Page 33 of Came the Closest

Choosing sad doesn’t mean closing yourself off, it just means letting yourself feel the hard emotions.

With Colton’s words in my head, I take a fortifying breath and go inside. When I was here with Justin, he announced both of our arrivals. As if we’d walked into the garage at the lake house while Dad was working on his Bronco and he couldn’t see us, so we had to tell him who was there.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked him over my basket of fried shrimp at lunch.

Justin looked at me evenly, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Would you rather I’d told him about the tubes in his arms instead of telling him his eighteen-month-old grandson is almost as adorable as his middle son?”

“Well,” I said, “no. I guess not.”

“He’s still our dad, Cheyenne,” my brother told me softly. “It’s okay to act like it.”

“Hey, Dad.” My voice comes out thin now, as I walk into Dad’s room. I clear my throat. “It’s Cheyenne.”

I know I won’t get a response. I do. It doesn’t stop the sting when one doesn’t come.

“Mom was just here not too long ago,” I continue. “She brought your fishing rod spatula. It’s sitting right here by the window. You know, in case you want to grill something for supper tonight.”

A sob tears through my chest, and I press my fist to my mouth to muffle it. I sink onto the chair by Dad’s bed. It’s not a standard issue hospital chair. Beau brought a cushioned table chair from the ranch so Mom would be more comfortable. So that if Dad came to, it’d be familiar.

Not if. When. It had to be when.

I take Dad’s hand. It doesn’t feel cold or lifeless like I expected it to. His palm is warm and his fingers seem like they should grip mine with his normal strength. He breathes on his own, and his lashes rest gently on his weathered cheeks. Someone must’ve shaved his face recently, maybe a day or two ago. Stubble is filling back in. His dark hair is combed away from his forehead, and his gold wedding band is cool on my palm.

“I went to the lake house today,” I tell him. “Colton, too. That’s a story for another day, but I did lose it over a throw pillow while we were there. Can you believe it? It was that yellow one you bought Mom—the one that says choose happy. That’s really hard to do sometimes, you know?”

I’m crying-laughing again while I talk, and that’s when I realize it. I chose sad, and contrary to its definition, it lightens me. These hard emotions I’ve locked up inside for months, maybe even years, feel good. I don’t know how to navigate them, and a majority part of me still doesn’t want to.

But I am. I did.

I sit here by my dad’s bed, holding his hand, and I tell him every last happy thing I can think of. I don’t talk about the sad things, or the depressing things. I tell him about the joy that lit up Jolene’s face last night when she started getting the hang of 10 Point Pitch. I pull up a picture on my phone of the sunlight slanting into my apartment and hold it up, even though I know he can’t see it. I tell him, laughing, about how I accidentally placed an order for double the number of hydrangeas at Hazel’s flower shop last Monday.

Slowly, over the course of a one-sided conversation, I realize that choosing sad has turned into choosing happy.

TEXTS BETWEEN CHEYENNE & COLTON:

Cheyenne: I did it. I chose sad. And guess what?

Colton: You did? What??

Cheyenne: I did. You’re supposed to guess.

Colton: You won’t ever listen to me for advice again??

Cheyenne: Good guess, but no.

Colton: You decided you don’t want to be my fake fiancée because of my pointless blue mind theory joke about cuddling?

Colton: That’s a joke. I didn’t say that

Colton: Don’t say yes to that

Colton: PLEASE don’t say yes to that

Cheyenne: No, that’s not it.

Colton: Okay I give

Colton: What is it?