Page 19 of Came the Closest

Grief stings my eyes as I inhale sharply, and my lip quivers. I won’t cry, though. Not a single tear has fallen since the day Dad was moved into the long-term care facility. I think, maybe, if I keep the tears bottled up then I know I won’t forget him.

“I want to know why, Colt,” I whisper, almost too quietly to be heard over the whistle of wind through tree branches. Clouds are unfurling in the western hem of the sky, promising a thunderstorm to come. “Why he did it.”

He sucks in a breath. “I know.”

That’s all he says. No reassurance that Dad must’ve had a reason, no stab at explaining what the reason might be. He doesn’t know more than the rest of us, and he won’t pretend like he does. We both know the reality.

We might not ever know why Dad did what he did.

“What’s he look like?” I talk around the lump in my throat, hugging my knees into my chest. Once upon a time, Colton would have pulled his shirt off and insisted I wear it for warmth. “The boy.”

Reluctance slows his movements, but Colton shifts to pull his phone from his pocket. His shoulder brushes mine and I pretend not to shiver. He unlocks it, taps on a text conversation, opens a photo, and passes the device to me. A little boy in a black crewneck is sitting on a chair by the water in the picture. Pale blond curls, wide blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, full, slightly pouty lips between soft round cheeks.

An ache spears my heart. I’ve known my dad for twenty-nine years, and even though I’m not sure that’ll be enough if he doesn’t make it, I had it. This child will never have the chance to know, or likely remember, his mother.

“Milo.” Colton clears his throat. I don’t think he wants to feel any emotions, good or bad, about the boy. Maybe because he was that boy. “His name. It’s Milo.”

I’m still staring at the photo. I hold it down, and the live feature makes it just long enough for those big eyes to look directly at me. In the background, a seagull swoops over rippled water and someone, a woman, laughs. Maybe the Del Ray sister, if she was the one behind the camera.

When I pass the phone back to him, his fingertips brush against my knuckles, and I know I have to say something. Colton was that little boy. The one without a mother and whose father wasn’t around enough to count. A flat bicycle tire might’ve brought him to my family, but a safe haven was what kept him there.

Colton might not think he could be that same safe haven for Milo, but I do.

“Maybe…” I catch tendrils of hair that whip into my face and tuck them behind my ear. Colton turns his full attention to me, gaze following my movements. “I don’t know why she picked you, Colt, but maybe don’t do it for the mother you knew. Do it for the mother who knew you. Because she did. Know you.”

What I have never known, and will now never know, is how Kathleen looked her sons and husband in the eye and chose to walk away. Because I wasn’t given that choice, walking away, and it still haunts me that I’ll never know my child’s eye or hair color, their gender, their laugh.

I never got the chance to say hello, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to say goodbye.

Chapter Seven

Passive Aggressive Texting

Colton

Don’t do it for the mother you knew. Do it for the mother who knew you.

It’s been almost eight hours since our conversation on the beach, and Cheyenne’s words still play on a loop in my head. Thunder rumbles through heavy clouds and lightning illuminates Graham’s kitchen windows while wind tosses rain against the side of the house, but it can’t compete with my own inner storm.

Instead of natural elements, though, it’s thoughts whirling around in me like a cyclone.

Thoughts about my career, or lack thereof. Thoughts about how my mom is really, truly gone forever. Thoughts about Milo. Thoughts about Cheyenne and, every so often, bookstore meet cutes. About how she looked sitting in our old spot on the beach, winter skin just barely pinkened, those summer freckles on her nose begging to be kissed.

I’ve stared at the copy of Mom’s will in my hands for long enough that my line of vision is blurred. Probably doesn’t help that the only light is a single bulb above the table and the lightning flashing outside.

But it’s not that I won’t do it anymore. It’s that I can’t.

If in the event of my death I leave minor children, I appoint as guardian of the person and property of my minor children my son Colton Del Ray, provided that he is engaged or married. He shall have custody of my minor children and serve without bond.

“Why me, Mom?” I ask the empty room. “Why not Jordan? Why not Graham? Why not Dad?”

I don’t expect an answer. I’m sitting alone in a mostly dark kitchen at nearly two in the morning, a storm rages outside, and my brother sleeps soundly just down the hall. But I also don’t think I’d complain if the tiny mushroom figurine on the windowsill or the succulent next to it started talking, either.

I mean, I’ve been named the legal guardian for my late mother’s child. My half brother. Anything’s possible at this point.

“Collie?” Graham’s voice is sleep raspy behind me. “What are you doing?”

Without turning, I say, “Writing out the initiation rules for my new cult. You could be the first member.”