Page 66 of Came the Closest
“Colton!”
I turn from the elevators at the sound of Hazel’s lilting Southern accent. My father’s fiancée wears a bright, patterned dress that flutters around her ankles, carries an orange leather purse in the crook of her elbow, and has her dark curls held away from her face with a white headband.
“Hazel,” I say, smiling. “Here to see Dad?”
“I was, but he has a fire to put out. We’ll take a raincheck.” She pauses, and I sense her hesitation. “I don’t suppose you’d like some company for lunch? It’ll be on me, of course.”
The elevator slides open, and I sweep my arm toward it. “I’d love the company. Lunch—or any meal, for that matter—is significantly more enjoyable with a conversation partner. But,” I add, more seriously, “I will be buying.”
Hazel must know when to pick her battles; she only laughs softly and pats my arm on her way into the elevator. Notes of jasmine and orange peel fragrance the air around her, and she moves gracefully, but I’m stuck on how maternal the gesture feels, whether intentional or not.
My mother only did that when she was coming or going.
We pick up food from Block 16, a small local burger joint in Old Market, and I carry the oily paper bag for the sixteen-minute walk down to Conagra Lake. I ask her about the flower shop, she asks me how the summer with Milo is going, and we speculate on what updates they may make to Gene Leahy Park in the coming years. We settle onto a bench near the cityscape-flanked lake, pull our respective orders from the bag—she the Belgian Smash Burger, me the Block Burger—and set a shared order of fries between us.
I dig in and nearly groan in satiated delight. And then I realize I probably shouldn’t inhale it like this in the presence of a lady. Especially when she is engaged to my father, which will make her my stepmother.
It’ll be weird, adjusting to that. Having my father remarried, having a mother figure in my life. Thinking of my father as part of a couple again.
I blot the burger juice around my mouth with a napkin and look at her apologetically. “Sorry. I know you’re not supposed to eat that fast, but…” I make a face. “Well, between you and me, whoever stocks the snack pantry at Del Ray has no taste.”
I mean that literally—the Cliff bars and unsalted almonds in the cupboard are blander than everything being white.
Hazel laughs. “I grew up with your father, honey. I’d be concerned if you didn’t eat ravenously.”
The comment relaxes my shoulders. I forget that Dad and Hazel have a history when I see them now. Their story is so parallel to my own life that I shift uncomfortably on the bench, keeping my napkin tucked under my thigh so the breeze doesn’t catch it. A tall couple walks by, holding hands, and a pregnant mother pushes a black stroller, movement unhindered by her swollen belly.
Cheyenne wants a family, and more than anything, I want that for her. I know Cheyenne would make the most incredible mother. Watching her interactions with Milo has only confirmed what I already knew.
I just don’t know if I can be the one to fulfill that dream for her. Not in the practical sense; we have chemistry, physically and emotionally. And yes, I’m here now, and yes, a breather has been nice. But what if August comes and I get antsy? What if I’m not capable of staying when things get hard?
What if I fail her the same way Stephen did?
“Now you’re not eating at all,” Hazel says, interrupting my downward mental spiral. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your head.”
I exhale through my nose on a soft, nervous laugh, and realize I’ve clenched my hand around the second half of my burger. “Sorry. I’m just, uh, processing a lot right now, I guess.”
She neatly folds the foil around the second half of her sandwich. “Anything a conversation partner could help with?”
I sigh and let my eyes rest on the water fountain in the middle of the man-made lake. Its spouts are nearly iridescent in the shimmering glow of summertime. “Do you ever—” I shake my head. “No. Never mind. That’s a personal question.”
“Well, I am a person, aren’t I?” she asks. When I look at her, she lifts her brows expectantly. “Go on, Colton. I was a politician’s wife for a very long time. It takes a lot to insult me.”
That’s probably untrue, given her compassionate nature. Funny how the softest people are often the ones with the strongest backbones. Outwardly, that is. It’s usually a façade to keep up public appearances.
I should know—being a softie isn’t seen as a strength in my profession. Bluntly, it could cost a man his life.
“Colton.” Hazel sets her hand on my knuckles. The solitaire my dad gave her catches rays of light effervescently. “It’s okay. Really. Ask me what you were going to ask.”
If this were anyone else, I don’t think I could. But Hazel Palmer is openly welcoming, and if nothing else, I’ll have offended her. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that with someone I care about.
I tap my thumb against my knee. “Do you ever wonder what it might have been like if you’d never left? Back when you and dad were kids, I mean?”
“Once upon a time, Colton, I wondered about it. Often,” she adds, holding my eyes. Her attention isn’t focused, though. Physically, she’s here; mentally, I think she’s decades in the past. “Truthfully, there weren’t many days I didn’t wonder about that over the last forty years.”
“But…?”
“But,” she says, “while I’ll always wonder, I’ll never wish. If I wish for it to have been different, one, I’ll just be wishing, and two, that would wish you away. And never, not in my wildest dreams, would I ever do that. I didn’t get to carry and raise children of my own, but if you think I wish I hadn’t let your father go, no.” She shakes her head. “I don’t. Because I would never wish you—or your brothers, or sister, or Jolene—away.”