Page 53 of Came the Closest
“Or,” Jordan says, “something meaningful in general.”
Colton hops into the boat to take the rope from Jordan and keeps one hand braced on the dock post. “How about Rich Girl? You know, like the Daryl Hall song.”
“Or Gas Guzzler,” Nash teases.
Graham and Jordan glare at them.
“Okay, okay. Not in the joking mood. Got it.” Colton pauses. For the first time since he pulled in fifteen minutes ago, he meets my gaze directly. “How about The Delilah? For Hazel.”
No one says anything. I know how much it took for him to say that. Graham and Colton have been the most welcoming of Hazel into our lives, but I don’t know where Colton stands on grieving his mother. I do know he loved her. All three of the boys did, in their own ways, but Colton’s soft heart might have loved her the most.
Even if he’d never admit it.
My relationship with Kathleen started with instant, fiery attraction. It was fostered, sometimes miserably, by my desire to provide when she got pregnant with Jordan only a few months later. Independently, she could have provided for a child. Even still, I convinced myself—and, somehow, her—that we could work. We could be a family.
We couldn’t, not in the long run. But I wouldn’t change it. Not when I have three incredible sons—and a daughter—because of her. She might not have ever been truly mine, but she was theirs. Because of her decision to stay with me all those years ago, we get to celebrate tonight.
“Or,” I say, “we could call her The Indigo.”
Jordan frowns.
“The Indigo Delilah,” Colton counters. When no one objects, he nods once. “Okay, then. That’s decided. Hop aboard and let’s take a selfie to send to Indi with the name. She will love it.”
“Translated,” Graham says, stepping into the boat, “she’ll disown us.”
Jordan shakes his head with reluctant affection. “No, she won’t.”
“If she does,” Nash says, raising his hand, “I volunteer as tribute to step in as the fourth sibling.”
We laugh. After everyone has boarded The Indigo Delilah, Colton holds his phone out for a selfie. He sends the picture before we can review it, and a moment later, one comes back of Indi, Cheyenne, and Milo at Hazel’s flower shop.
Colton shifts his phone slightly away after we’ve all seen it. But even from my place at the helm, I notice how he looks at the picture for a heartbeat longer than normal.
“Theoretically,” Nash says, butter dripping down his wrist, “lobster is a great idea. Summer food at its highest class. Until you are served that lobster. Then you remember you have to eat another meal after because it’s so much work for one sliver of meat.”
Jordan leans forward on the bench to peer around Graham. “Exactly. You could be like me—order food that comes prepared and doesn’t burn calories while eating it.”
“That—” Graham points at Jordan’s fried shrimp basket “—is a toddler meal.” He mock shudders. “Thank God I’m not sleeping anywhere near you tonight.”
Jordan frowns and pulls his food closer to him on the splintery wooden tabletop. “Says the guy who practically ate the entire appetizer of calamari by himself. Thanks for asking if we wanted any, by the way. It’s fine. We didn’t.”
“I did,” Colton objects, glancing up from his crab leg. Salty butter is smeared across his cheek, just like when Kathleen and I brought the boys as kids. “Disturbingly, I like squid when it’s been deep fried and dipped in rémoulade sauce.”
Nash crunches on a Vickie’s salt and vinegar potato chip. Smart, choosing those over French fries. Seagulls loiter at the hem of the deck seating, waiting to swoop in on dropped fries. “Everything tastes good when it’s deep fried,” he says. “Have you ever tried alligator? Oh, my god, one time when me and Jordan—”
“No,” Jordan interrupts. “Do not tell them that story.”
“One time,” Nash continues, undeterred, “we were assigned to a homicide case on the northern edge of L.A., and Jordan was hungry for seafood. But let me set the stage here.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “The neighborhood could’ve been featured in a horror movie. We were obviously in an unmarked car, but it might as well have been a uniformed cruiser, considering the Charger stuck out like a sore thumb. Black cats wandered along the pothole-laden roads, druggies smoked on severely compromised front porches, and—”
“Okay, Hemingway. We need a little disclaimer,” Jordan says dryly. “I was running on four hours of sleep because I had a six-month old daughter at home. Uncle Nash over here was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and clearly cataloging our surroundings to sell to Universal Studios. Minor detail, though.” He gestures blandly at Nash. “Carry on, if you must.”
I hide a smile behind my napkin while Nash animatedly tells his story about a wrongly advertised restaurant in the Los Angeles slums. Something in my chest loosens. It’s been years since my sons have been together for more than a day or two. With Nash thrown into the mix, it’s like they’re just brothers for once. Bickering harmlessly and tossing around insults laced with a healthy dose of love.
It makes me feel less like our family is broken, and more like we’re fractured. Fractures heal, if only with time and patience. I’m determined to heal this family if it’s the last thing I do.
I’ll never strive for perfectionism, because nothing is perfect behind closed doors. I would know—I watched my parents in public versus at home. I just want us to be what I once dreamed of on a July afternoon with Hazel the summer before she left for Georgia.
Happy.