Page 4 of Came the Closest
Sometimes I wonder what normal would feel like.
I’m not talking about a white picket fence, two-and-a-half kids, climbing the corporate ladder only to retire kind of normal. I shudder at the very notion of stuffing myself into a suit every day of the week like my dad and brothers do; you won’t catch me dead in a corner office. Not even for the promise of no broken bones at the end of a workday or a thousand-dollar orthopedic desk chair to roll around in.
No, I’m talking about my normal.
The one before. The one where I didn’t feel like losing it every time I checked my phone before I remembered that Tripp won’t be calling me anytime soon. The one where every day didn’t feel like its predecessor—dull, lifeless, and numb. The one where I didn’t struggle to hang onto my sobriety because I didn’t want something, anything, to take the edge off the grief.
Sitting in a cold jail cell nearly twelve years ago should have taken care of that once and for all, and it had. Until now. Until feeling like everything is spiraling out of control, like it’s slipping slowly through my fingers. I feel helpless to do more than go through the motions.
I don’t like this new normal. In fact, I’m trying to improve my headspace enough to make it through tonight’s finals unscathed. It might not feel like I have much to live for anymore, but my niece will be in the stands tonight. Jolene has no idea how many times she’s metaphorically saved me in her seven years of life.
I need to pick myself up, shake off the ghosts, and finish giving her this tour of the arena. My whole family, actually—Dad and Hazel, Jordan and Jolene, Graham, and Gran. There’s never been a time in my thirteen years on the circuit where all of them were at one of my rodeos; might as well enjoy it the best I can.
“Daddy, can I ride a fake bull?” Jolene asks Jordan. “I bet I could stay on for more than eight seconds.”
Jordan shoots me a thanks-a-lot look that I only grin at. “Absolutely not.”
“But Daddy.”
“No but Daddy’s about it,” he says, bopping her on the nose with his index finger. He’s done that gesture since the very day she was born, when her nose was no bigger than a tiny button. “Not everyone can be as dumb as your Uncle Coat.” He flashes me a smirk. “No offense.”
“I can’t see why he’d take offense to that,” Graham says dryly.
“You’re right,” I say with a mock solemnity. “Maybe I’ll take a gate to it.”
Giggles bubble out of Jolene, my brothers and my dad roll their eyes, and Hazel hides a soft laugh behind her palm. I swing my niece onto my shoulders, intensifying her laughter as she grasps at my hair for balance, and when I give an exaggerated ow! she laughs harder.
Some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
“Hardy-har,” Graham mumbles in response to my joke.
“Look alive, Grammy,” Jordan says, sweeping a hand to our surroundings. The AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas, with its flashy lights, thousands of seats, and the distinct buzz of adrenaline thrumming through riders like me. “I mean, we’re in the arena of stupidity. The least you could do is enjoy yourself.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes as I turn to continue the tour, but the truth is that I need this. Whether as motivation or distraction, I need the harmless insults from my brothers and the weight of my niece on my shoulders. I need Gran murmuring about the Wrangler butts around us, and my businessman father looking wildly out of place in his pressed jeans and too-big cowboy hat that I bet he bought just for this weekend.
I’m not very close to my family, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love them. It’s more that I try to protect myself because I love them. I’ve always loved too easily, too deeply, and I have no idea how to express that love without getting my heart broken. It’s easier to keep friendships surface level, and romantic relationships casual. Familial relationships, well, those might be the most complicated of all.
My inability to properly express myself is also why I don’t have Cheyenne in my life anymore.
Just like that, the tension is back.
“Colton, thank God.” My manager sounds out of breath as he narrowly avoids a collision with a trio of chaps-clad cowboys. His glasses are crooked, one paper hangs from his clipboard by a thread, and he looks like he just rolled out of bed. In other words, Travis Ford in his natural state. “Where have you been? You’re supposed to do an interview with Ben Rhodes to be broadcast live online. It’s a very big deal. Also—”
“I’m in the middle of giving a tour right now,” I interrupt, mostly to watch exasperation pull at Travis’s mouth. Little more pleases me more than getting a rise out of my manager. “Jolene here is a future world champ—”
“She is not,” Jordan cuts in firmly.
“—pion of photography,” I finish, pausing to wink at my brother, “so I need her to get a feel of the backstage landscape. Know the best place for chute shots, understand warmups, be prepared to have freaky fast reflexes for close shots. Gotta get the best angles of my rides, right, Jojo?”
“Yeah,” Graham says, “because he has one good side. The other?” He mock shudders. “Won’t be putting that on Bull Riders Weekly.”
“Rodeo Weekly,” Travis corrects absently, attention divided between his beloved iPad and the conversation. I often fantasize about hiding his charging cords just to watch fear seep into his expression as the device batteries begin draining. “And that’s all fine and good after this interview with Rhodes. In case you’ve forgotten, you have sponsors. Sponsors have money, and money makes it reasonable for me to deal with you. No sponsors, no money, no me.”
I pretend to listen because I intend to keep Travis on as my manager, but this isn’t my first rodeo. Pun fully intended. You don’t get to my career level without knowing these things—smile a charmer’s smile for the cameras, flirt just enough with interviewers to maintain a slight player’s reputation, and above all, keep the sponsors happy.
“We’re at the Finals,” Travis is saying, “so you need to be on your A-game. You’re thirty, Colt. Most guys here are younger and less injured—”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter.