Whit
Stealing a glance at the microwave clock mid-sip of coffee, I wave my free hand through the air, indicating it’s time for Jonas to get ready to leave.
Once I’ve finished swallowing, I say as much aloud. “Colt’s going to be here any minute. It’s rude to make him wait.”
With a groan, Jonas flops forward, sweeping his empty cereal bowl and cup halfway across the table with one forearm and creating a makeshift pillow with the other.
When he told me Colt wanted to head out fishing early—before the temperatures got too high—I expected a rough morning.
Jonas is slow to start on a good day, but before seven a.m.?
It’s a miracle his eyes are open. In fact, I think he was sleep-eating his cereal a few minutes ago.
“He’s going really out of his way to pick you up.” I lean my back against the counter and fidget with the hem of my running shorts.
I’m not a morning person, either. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting Colt see me in my usual early-morning state, so I woke up a full hour ago to brush my hair, meticulously give myself a no-makeup makeup look, and put on a bra.
I repeat Jonas’s name again, annoyed inflection in my tone.
“In a minute,” he mumbles into his arm.
The unmistakable rumble of Colt’s truck in the driveway has me clunking my mug against the countertop, barely hanging on to the thin edges of my patience as I grit out, “Now.”
“For somebody who hates repeating herself, you never stop.” His head lifts, moody eyes staring at me through his eyebrows. “God, you’re so annoying.”
My jaw tightens. “Want to try responding again?”
“You’re always nagging.”
“You could try doing things the first time I ask. Then I wouldn’t need to nag.” The engine sounds cease, indicating Colt will be walking up to the front door any second. “Let’s go, or you’re not playing video games for the rest of the weekend.”
He shoves his chair back, grabbing the dirty dishes and trudging toward the kitchen sink. “I don’t give a shit about playing video games anyway.”
Since when?
I raise a silent eyebrow, taking him in. With hunched shoulders and a scowl across his face, Jonas slams the dishes down—they don’t shatter, impressively. He turns to me, crossing his arms tight against his chest.
“What’s going on with you?”
He huffs. “Nothing.”
“Is something going on with your friends? Is that why you didn’t want to invite them over the other night?”
His expression twists, frustration giving way to something heavier. “No!”
“You can talk to—”
“You always want me to talk, talk, talk.” His voice gets louder with each word, and he pulls his hand through his hair, leaving it standing in every direction. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I take a step toward him, and he practically leaps away. Despite his harsh tone and petulant attitude, I’m far more troubled by the utter dejection in his eyes. There’s no fire. And I’d take a full-on screaming match with an impassioned preteen over this beaten-down version.
“Jonas—”
“God, I hate you. Why won’t you leave me the hell alone?” he yells, voice cracking on the final syllable.
The words hit like a slap, sharp and dismissive.
Before I can respond, another voice cuts through the room. “Jonas.”
We both turn to find Colt standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, a frown etched across his face. Shit. He must’ve heard the commotion and decided to let himself in. Betty’s sitting on guard at his feet, and she gives us a wary look.
Colt levels Jonas with a steady stare, pulling his hand from the doorframe and stuffing it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Don’t talk to your mom like that.”
“Whatever.” Jonas shakes his head with a huff.
Then without another word, nor a full breath, from any of us, Jonas turns on his heel and thumps his way up the stairs. When his door slams, I wince, unable to look at Colt.
“All good?” Colt tilts his head, getting a read on me.
Golden rays of sun stream in through the cracked front door to silhouette his sturdy frame, and his worried expression fosters an unbearable urge to throw myself into his barrel chest. He looks like he’d cure all my problems with a single good hug.
“Y-yeah, it’s all—no, it’s not all good. I don’t know what’s going on with him today.”
“Probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“No…” I look toward the empty staircase, the knot in my stomach cinching tighter. “I don’t know if it’s his friends, or his dad, or…or if he just hates me.”
Our relationship feels like a torn and tattered piece of fabric, and each time I pull one stitch tight, another comes loose. We’re unraveling, and I’m too crappy of a seamstress—and a mother—to mend everything.
The quick brush of my foot slides a few of Jonas’s shoes out of the walkway, leading Betty to believe I want her to come say hello. I crouch, petting a line down her furry back, and she licks my free hand.
“I thought…it’s stupid, I guess, but I thought we were past this. He’s been such a good kid since he started hanging out with you.” Betty flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs.
“He’s a great kid, Whit.”
I quietly scoff at that. “Yeah.”
Colt steps closer, then crouches down on the opposite side of Betty to join me in petting her. A near miss of our hands has my heartbeat thrumming in my chest, pleading for the spark of his fingers against mine.
“It’s obviously your call whether Jonas should be allowed to come fishing today after what just happened. But some time apart might be good?”
The intricate dance of our hands rises to a crescendo when his callused thumb grazes my skin; like a gentle breath on an ember, it kindles the fire in my core. I let my pinky loop around his, and our hands fall still.
“He’s never going to talk to me about it,” I quietly admit.
“If he’s still allowed to come fishing, I can try to talk to him…if you want?”
And to think I had to beg Alex to talk to Jonas…and he still didn’t do it.
I give him a slight nod. “He doesn’t open up to a lot of people, but he trusts you.”
Which is exactly why I can’t do anything to fuck this up.
Swallowing the emotion clinging to my throat, I pull my hand back, letting it fall to my side as we both move to stand.
Over the course of the last month, Jonas has found a friend and confidant in Colt.
And if I were to explore the way my pulse races and core tightens when I look at him, I’d risk all that and so much more.
If I cost him this, my son would never forgive me.
Whether it’s how quickly I stood, or the way my head’s swimming with thoughts of Colt, or the three cups of coffee I drank on an empty stomach this morning, I suddenly feel light headed.
Reflexively, my hands press against his firm chest for support, and he catches my elbow.
Unfortunately, the feeling of his firm, warm hand wrapped around my arm has the opposite of a steadying effect.
“You okay?”
“Stood up too fast.”
I have to stop touching him. Each time my skin makes contact, the withdrawal becomes harder.
“You don’t need to worry about Jonas. He has a great mom, and he’s going to turn out just fine.”
Blinking back the burning behind my eyelids, I force a weak laugh.
I realize my hand is still firmly on his pec, thumb swirling over the thin cotton of his stupid T-shirt.
A rumbling resonance from inside his hard chest vibrates against my palm, and I take notice of the way his heart speeds up when our eyes lock.
“Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“Well, I am.”
I step toward him, unbidden. “Colt, I—”
Knowing exactly what I need, his arms widen ever so slightly, calling me into him right as the tears start to fall. I swipe my cheek across my shoulder to wipe away the wetness and my body folds into his arms.
I bury my face in his collarbone, listening to the rough touch of his work-worn hand catch on my hair with every gentle stroke. He muffles the sobs in his large chest, flooding my nostrils with the calming sandalwood scent of his body wash.
My theory about his hugs was partially right.
I’m not cured, but I’m healing.