Chapter Thirty
Lift Your Sails
Cheyenne
“Cheyenne, you are ravishing in that dress,” Indi breathes. She circles me slowly, her awe reflecting in my free-standing mirror. “I don’t hand out compliments frequently and I don’t say them to people whose egos will inflate. If that doesn’t prove my sincerity, I don’t know what will.”
I laugh and catch Indi to hug her. She stiffens for a moment before she reciprocates the embrace. I lower my voice to a stage whisper.
“Thank you. But after we get home later, we’ll wear flannel shorts and our most comfortable t-shirts, right?”
Indi, too, laughs. “I’ll have the popcorn ready. You’re going to tell me everything .” She pulls back and looks me dead in the eye. “I mean it, Chey. Every last thing.”
“Well, obviously.” Taking a deep breath, I smooth my hands over my hips. I analyze myself in the mirror, turning one way and then the other. “You’re sure that—”
“Cheyenne. Did you not just hear me?” Indi steps in front of me, hands propped on her own hips. “You look like a goddess who stepped down from her throne for the night to be with us lowly humans in the real world. That dress was made for you. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, even though the dress was hardly made for me.
“Good.” Indi glances at her watch and grabs my white leather clutch from the foot of my bed. “Time to go. We need extra time to resuscitate my brother when he sees you.”
My cheeks flush, but I stop her. “Indi?”
She turns in the doorway.
“You’re sure you’re okay staying with Milo? I don’t—”
“Cheyenne,” she interrupts, voice softening. “It’s been my baby brother and me against the world since he was born. We’ll be fine.”
I hesitate. “You’re completely sure?”
“Ninety-nine point nine percent, yes.”
“Not one hundred?”
Indi tsks disapprovingly and grabs my hand, twirling me until we’re both laughing. “Not one hundred percent,” she confirms, “because what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let you worry a tiny bit about a child you love? C’mon, let’s go knock my brother’s socks off.”
In this moment—arm linked through Indi’s as we descend the stairs of the lake house—I realize that I didn’t only get my best friend back at the beginning of this summer. I gained a little boy with blond hair and blue eyes, and a girl who has become more sister than friend.
Resuscitation was narrowly avoided for Colton, but it might be necessary for me before the night is over. Between my nerves, the rain lightly pummeling the windshield, and the ridiculously snug baby blue suit Colton wears, I’m a little frazzled.
But I’m also not.
Not with Colton’s fingertips pressing into my palm while he keeps conversation flowing. We don’t talk about anything notable—we reminisce on stumbling upon the weirdly satisfying combination of jalape?o potato chips and vanilla ice cream. We make empty bets about when Jordan will propose to Sydney (I say Christmas, Colt says doomsday). We banter about who actually decided to use the decorative mailbox in the first place all those years ago.
With Colton everything feels significant. After a marriage where most of what I said was belittled, this feels like the most important conversation of my life. It’s the monumentalism of a President’s inaugural speech and the simplicity of two best friends finding comfort in each other.
Colton parks in front of the brand-new gallery and passes the keys off to valet, then comes around to open my door. Rain dots his suit jacket, and he holds a striped umbrella over my head until we’ve made it through the revolving glass doors.
That’s when the nerves hit.
We’re not even past the lit up, marble-floored entryway to the actual gallery yet, and inadequacy is already shrinking me back. Surrounded by these people—the wealthy buyers, the artist types who ditched Converse for Armani, the curators from places more prestigious than the Institute—it’s hard not to feel intimidated. Before my downfall in Chicago, I’d have never given it a second thought as to if I deserved to be here.
All I can hear now is Stephen’s voice telling me my focus was wrongly divided. That the baby I lost wasn’t as important as me nearly sabotaging his career because mine (wrongly) went up in smoke.
“Cheyenne.” Colton steps in front of me, effectively blocking my view. His warm, calloused palms come to rest on my bare shoulders. I look down at our feet; mine in uncomfortable heels and his in shiny brown dress shoes. “Cheyenne, look at me.”
I don’t want to. I want to turn around and pretend I never came back to this world. I want Colton to drive us back to the lake house; to spend our rainy Saturday night curled up on the couch with Milo and Indi where we can eat buttery popcorn and sticky Hot Tamales. I want to change out of this strapless, silky light blue dress into those flannel shorts and an oversized t-shirt and giggle with Indi long after the boys are in bed.
Colton won’t have it. Stepping closer, he hooks a finger under my quivering chin and tilts my face up, his blue eyes calm.
“Listen to me, Fini,” he says quietly. He ignores everyone around us, even when a stout man with a tall forehead bumps into him. “You are not here tonight on account of anyone else, you are here tonight on account of yourself. I am on your arm, and you are the reason we’re here. If you think your art isn’t good enough because it wasn’t created in some big-city penthouse with the pressure of curators breathing down your neck, you’re dead wrong. Your art came directly from here—” he brushes his knuckles against my chest “—and that can’t be replicated. You are one of a kind, Fini. I’m just lucky enough to have been placed within the same lifetime as you.”
Tears fill my eyes. I let out something between a laugh and a sob. “Colt, you can’t say things like that.”
“Yes,” he says, “I can.”
“No, you can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I literally just shaved my legs, and when you say stuff like that, it gives me goosebumps. They make my leg hair grow by like six inches every time.”
Relief softens his expression, and he rubs his hands briskly up and down my chilly arms. “Respectfully, Cheyenne, I couldn’t care less about your leg hair.”
“Because you aren’t the one wearing this dress,” I say, but I’m teasing. “Believe me, it’s not comfortable when this material plasters to your prickles.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to suck it up for tonight. You’re about to get a whole lot more goosebumps.” Hands shifting back to my shoulders, he turns me to face the doors, his warm breath feathering across my cheek. “Surprise, my love.”
A small gasp tumbles from my lips. I look up at Colton, who gives a small nod. I face forward again just in time for my grandparents, my mom, my brothers, and Sam to step from the rainy evening into the gallery’s revolving doors.
Fingertips pressed into the small of my back, Colton places his mouth beside my ear. “Your art must mean something if all these people are here just to support you . Lift your sails, Fini. It’s time to be out at sea. You’ve spent enough time harbored at the docks.”
“Well, well, well. Apparently the rumors I heard were true.”
I freeze in the middle of a conversation with a curator from Denver. Chills of an entirely different kind rumble across my skin. An unwelcome kind.
I know that voice.
It’s the voice I’ve tried to forget. The voice I naively fell for second year working at the Institute. It once vowed to love me eternally, and it broke me down until my self-worth became nonexistent.
As if sensing impending awkwardness, the curator slips away before I can give her my contact information. It leaves me no choice but to turn from the lit-up display of my painting and face the man who tried to ruin me, both personally and professionally.
“Stephen.” I wish my voice hadn’t wobbled when I said his name, but it did.
My ex-husband shifts a champagne flute to his other hand. Arrogance radiates off him in waves, and he looks exactly like I remember—a sharp silver suit, gleaming Rolex, and dress shoes shined to perfection. Stephen Collins came from a wealthy family, and he isn’t afraid to flaunt that when opportunity arises.
“Cheyenne.” He tips his head to the painting behind me. “I see that you didn’t give up painting after all.”
I don’t respond. My knuckles whiten from clasping my clutch purse so tightly. I inhale sharply when he steps forward, and his shoulder brushes mine. I flinch. Stephen lifts a dark blond brow and focuses on my painting, the muscles in his clean-shaven jaw working.
My heart rate spikes, and my hands are clammy, but I don’t step away. Stephen pretends he holds all the power, but he doesn’t . I know this.
“Fitting,” he says suavely, “that you would paint a scene like this. It’s truly very touching.”
“You can’t rattle me anymore, Stephen,” I say quietly, fighting to keep my voice level.
He smiles. It would look charming to outsiders, but to me, there’s poison behind that smile. Unfortunately, I’ve already taken a bite of the metaphorical apple by engaging in this conversation.
Stephen pitches his voice low. “I’m surprised that you’re willing to show your face at an event like this. You know, after everything that happened in Chicago.” He pauses and narrows his eyes, just barely. “Unless, of course, you don’t remember.”
I open my mouth but I don’t have to say anything. A broad, familiar back in a baby blue suit jacket shifts into my focus. Intangible relief softens my shoulders.
“Don’t you dare speak to my wife like that again,” Colton says, steel lining his words. He shifts until his hand presses protectively into my lower back. His fingers are tender, but his face is darkened with outright animosity. “She has every right to be here.”
A thrill zipped through me when he said my wife , but inbred honesty prompts me to open my mouth. “Colton—”
Ignoring Stephen completely, Colton leans down. His lips brush my cheek, and he whispers the future was silent before he straightens to his full height, which is two inches taller than Stephen. Another shiver runs through my body. Colton moves his hand to smooth the chilled skin of my exposed upper back.
Stephen’s cool green eyes slide between us, his smirk twisting the corner of his mouth. “Wife, huh? You moved on fast. It’s hardly been a year since the ink dried on those divorce papers I was served.” He pauses, lips smoothing. “Although, Annie, that is always what you wanted—to be a wife and a mother. Isn’t it?”
My lungs empty. I hold my chin up, but Stephen can see the way my jaw trembles. His words hit their intended target dead center. Beside me, Colton goes eerily still. When he speaks again, his voice is pitched so low I can barely hear him.
“You don’t have the right to talk to her like that now, Collins, and you didn’t have the right to speak to her like that then.” Calmness blankets his fury. A dangerous combination when paired with Colton’s protectiveness. “Her personal life nor her professional life is of any relevance to you. Maybe you should be the one ashamed to show your face at an event like this.”
Stephen laughs mirthlessly. His gaze slips to me. “Funny that you ended up with the man who tried to convince you not to marry me, don’t you think?” He shifts closer, and Colton stands taller. “Especially considering the way he lost his temper only a few months ago. I seem to recall that you couldn’t deal with me raising my voice, even when it had nothing to do with you.”
This time, Colton smiles. It, too, is laced with deadly sarcasm. He leans into Stephen’s personal space and drops his voice to a chilling whisper. “Leave my girl alone, Collins.”
Stephen must decide it’s not worth his time or effort to argue with Colton. He turns on the heel of his dress shoe with his chin high. I should let him go, but I can’t. Not without saying what I’ve needed to say for months.
“Stephen,” I call after him.
“Fini, you don’t—”
“I do,” I tell Colton quietly.
His jaw tightens and his shoulders tense, but he nods.
Stephen lifts a brow impatiently.
“For a long time, I held myself responsible for our marriage failing,” I say. I don’t bother keeping my voice steady. “I thought I was the reason you weren’t happy, and I nearly exhausted myself trying to change that. But if I’ve learned anything recently, it’s that I never could have done anything to make you choose your own happiness.”
I pause and glance at Colton. His soft eyes urge me forward, as does the hand he slips around my waist. “Someone recently told me that we have to choose happiness—it won’t choose us, and it certainly won’t come looking for us. So, I want to thank you, Stephen, for showing me what I didn’t deserve. Because of you, I know what I do deserve. I might not have realized it without your help. I just hope that, one day, you can come to that realization for yourself too.”
Stephen doesn’t visibly react to my words, and they might not penetrate deeper than surface level in his brain. He stares at me for a long moment, taps a finger against his champagne flute, and then pivots, his chin just a touch lower than it was before.
Only after he disappears into the crowd do I notice my grandfather, my brothers, and Sam standing paces away from us. Grandpa’s jaw is set, Beau looks downright ticked, Justin wears the most thunderous expression he can muster, and Sam is visibly fuming. All four of them hold Colton’s eye contact as a silent conversation passes between them.
Gratitude swells in my chest. These are the people who’ve stood by me, who’ve stayed quiet when I needed space and who’ve supported me through it all. It makes what I said to Stephen even truer; I couldn’t provide it for him, but I do think everyone deserves to find their own happy.
“He’d be proud of you, Cheyenne. He is proud of you.”
I look up as Sam comes to stand beside me. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his light gray slacks, and his expression is meaningful. “I wish he was here, Sam.”
Colton’s father dips his chin in silent recognition. “I know you do. I wish he was here, too.”
“I painted this to be Colton and Milo.” I gesture to the painting in question. “But…”
Sam turns to face me fully. His gaze is endlessly steady, his thick salt-and-pepper hair pushed back over his tanned forehead, his composure grounding. Much like his son, he patiently gives me time to decide what I want to say.
“But I think I also painted it to be you and Colton, and me and my dad, too,” I continue. “That’s why the towel is fully wrapped around the child, and the child’s head is mostly obstructed by the man’s shoulder. It’s all of us, and it’s none of us. It’s whoever the onlooker wants it to be.”
“And that,” Sam says with conviction, “is why it is just as important as any other painting in this room. You didn’t create it for show, Cheyenne. You painted your heart onto the canvas. Take it from me: That is worth far more than any sum of money, any recognition, and any—”
“Cheyenne!”
Beau’s voice interrupts Sam. We both turn as my brother approaches us. I take in his stark expression and the way his hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it profusely. My heart drops to my feet.
“Beau?” Sam sets a steadying hand on my brother’s heaving shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
“Mom just got a phone call from the hospital,” my brother says, a little breathlessly. Every single word spikes my pulse. “Dad has been moving a lot today. His levels are shifting.”
“Is he…”
“We don’t know yet,” Beau says, answering the question I couldn’t get past my tight throat. “The best we can do is go to him. We’ll have to take it minute by minute from there.”
Blinking rapidly to quell my tears, I nod. I’m overwhelmed by trying to comprehend everything all at once. Nothing should be rooting me to this square of shiny marble flooring, but I’m frozen. Variables run through my head at warp speed, dizzying me.
Is Dad okay? Will he wake up? What happens when he wakes up? What if we don’t make it to the hospital in time? What if he doesn’t wake up? What if he wakes up and doesn’t remember us? What if we lose him? What if his levels are shifting but not improving?
What if, what if, what if.
“Cheyenne.” Sam touches my arm gently. “Go be with your family. I’ll make sure your painting makes it home safely.”
Home .
Not a specific place and not a singular person. A collaboration of places and people who are my home.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Colton’s having valet pull his truck around,” Beau says, guiding me through throngs of curious people. “I trust him to get you there safely. Justin and I are taking Mom, and when we get back to Balsam Falls, Grandpa is going to pick up Aunt Rosie from the ranch. Uncle Ty is looking into flights from Dallas as we speak.”
I stop my brother, clutching the sleeve of his suit jacket. “He has to be okay, Beau. He has to.”
My brother doesn’t offer me reassurances he can’t give. He only squeezes my hand.
And then he sets that hand in Colton’s waiting one.