Chapter Twenty-Two
Too-Small Twin Bed
Colton
If you would’ve asked me ten years ago which of us brothers would get married first, I’d have laughed and said none of us. If pushed for an answer, I’d have said Jordan. It would be a tie between Graham and myself for who would never get married.
But here we are. Tomorrow, my baby brother, who swore he’d never fall in love, is getting married. If everything goes as smoothly as rehearsal, it will go off without a hitch—but also with one.
My brothers and I are having one last poker night at Graham’s house with Gran before the big day. Before one of us is a husband. It’ll take a minute to adjust to Graham no longer being my unattached baby brother whose only flirtation is with the line of workaholism.
“All right, boys.” Gran shuffles the deck nimbly and looks around the table. Eye contact is impossible, because she wears hot pink sunglasses that are overly bedazzled. “Here’s how this works—”
“Gran,” Jordan interrupts. “We’ve been playing for years. I think we know how it works.”
She looks at him—at least, I don’t think she’s looking at the coffee pot on the counter behind him. “I don’t mean the game itself. I mean this game in particular.” Her smile is downright mischievous. “Graham is going all in by marrying Ember tomorrow, so tonight, my darlings, the stakes are higher.”
I level a flat look at my brothers. “Higher than walking away with the keys to my truck for a day?”
Graham shrugs. “Fair is fair.”
“Fair,” I say, “is not stacking the deck when someone steps out to take a phone call.”
“To be fair ,” Jordan says, “we’ve never specified that rule.”
“If that was a pun, it wasn’t punny.”
Jordan smiles, slow and deliberate. “But I’d venture to say it’ll be pun once we actually start playing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, c’mon, J-Lo. You’re a dad. Dad jokes are funnier than that .”
Graham tilts his head back and forth, stacking his chips. “That’s debatable.”
“Yeah, but—”
Gran clears her throat, and then, for good measure, taps her unnecessary reading glasses against Jordan’s root beer bottle. “All right, all right. Do I need to remind you that we do not have all night? The groom should be well rested for his own wedding, yes?”
“Yes,” Graham confirms. “And we all know Colton needs the maximum amount of beauty rest if he’s going to be standing beside me.”
Jordan glances at his watch. “Well, that ship has sailed. He should’ve been in bed an hour ago.”
“It’s nine-thirty,” I say dryly.
Jordan shrugs. “Most kids are in bed by half past eight.”
“I—”
“ Boys ,” Gran interrupts again. She even tips her shades down to pointedly look at each of us. “I have the stand right now. Understood?”
Wordlessly, Graham nods.
“Understood,” Jordan confirms.
“Aye, aye, matey,” I say with a salute.
Gran smiles serenely and arches the cards in a perfect bridge. “Wonderful. Here’s how tonight’s going to work: Rather than playing for something another person has, we will each be playing for what we individually commit to.”
“Not understood,” I say, holding up a hand. The word commit still chafes against my skin uncomfortably. Like the lightest weight cotton on a sunburn. “Please clarify.”
“In the spirit of this weekend’s theme of commitment, we each choose one thing to commit to,” she says matter-of-factly. “Graham’s is obviously predetermined for him—to love his wife and love her well when she takes his name tomorrow.”
“Okayyy,” Jordan says slowly. “But there’s only one winner. What, are they exempt?”
“Oh, no, darling,” Gran assures him. “The winner only has to commit. The loser gets to dance with me tomorrow night whenever I ask him to.”
Graham snorts. “Probably should just quit now.”
“But,” Gran adds. “Before we get started, I have a stipulation.” She pauses. I think it’s mostly for dramatic effect. “I want Jordan to go get your sister.”
Jordan shakes his head. “No.”
Graham hesitates. “He has a point. This is our tradition.”
“He only said no ,” I say, bewildered. “How can you tell if he had a point? He didn’t have a point.”
“Telepathy,” Graham says lamely.
“Oldest-youngest silent communication,” Jordan replies. “OYSC for short.”
Lifting my brows in challenge, I say, “Well, I’m with Gran. She should be here.”
I say this partly because I like getting a rise out of my brothers, but mostly because I mean it. I understand that Jordan is unnaturally cautious because of his military and law enforcement training. It’s the only way a guy can survive what he’s been through. But overseas missions and detective cases have nothing to do with Indi being our full-blooded sister whether he likes it or not.
She didn’t say anything when I told her and Cheyenne about tonight, but she wouldn’t. Something tells me that, under her prickly exterior, she doesn’t want to be a hindrance to anyone. But unfortunately for her, I see through the fa?ade.
She wanted an invite.
“Those are the terms,” Gran says primly. “Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”
Jordan’s jaw tenses and he runs his tongue over his teeth, but he pushes back from the table. He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Deal her in. But if you stack that deck,” he adds, hand on the doorknob, “you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Ooh.” I pretend to shiver feverishly. “You and Grammy need to stop with those insults. They make me tingly in strange places.”
My oldest brother doesn’t respond to my wisecrack. He disappears out the front door and, a minute later, the taillights of his truck are headed down Graham’s gravel driveway. I could text Indi to give her a heads up, but Jordan’s a big boy. He can handle it.
“So.” I crack my knuckles and look between my brother and grandmother. “Who wants to do the stacking honors?”
“I want an instant replay of that.”
Jordan eyes Indi warily. “This isn’t football.”
“Maybe it’s baseball,” she counters. “Basketball. Hockey. Soccer. Golf. What’s the common denominator there, hotshot?”
“They’re televised and this game isn’t.”
“Graham might have security cameras,” Indi says. “You just never know with him.”
Graham lifts his brows. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Never know when someone is gonna cheat.”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “Says you.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” I retort indignantly, “considering it was you who stacked the deck last summer. Do I need to remind you that you drove away with my truck for an entire day?”
“Graham did,” Jordan objects. “Not me.”
“Yes, well.” I shrug and lean back in my chair. “You were an accomplice.”
“I wasn’t an accomplish— accomplice, ” he corrects, cheeks reddening.
Indi laughs at the mispronunciation, and Gran’s lips wobble as she reaches over to pat Jordan’s shoulder consolingly. Graham was in the middle of taking a drink, and he thumps his chest while coughing, then he starts waving his hand in front of his mouth like that’ll help. I double over from laughing so hard.
“Graham, that doesn’t…” Jordan trails off, shaking his head. Through laughter-induced tears, I see the reluctant smile pull at his mouth. “Waving your hand in front of your mouth like that is not going to stop the coughing.”
“But clearly he thinks it will,” Indi wheezes, hand pressed to her stomach.
Graham releases one final cough and glares at all of us. “That wasn’t funny.”
“What, that you…” Indi lifts her head, takes one look at Graham, and starts laughing all over again. “Oh, my god. I wish you had those security cameras, Graham. I absolutely need an instant replay of the look on Detective Hotshot’s face when he mispronounced accomplice , and then the way Graham fanned himself like it could stop his cough.”
Gran leans forward to pat Jordan’s forearm. “It’s okay, darling. All of us have our moments.”
Indi groans. “Respectfully, Gran, please don’t use the word darling in my presence. ”
“Doesn’t help that you’re blond,” I tell Jordan. To Indi, I say, “Why not?”
“Because Blondie over there decided to fall in love with Sydney Adair,” she says crisply. “And her brother, who shall not be named, has a penchant for calling me that.”
“He calls you That?” I tease, and I hold out a hand over the table. “Well, That. It’s nice to meet you.”
Indi scowls at me.
Gran’s pink sunglasses turn to Indi. “Have you considered that it might be because the boy likes you?”
Indi huffs a laugh. “Trust me. That’s not it.”
Based on the way Grayson Adair looked at my sister in Omaha, I’d beg to differ. It won’t do any good to argue with her, though, so I take a different approach.
“That could be your commitment,” I say nonchalantly. “The Adairs will be there tomorrow.” I pause to look at Graham for confirmation, and when he nods, I continue. “You can commit to being nice to Grayson until the clock strikes midnight.”
Indi’s cool blue eyes meet mine. “My first response is no . But I’ll begrudgingly agree to it, if I get to pick your commitment. Jordan’s committing to proposing to Sydney in the next three months, Graham’s getting married, and Gran is going to take cooking classes. You, however, haven’t said what your commitment is. So, I get to choose.”
Jordan lets out a low whistle.
Graham wisely ducks his chin and starts dealing the cards.
Gran’s sunglasses slide down her nose and she doesn’t push them back up.
Perhaps inadvisably, I hold Indi’s eyes. “Name it.”
Indi doesn’t hesitate before she says, “Commit to Cheyenne.”
The room goes eerily quiet. Even the breeze pirouetting through the open window seems to still. Four sets of eyes stare at me with open skepticism.
I hate it.
I used to want that—for them to believe I was incapable of anything even faintly resemblant of commitment. I felt smug when my brothers teased me about having a new girlfriend every other weekend, and I thrived on a lifestyle that had little to do with anyone else and everything to do with myself.
But right now, my chest hurts. That stinging that makes your throat poky and your eyes burn, the tangible ache when someone hurts your feelings. I feel empty, hollowed.
I don’t want to be that man anymore.
“Okay.” I hold my hand out. “I will commit to Cheyenne.”
Indi hides her surprise well, but I don’t miss the slight lift in her brow as she takes my hand. She shakes it firmly and then turns back to the rest of the table. “All right. Don’t let me lose. Gran and I on the dance floor together would make the rest of you look like terrible dancers.”
Not only will I be Gran’s dance partner at her beck and call tomorrow night, but I also have to figure out what committing to Cheyenne looks like. I wish it were the former that has me staring at my bedroom ceiling several hours later.
It’s not.
It is, undoubtedly, the latter.
Most people would think of engagement or marriage when they hear the word. Which is fair—that would be my first thought, too. But Hazel’s words from Tuesday play on a loop in my head, keeping me from the sleep I desperately need.
Love is choosing one person, and choosing them over, and over, and over.
It’s deciding that you’re more scared of living without them than you are of making mistakes.
That is the truth—I’m more scared of losing Cheyenne than I am of messing up. Maybe because I’ve already lost her once, or maybe just because it’s taken me thirty years to get to this point. To understand that, somewhere deep inside me, there’s a box named Running Scared . But instead of trying to get rid of it, maybe I need to relabel it.
Trying Scared.
Unfortunately, this makes me think of everything I could get her. Beyond flowers or paints or donuts. Buying whatever she wants from a boutique, taking her to the nicest restaurant in Omaha, flying us to New York City so she can see The Met in person like she’s always talked about.
Like she used to talk about.
The thought sobers me up cold. I don’t know Cheyenne like I once knew her. I know she still cleans when she’s stressed or anxious. I know she still eats Honey Nut Cheerios out of a different mug every morning. I know she still gets annoyed when glasses leave perspiration rings on tabletops.
But I don’t know if she still wants to see The Met. If she still physically frowns when she’s struggling to put her vision on a canvas. If she’s learned how to curl ribbons on presents.
I need to know those things, and hundreds of thousands of others, about her. I need to know the new things about her, to learn who she’s become in the last five years. What her fears are and what her dreams are.
But before I can do something ridiculous like write out Get to Know Me questions, a noise startles through the sleeping house. I lay still, and when it comes again, my stomach roils.
Milo’s nightmares.
I untangle the covers and stumble into a pair of shorts in the semi darkness of a flickering night light. If Indi and Cheyenne were half as tired as they looked before I left for Graham’s, I wouldn’t blame them for not stirring. It’s selfish that I want them to, but I do, because I don’t have any idea how to handle this.
Aren’t you supposed to not wake them?
No . That’s for sleepwalking.
Right?
Helplessness knots in my stomach as I approach Milo’s bed. Something in my chest breaks at the sight of his tiny body thrashing around. He’s kicked the anchor printed comforter mostly off the bed, and his pajama shirt is twisted up around his chest.
“No!” he exclaims, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Don’t take her!”
Mom.
Don’t take Mom.
Heart racing, I drop to my knees beside the bed. I set a hand on his shoulder; it should be steady, but it trembles from my wrist down. “Milo,” I say, fighting to keep an even voice. “Milo. Buddy, hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”
His fist narrowly avoids my jaw and I rear back. But, slowly, his body begins to still. I brush his blond curls away from his clammy forehead, and I run my thumb across his splotchy cheek when a tear leaks from his lashes.
“Shh,” I soothe. I gently pull his shirt back down, and I try for a smile when his eyes crack open. “Hey there, Captain.”
“They were gonna take her,” he whimpers. His lips quiver as his teary gaze meets mine, expression still haunted by the grasp of the nightmare.
“Who were they going to take?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Annie,” he cries. Like a magnet drawn to another magnet, he rolls into my chest, tiny hand grasping at my skin. “They were gonna take her and I couldn’t stop them! I don’t want them to take her!”
I had thought wrong.
Wrongly, I wish he’d said our mother. Then I might know what to say.
“No one is taking Annie away,” I say softly. I close my fingers around his when he latches onto my hand. His chest trembles, and each hiccupped sob twists a knife deeper into my chest. “I won’t let it happen, Milo. I promise.”
Milo stares at me through tired, watery blue eyes. “You won’t?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
He quiets. I don’t dare to move. My knees are numb and exhaustion pulls at my eyes, but I don’t move. His hand clasps mine, his head is halfway on his pillow and halfway off, and his expression grows heavy with sleep. I don’t know what protocol is here, but if it’s to let him fall back asleep and then leave, I say screw the protocol.
I move around the bed and straighten out the comforter. I crawl onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight, and his body forcefully rolls into mine.
“I wish you were my daddy,” he whispers.
The words steal the very breath from my lungs. They still every muscle in my body. They might very well stop the world from spinning on its axis.
I wish you were my daddy.
Six words, seven syllables.
It’s the most profound thing anyone has ever said to me.
“Me too,” I finally say, my voice hoarse. “Me…too.”
Right here in this too-small twin bed, with a knee jammed into my groin, a tiny arm slung over my neck, and a cheek pressed into the hollow of my shoulder, I think I’ve finally felt true, indescribable, unconditional love.