Page 54 of Came the Closest
I might always be working on balancing life with fatherhood and work. Graham might always struggle with open communication. Jordan might never be fully relieved of the guilt he carries with him from overseas or his PTSD from last August’s shooting.
And Colton…
I glance at my middle son. He’s telling the story of when twelve-year-old Graham jumped out of his skin because Colton had hidden behind his bed, complete with hand gestures and a high-pitched squeal. I sigh inwardly.
He’ll be okay. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. But if there’s one thing as strong as his tenderness, it’s his tenacity. If Colton wants something bad enough, he will find a way to get it. That went for the bull riding chaps he wanted when he was only ten, and that goes for everything now.
It might mean sacrificing on a level he’s never met before, though.
Jordan reaches across Graham’s plate of blackened mahi-mahi, to Graham’s chagrin, and grabs a handful of Nash’s salt and vinegar chips. Around his crunching, he looks at Colton. “How’s it going at the lake house? You know, with, well, everything?”
Colton shrugs and drops his wadded-up napkin in his basket. “Fine. Milo has adjusted well.”
“And?” Jordan presses. “What about you?”
Colton stiffens next to me on the bench. “What about me?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jordan says dryly. “Maybe, how are you doing? It’s not every day you get fake engaged to your childhood best friend to become temporary guardian of a four-year-old half-brother. I mean, shoot, Collie. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Colton says evenly. A little too calm outwardly, I imagine, for the riot of emotion he might be feeling inwardly. “Nothing between us has changed.”
Graham narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”
Cheeks full of lobster, Nash nods. “You have the same tell as Jordan does. Both of your eyes dart to the side—Jordan’s go left, though, and yours go right.”
“He is the former detective,” Graham says.
“Hey,” Jordan protests, “what about me?”
Colton’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head and braces his palms on the edge of the table to scoot off the bench. He mumbles something about getting another drink before he disappears into The Salty Crab.
Jordan starts to stand, but I hold up a hand. “I’ll talk to him. You two keep trying to talk Graham into wearing that t-shirt.”
Graham’s frown deepens. “I won’t wear it, so don’t waste your breath.”
“Oh, come on,” Nash says. “YOGMO, right?”
Jordan squints. “YOGMO?”
“Yeah,” Nash replies. “You Only Get Married Once.”
Graham gestures stiffly at me. “Dad’s literally going to get married for the second time, and some people—”
“Okay,” Nash concedes, a chip clasped between his fingertips. Jordan steals it and pops it in his mouth. “Let me change it to GOGMO—Graham Only Gets Married Once. You have to…”
Tucking my greasy napkin under my basket, Nash’s words fade as I cross the sandy deck to go inside. The Salty Crab smells exactly like it did twenty years ago. Briny seafood, deep grease embedded into plaster walls, and sweaty drinks on cork coasters. Tiny square tables are covered in red and white checkered tablecloths, waitresses wear denim cutoffs and Salty Crab tank tops, and there are enough pictures crammed on the walls that, in the event of a flood, you could build a raft with the wooden frames.
Colton isn’t at the bar. He might think I don’t know much about his life, but I’ve stayed up to date with his career. I know my son. I know he’s sober, that he has been since he was nineteen and narrowly avoided a DUI. I also know he hates confrontation, and that being overwhelmed makes him close in on himself.
I weave through the packed restaurant and out the front door. Sultry wind pushes my shirt against my chest. I grasp the brim of my hat to keep it in place, and gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk down to the docks. The Salty Crab sits on a jagged point with shoreline on three of its four sides. Colton escaped to the dock where The Indigo Delilah is tethered, conveniently just out of our table’s view.
He doesn’t look up when I sit down next to him on the sun-warmed boards of the dock. He tossed the shoes and the fedora he didn’t want to wear into the Sea Ray. Based on the undone buttons of his linen shirt, he considered discarding that, too.
I squint heavenward. A seagull flits across the deep blue sky. “Matt at the marina told me he recommends keeping a spare suit or two in the boat. Never know when you might need a dip in the lake.”
The way he stares at his knees, saying nothing, tells me he isn’t interested in Matt’s suggestion. Not that I’d expect him to be. He clearly has things on his mind, and if he doesn’t want to talk, so be it. But I’m not going anywhere.
I’ve spent enough time being inaccessible to my sons.