Chapter Eleven
Funny How Fast Things Change
Colton
“No. Absolutely not. No.”
Travis repeats himself when he’s riled up. His ire deeply amuses me, and even though he knows this, he can’t help it. Five years ago, when I played one song on repeat during all training sessions, he became so irritated he muttered Andy Grammar lyrics under his breath for two and a half weeks.
He probably hasn’t forgiven me for that.
I should tell him it’s unhealthy to hold grudges.
“You can’t just all of a sudden decide to adopt—”
“Not adopt,” I say.
“—a child when you’re in the throes of, quite frankly, press hell,” he continues. I’d bet my truck he’s not listening to a word I say. “I mean, think with your brain here, Colton. I know it’s difficult when it’s the size of a pea, but—”
“Maybe a mustard seed,” I say thoughtfully.
“— come on . No. The answer is no.”
“Thank you for the input, but I wasn’t asking. My decision has been made.” Which is why I’m having this conversation while sitting in my truck, parked in the driveway of the lake house. “I told my sister yes, and it goes into effect today.” My eyes shift to the dash clock. “In about ten minutes, actually, and if I know Indi, that’ll be three. So, either you continue scolding me about a decision I’ve already made, or you use that time to provide my schedule for the next three months. I need to let Cheyenne know when I’ll be around and when I’ll be gone.”
Silence .
The kind of silence like last Wednesday, when Indi looked from Milo to me, and what came next was something I didn’t want to hear. The kind of silence that makes me pull my phone from my ear to make sure we’re still connected.
“Travis?”
“You won’t be gone at all for the foreseeable future.”
His words ping my brain and bounce right back off. In fact, I start laughing. “Trav, if this is you trying to get back at me—”
“It’s not that,” he interrupts stiffly. Then, after a pause, he adds, “But to be clear, there are a significant number of things I could get back at you for. This just isn’t one of them.”
I stare blankly at a blue jay roosted on a maple tree branch in the front yard that is going about its Monday morning like normal. Its only care is gathering worms and flitting over the lake and finding the perfect place to sunbathe.
“You won’t be gone at all,” Travis repeats, “because I need you to keep laying low. That means you don’t make appearances at rodeo events, and you absolutely do not try to fix it online. It doesn’t mean you can’t go anywhere, though. You’re not that famous.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It does,” he continues, “mean not going anywhere in the rodeo’s eye. There, you will be recognized. Comes with a money back guarantee.”
“Travis, I can’t do that and you know it. If I’m not competing, shooting sponsorship content, and—”
“Look, Colt. Yes, guys sully their reputations one night and are back in the arena the next. But you…” He pauses. I wonder if it’s to consider his words or to check his email. “The bottom line is that you have a charmer’s persona and darn close to reckless confidence, but your sobriety sets you apart from almost everyone on the circuit. We don’t need people poking around to find out why you’re sober in the first place.”
Well, that answers the question about choosing his words or checking his email.
The words he chose are a perfect shot, too. I feel them sear right through my chest. Getting physical with a reporter during a live podcast is one thing, but dredging up my past is another. A flippant “I beat myself up in the arena, might as well keep my head on straight outside of it” worked well before when I was asked about it. And it was the partial truth.
Just not the whole one.
“So, what now? If I’m not competing, shooting content, and generally keeping up appearances, do tell, how am I supposed to keep sponsors?” Sarcasm layers my words heavily. “Someone has said, repeatedly, that no sponsors mean no money.”
“You let me handle it, that’s what,” Travis says dryly. “By some small miracle, you haven’t lost any sponsors yet. You’re not exactly hard up for cash. Cooperate, and you should be back on the circuit a couple months from now. Ignore me, and, well, reap the consequences.”
“It’s reap the rewards and suffer the consequences.”
“Semantics.”
I blow out a long breath ringed with frustration, and I narrowly resist banging my forehead against my steering wheel. “Okay, then. I’ll stay off the circuit for three months—the duration of this guardianship.”
I purposely leave out the fake engagement. The press does not get to sink their talons into that sticky situation. It’s bad enough that the court system will know.
“Now, I don’t—”
“Gotta go,” I say. “Don’t let my career crash and burn without at least letting me light the match.”
Travis is saying something about being serious, but I hang up. Indi’s shiny black Audi appears in my rearview, but I don’t get out of my truck.
For the first time since I was seventeen years old, I no longer have the one consistent thing in my life. Longer, if you count training with Tripp from age thirteen. Nearly two decades of eating, sleeping, and breathing rodeo. Of moving to the next city, running the same drills, climbing to the top of a career. And what does it amount to when it’s been stripped from me?
Nothing .
That’s what.
I wish I could talk to Tripp. But if I could, none of this would’ve happened in the first place.
A sharp tap on my passenger window startles me from my thoughts. Indi stands outside my truck, not wearing enough makeup to hide the puffiness around her red-rimmed eyes.
Reality punches me mercilessly in the gut. It’s not a reality check I want—I’m only human—but it is one that spurs me into action. Here I am, wallowing in self-pity, while Milo is about to be thrust into completely unfamiliar territory. While my sister, who has been Milo’s person since she was fourteen and he was born, waits to entrust him to my care.
Pathetic.
I briefly consider getting the word tattooed across my forehead.
“Took you long enough,” Indi says when I meet her between our vehicles.
“Good morning to you, too,” I say. My gaze flits to her car.
Through the open passenger window, I see Milo. He’s flipping through a picture book in his booster seat, legs crossed, foot bouncing to music only he can hear. He looks completely at ease, utterly trusting that what comes next will just be part of his promised adventure.
I wonder when I became jaded with my own adventure.
“You know this is a big deal, right?” Indi wears a lightweight white sweater stitched with the American flag, and she folds the sweater cuff over in her palm. “Like, you’re going from Casanova to temporary dad in, like, point-five seconds. Oh, my gosh, what do you even know about this? About him! You have—”
“Indi. Look at me.” I set my hands on her shoulders and wait until she glances up. “Breathe.”
She scoffs. “You think—”
“Breathe,” I repeat, doing so myself. In for six, out for eight, over and over again until she reluctantly follows suit. I squeeze her shoulders. “If I don’t have it, Dad’s house is only a seven-minute walk. I’ll show Milo the mile markers along the way.”
Indi’s eyes blaze. “Colton!”
Laughing, I stuff my hands in the pocket of my hoodie just as Cheyenne’s Bronco pulls around the corner. “Easy, Blue. I’m joking. About messing up, not the seven-minute walk.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “He’s been my whole world, Colton.”
“Well, then,” I say gently, “let’s make his and your world even bigger.”
I don’t like the idea of picking favorites, but Milo picked Cheyenne.
All it took was one look in the bedroom beside hers—Justin’s old room—and that was that. He saw Justin’s collection of ships in bottles on the dusty desk by the window and the nautical comforter on the bed, and his decision was made. He wanted this room and this room only.
Not Beau’s aviation themed room across the hall from the junior master Cheyenne insisted I use for the summer.
I won’t take it personally. I mean, I’d pick ship bottles over model planes, too.
“Inni—” his version of Indi “—look at the books!” Milo takes off across the living room to the full wall of bookshelves. Warren and Clara are firm believers in The Lake House Rules, Number 2 of which is Read a Book . Milo turns back to us, face flushed and eyes twinkling. “Do you see them?!”
“I see them,” Indi confirms, only now catching up to her brother. She tousles his blonde curls affectionately. Our brother . “Looks like you’ll stay plenty busy reading this summer, yeah?”
Milo presses a novel—one much too mature for his age—to his nose. “Inni says books smell good,” he explains, soberly, to me.
“She does, huh?” I hold out my hand for the mystery novel and subtly gesture to the children’s books for Indi. Two birds, one stone. I press the open book to my nose and inhale noisily. “Ah. Smells like…paper?!”
Milo bursts out laughing, the sound so infectious that amusement bubbles in my own chest. Indi rolls her eyes. I feel Cheyenne watching our interactions, but she’s quiet this morning. Overwhelmed, maybe. I make a mental note to pick up a dozen donuts from Sunny Glaze when I get the chance.
With everything, I think I’ve forgotten how much of a change, and a sacrifice, this arrangement is for Cheyenne.
“Can I read this one?” Milo lifts a heavy-looking book on sailboats, and I tamp down a smile when he adds, “I like to look at the pictures!”
Indi had mentioned that Milo is advanced for his age, but if something is age-appropriate enough, she lets him explore. I want to ask her if Sailing: The Basics qualifies, but soon enough Indi won’t be around every time I have a question. Instinct tells me to look at her for confirmation.
I ignore it.
“Yeah, but if you need help with the big words,” I tease lightly, “you’ll have to ask Cheyenne or Indi. I haven’t learned how to read those yet.”
Another round of giggles bursts from him. When I do look at Indi, she nods. It feels like I passed a test I hadn’t studied for. A trickle of confidence hits my system.
Maybe I can do this.
Indi settles Milo on the sofa facing the sunroom, the Choose Happy throw pillow on his lap under the book, and then follows Cheyenne and I to the kitchen. Before we left yesterday, we opened all the curtains, but based on the lack of dust, Cheyenne came back to clean afterwards. It’s so spotless that I can almost stare at my own reflection in the quartz countertop.
I tally another mental note to hide the cleaning supplies, save for general kitchen disinfectant and hand soap. Then, with a crooked grin, I conjure the image of Cheyenne cleaning everything with just hand soap to spite me.
I want to check if the fridge is still empty or if she got groceries, too, but I don’t have time before Indi starts talking.
“I made a list of his most common likes and dislikes,” she says, looking between Cheyenne and me, “that I’ll text to each of you. As you can see, books are his go-to, but he needs encouragement to do other things, too. My goal for the summer was going to be finding him another hobby or two, but then…” She shakes her head. “Well, you know.”
Compassionate to her core, Cheyenne reaches out to squeeze my sister’s hand.
Indi swallows, gratitude shining in her eyes, and continues. “I try to get him to bed by eight to eight-thirty, and he typically wakes up around seven. Always keep his aquatic water bottle half full with lukewarm water on his nightstand, the nightlight on, and the bedroom door halfway open.” She glances at Cheyenne. “He loves bathtime, but if he decides a hurricane should blow through the tub, everything will be soaked.”
“Got it,” Cheyenne says.
My shoulders relax at her easy smile.
“Food aversions?” I ask. It seems like a logical, levelheaded question.
“Not that we know of,” Indi says. A wry smile curves her lips. “Unless you consider not enough food to be one. He eats like you.”
Cheyenne looks over at me, grinning slightly. “Might need a hefty weekly grocery budget, Casanova.”
I groan. “Not you with that nickname, too.”
“Now you know what it feels like,” Indi quips.
“Nah.” I grin. “I’ll still call you Blue, Blue.”
She glares at me, but she smiles at Cheyenne. “You’re right about the grocery budget. I’ll get you a list of his favorite snacks and meals. Oh! We also made a—”
“Hold on, let me guess,” I deadpan. “Another list?”
“Maybe you should try it sometime,” she counters. “Yes, another list. Milo, uh…” She glances at the boy, who is currently lost in the full color pages of Sailing: The Basics , and lowers her voice. “Sometimes he has nightmares. They started when Mom got sick, but they’ve become more frequent since she’s been gone. We made a list of positive things he can think about when they occur.”
Cheyenne nods. She’s probably taking the information in stride and not mentally overloading like I am. “If you want, you could just email me all the lists you have and I’ll print them out to keep handy. I texted my brother about using his room. I’ll move the clothes, but he said Milo is welcome to any of his toys. I’ll ask him to confirm, but I think the shop where he got those boat bottle kits from is still open. Maybe we could pick one or two out and save them for a rainy day.”
“Oh, he would love that. If there’s one positive about the Pierre family, it’s their wealth.” Indi’s mouth twists, part grimace and part wryness. “That didn’t give Milo a good dad, but it indirectly gave him his father’s affinity for all things nautical since Vincent’s house is on the water. We walked the marinas nearly every day last summer. He especially loves sailboats. Ask him to look at boats, and it’s all he’ll talk about for the rest of the day.”
“Noted,” Cheyenne says. “Also, I want you to know that you’re welcome here any time. I don’t want to take Milo away from you.”
Indi smiles absently, folding the cuff of her sweater again. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I just…” She shakes her head. “This is good for him. To have family around, not just me.”
Cheyenne reaches for Indi’s hand again, squeezing gently. “You’ve been his entire world, not just a piece of it, Indi. We want to share that responsibility, yes, but it doesn’t take away your importance in his life.”
After yesterday with the throw pillow, I expect one or both women to let their emotions get the best of them. And if they do, I…what? Stand here? Try to awkwardly pat both of them on the shoulder? Pretend I’m completely immune and I don’t notice? Comforting Cheyenne is one thing, but both of them?
I’d be in well over my head.
Fortunately, I’m spared. Indi tips her chin back up, Cheyenne withdraws her hand, and—and when did Milo come over here?
“Hey, Ch…” He wrinkles his nose and tugs on Cheyenne’s lightweight striped shorts, poking his thumb over his shoulder. “Hey, you. Wanna read with me?” A dimple winks in his round cheeks when he grins. “I mean, look at pictures.”
I can’t look away. Not when Milo looks up at Cheyenne adoringly, and Cheyenne regards him with such tenderness it makes my own heart ache. It’s a look I’ve never seen on her, one that speaks of hope and sadness at the same time.
My throat tightens, because there’s relief mixed in there, too. A smile for her rosy lips, relief for her tightened shoulders, tenderness for the apprehension in her blue eyes. She becomes elation, personified.
“I would absolutely love that,” she says, letting him take her by the hand. “Hey, by the way, you could call me Annie if you want to? It might be a little easier than Cheyenne.”
Gutted, I do look away this time. The only person in the world who calls her Annie is her father. I rub absently at my sternum, but it doesn’t ease the ache there. I’m starting to wonder if it will ever go away, or if it’s become so deeply embedded that it’s permanent.
Milo’s smile turns impish. “Annie like the pretzels at my sister’s mall?”
Cheyenne laughs brightly. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how to make pretzels. But yes, the same name.”
Clearing my throat, I bump my shoulder into Indi’s. “I know you have a thing for fashion, but I didn’t know you owned a mall, Blue.”
My sister glares up at me before she takes off down the hall. “Help me with Milo’s stuff, would you?”
I pause before I follow her. That same ache spasms in my chest when I take in the pair in the living room. Cheyenne, snuggled into the off-white sofa, and Milo, on her lap, his head of blonde curls resting on her collarbone. The book is propped on his tiny legs, just above a printed Band-Aid on his nubby knee, and Cheyenne’s smile grows every time he points at something on the pages.
I continue down the hall and out the door. Indi pulls a child’s blue suitcase from her trunk and sets it on the cracked driveway. East of this quiet side street, horns honk. Lakeside, boats rumble and music thumps. Above my head, wind rustles treetops.
It’s a perfectly normal day…for some.
Days ago, my normal was training, competing, and keeping up with constant media changes. Now it’s weekly grocery budgets, boats in bottles, and the little boy snuggled into my best friend turned fake fiancée for the summer.
Funny how fast things change.