Chapter 13 Colt
Colt
The next evening, lying in bed reading a book, I receive a text from Stella.
Stella
Stella: Want some company tn?
Me: Always.
Stella told me she would get a ride over, saying she felt bad mooching off me and my truck. I insisted to her that that was stupid and that I didn’t mind picking her up, but she was adamant.
She arrived at my place about an hour after texting, holding a bag of groceries.
“So, I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this plan.
If you hate it, we can just order more takeout.
But I brought stuff to make homemade Alfredo and garlic-baked chicken.
I don’t know what happened, and I don’t want you to tell me.
I’m not asking you to cook, but I figured maybe I could at least cook for you… ”
My blood is ice in my veins, rendering me frozen and unable to move. I know she’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m struck silent. Does she really think this is fling behavior?
I didn’t tell her about my dad—about both my parents—because I didn’t want her to try to make me feel better. And yet, here she is, doing just that without even knowing the full story.
I told her not to make me fall in love with her. It’s supposed to be just sex. But I’m learning very quickly that Stella Anderson is not capable of just sex. She likes to talk and cuddle, and ask get-to-know-you questions.
And now she wants to cook dinner for me.
I don’t know if I feel flattered or frustrated. She’s the one who said no to a date. She’s the one who is against relationships.
How do I tell her that this is very much a relationship activity?
“As much as I appreciate the thought, I’m not all that hungry at the moment, sweetheart.” I fight the tightness in my chest. Her brows furrow, trying and failing to mask her disappointment, but she doesn’t try to argue. “Do you want to watch something on TV instead?”
“Oh. Sure. That’s fine. I’ll just put this stuff in the fridge.” She walks to the kitchen with her bag. I feel like an asshole, ruining her “surprise,” but the thought of cooking a meal with her is too personal to me. It’s too much too soon, and I can’t even tell her why.
I’m used to looking like an asshole. Beau has covered up for me and my moods hundreds of times over the last couple of years. If I’ve had a bad day or if I’ve forgotten my medicine, I can get agitated easily.
I’m scared that cooking a meal with her, like my old man and I used to do, will send me over the edge to a place I’m not ready to go. I can’t spiral out right now, so soon after the anniversary of his death. And Beau isn’t here right now to save me from my own behavior.
The longer I stand here and think about my dad, the more upset I start to feel. I did well to block the thoughts out after visiting their graves. But now that they’ve started, I don’t know that I can stop them.
The image of him singing an old Coldplay song while cooking in the kitchen of our first house fills my mind. My mom walks up to him while he’s stirring something in a large bowl. She wraps her arms around his waist and starts to sing along with him to the radio.
I was five years old, sitting on the counter next to him, not singing because I didn’t know the words. But I remember laughing. I watched how happy they were, and I laughed harder when he tried to hit a high note.
Stella must see a look on my face when she turns back from the fridge because she asks, “Colt? Colt, what’s wrong? You’re so pale.” She walks toward me, but I step back from her outstretched hand.
“I—I think I need a second.” I rush to my bathroom and slam the door, running some cold water from the sink.
I look at myself in the mirror, my pupils are blown wide, and sweat beads on my forehead. Hyperventilating, I realized I’ve thrown myself into a panic attack. I try to calm my racing heart, slow my breathing, but it doesn’t seem to work. This must be a side effect of coming off my meds.
A wave of nausea takes over, and I dry heave into the toilet, nothing coming up. I sit on the floor and lean back against the wall, trying to calm myself.
A soft knock sounds on the door. “Colt? Are—are you alright?” Stella’s voice is timid, wary. She must get concerned when I don’t respond because she pushes the door open an inch and sees me on the floor.
“Oh! Colt, are you sick? Can I get you anything? Or—do you want me to go home?”
I shake my head, and she waits, obviously unsure about which of her questions I just answered “no” to.
When I finally feel like my heart isn’t going to beat out of my chest, I push myself off the floor. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, so I strip it off, not caring that she’s watching or that I still haven’t said a word out loud to explain myself.
I took a shower when I got home from the gym, but the only thing I can think about doing right now is washing the sweat and anxiety from my body. I reach over and turn the shower on as cold as it can go.
Stella seems to be able to read me better than I thought because she turns off the sink faucet I left running and makes her way to stand in front of me.
“Colt,” she says in a calm, yet commanding voice. “Colt, I need you to look at me, please.”
I stand upright, pulling my hand away from the shower knobs, and I see her clock the way my hand is shaking as I drop it back to my side.
“I upset you. I pushed a boundary you didn’t want to be pushed. And I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks, but she continues. “We can forget about the food. I will go home if you want me to. But, right now, I need you to tell me that you’re okay because you’re scaring me.”
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, pressing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. “I’m okay,” I force out.
This is the last thing I wanted to happen; the last thing on earth I wanted Stella to see. And I can’t get a grip enough to even speak to her.
Gingerly, Stella reaches up and pulls my hands from my face, forcing me to finally meet her emerald eyes.
Her lavender and cinnamon scent brushes over me, helping me to feel just a little more secure.
“You’re okay?” she asks. I nod, and her shoulders sag in relief.
“Do you want me to go home?” she continues.
I shake my head again. “No,” I whisper.
“Okay. I’m going to sit on the couch while you shower. Then, can we talk?” When I nod again, she squeezes my hand, one I didn’t realize she was still holding, and walks out the door.
Thirty minutes later, I walk out to the couch wearing a new pair of athletic shorts, but I didn’t bother with another shirt. The cold water didn’t fully wash the heat from my skin. I’m no longer hyperventilating, but I still feel hot and on edge.
I sit down next to Stella, whose hands are folded in her lap, and her legs are tucked up under her. She looks at me with concern in her eyes, but doesn’t press for me to speak, which I appreciate more than she knows.
I can’t believe I’m about to spill all my secrets to a girl who doesn’t even want to go out on a real date with me.
As much as I like her, I can’t imagine telling some of my closest friends the things I’m going to tell her.
We barely know each other. But after what she just saw, after I just lost my shit on her, she deserves an explanation.
I suppose my secrets were going to come out sooner or later.
“The other day, when I ran into you at the coffee shop, it was the anniversary of my father’s death,” I start.
She opens her mouth to offer condolences, no doubt, but I continue before she can.
I can’t hear that right now. “I don’t cook because it reminds me of him.
It reminds me of both of them… My mom passed away when I was ten years old.
She had brain cancer. And then, nine years later, my dad had a heart attack.
It’s been two years, but it feels like I was with him only a week ago, cooking dinner and talking about her.
“I didn’t handle the news well. I finished practice one day and walked out of the rink an orphan. And I spiraled. I didn’t come back to school for weeks. Hell, I don’t think I even got out of my bed at home.
“Beau’s parents took care of me, took care of everything for me.
I was nineteen years old and didn’t have any family left.
They eventually had to sell my house, and I remember losing my fucking mind over it.
I screamed and yelled at Beau’s dad for hours, and he just let me.
But I was a freshman on a hockey scholarship; I couldn’t afford an entire house on my own.
I went to live with Beau’s parents for another few weeks before coming back…
” I trail off, not wanting to continue the story, but I know I have to now.
“One night, Mrs. Warren came home from work, and I was passed out in one of the guest bathrooms. I had punched through the glass on one of the liquor cabinets and drank almost two entire bottles of vodka. I was covered in vomit and blood from the glass, and she thought I had…she thought I had tried to slit my wrists—” Just saying that sentence out loud makes me nauseous.
I couldn’t imagine ever doing something like that.
I see Stella glance at the marks on my arm.
I don’t go to a lot of trouble trying to hide them, so I’m not surprised she’s noticed.
I am shocked she never asked about them, though. I guess she didn’t want to pry.
“She called an ambulance, and after getting details from Beau’s parents about my behavior—the outbursts and not getting out of bed all day long—the authorities talked to us, and we all decided it was best for me to be admitted into a mental health facility.
I wasn’t there long, but I went through grief counseling and was put on some low-dose antidepressants.