “Yeah.”

“I should probably head out and leave you to it.”

I follow Buck to the door and watch while he shoves his feet into his massive shoes. We exchange a quick hug, and I open the door. We’re immediately assaulted by the stench of body odor. Melvin must have been in the hallway recently.

Buck frowns. “What the hell is that smell?”

“That’s my next door neighbor Melvin.”

“That’s from a person? It smells like a rotting sweaty corpse was dragged through the hallway.”

“I know. Rank, isn’t it? That’s nothing compared to his taste in music.” As if on cue, the death metal starts up.

“Is this guy for real?”

“The music doesn’t last too long.” Only two or three hours. I don’t tell Buck that Melvin also stops by almost every night to see if I want to hang out.

“You let me know if you want me to have a word with this guy,” Buck says with a shake of his head.

“I’m good. Thanks, though.” I give him another hug, mostly because I’m desperate for affection, and send him down the hall. He stumbles past Melvin’s door—the odor is horrendous—and then rushes on to the elevator.

After a lengthy time-out in the bathroom, I go to bed. The ensuing ice cream coma is neither restful nor peaceful. I dream of Alex and his air hockey table, except in my dream it’s not me he’s banging, it’s some other hockey hooker.