53. Colton
fifty-three
Colton
N oah honks outside Lazy’s and jumps off his truck, lowering the tailgate. He has business in Montreal and offered to give me a ride to the airport. I step outside, rolling a purple hardcase suitcase—courtesy of Alex—and shouldering Ethan’s camo backpack. Grace rushes to attach a smaller bag to it. “There.” She smiles. “Now you’re all set.”
Half the town follows us outside. The other half is already on the sidewalk.
“Did ya weigh the suitcase?”
“Did you make sure you put dirty socks on top of the maple sugar to keeps customs control away?”
“Did you re-wrap the honey? You can’t bring honey.”
“The maple butter won’t do well in cargo. Did you put it in your backpack?”
“Did you put Dad’s prescription with the maple beads? They won’t see the difference.”
Emma’s voice snaps in the cold air and shuts everyone up. “Did you take the ring?”
I hoist the suitcase in the back of the cabin and turn around, facing what seems to be all of Emerald Creek. “I’m not proposing in Paris.”
A collective gasp takes hold of the group.
“Shannon, what did you teach your son?” Ms. Angela says. “Of course you’re proposing in Paris! Do you know how many women dream of a Paris proposal?” she says, a big swipe of her hand maybe suggesting the Paris skyline or the Eiffel Tower.
I’m reaching the end of my rope here. Just because I’ve needed more than a little help in getting Kiara to where we are now, doesn’t mean I’m clueless about women. Kiara doesn’t want a Paris proposal. “Enlighten me, Ms. Angela. How many?”
Her mouth hangs open in disbelief. “All of them!” she finally cries, then looks around for support, which she gets from… everyone. The women are nodding, the men are shaking their heads like I’m the village idiot.
I drop the backpack next to the suitcase. “Well, Kiara is unique. She’s not like all of them.”
Ms. Angela rolls her eyes while the other women aww and the men chuckle and say, “Nice save.”
But it’s not a save. Okay, in different circumstances, I’ll admit a proposal in Paris is pretty cool. Maybe. But not now. Kiara’s in Paris to propel her career. Me showing up with a ring would be an offer to tie her down when she’s just spreading her wings. We’ve talked about this. I encouraged her to go. I told her I’d wait for her—thirty years if needed.
I’m not going to propose just because I can’t sleep without her at night. Or I can’t focus on work during the day. Or I don’t even want to go to the races anymore, if she’s not jumping in my arms the moment I come out of the car.
My life is tasteless, boring, and meaningless without her. That doesn’t mean she should give up on her dreams for me.
I give Mom a quick hug and jump in the truck next to Noah.
He pulls away and honks again, like we’re leaving port or something.
Looking in the rearview mirror, I see most people actually waving goodbye. “Jesus H. Christ, can you believe this shit? You’d think I’m Frodo leaving the Shire.”
He laughs. “Eh, they’re living through you. Not everyone gets to go to Paris.”
A little twist of guilt hits me. I shouldn’t have been so grumpy earlier. They all chipped in to send me to Europe, and I couldn’t give them the time of day. I guess I do need Kiara in my life to cheer me up. I’ll make a point to post pictures on Echoes several times a day to make up for my not-so-stellar attitude.
“And not everyone has a Kiara to bring back home,” he adds. The dip of his mouth has turned bitter.
“What’s up with you, man?” I really don’t know how to talk deep with my guy friends, but this seems to be one of these moments where it’s required. I’ve talked about tough shit with my sister, and each of my parents, maybe once or twice in my life. It’s simple. You ask an open question and you just wait for them to answer. Then you ask them how it makes them feel.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know—women. What was her name again? What happened with her?”
He’s saved by our approaching border control. The US side waves us through, the Canadian sides asks where we’re going. “I’m driving him to Trudeau,” Noah says as we hand our passports.
“Anything to declare?”
“Nope.”
Once we’re on the other side, Noah says, “She couldn’t handle the whole… family thing.”
I nod, not sure what he’s referring to. Noah is the eldest of several, and his parents travel quite a bit, leaving him in charge most of the time. But he never made it sound like it was a problem. “She didn’t want kids?” I venture.
He looks at me sideways. “N-no. That’s not…”
I stick to my tactic of being quiet, but it doesn’t seem to work. Maybe Noah just doesn’t want to talk. I try one more thing. “Anyone else you’re interested in?” Shit, I’m sounding like my mom or Ms. Angela. I’m embarrassing myself.
“Women aren’t interested in men who come with my kind of baggage, Colt. But thanks for asking.”
Okay, that’s a polite fuck off if I know one. But—holy shit. Baggage? What baggage does Noah have? His family founded the town; they’re wealthy. He volunteers in various capacities and always looks happy to be there. I swallow with difficulty, but I don’t ask more questions, and we spend most of the drive in silence, apart from the occasional muttered swear at other drivers.
Then, once we're at the drop-off area, he helps me take the luggage out and takes me in a bear hug. “Hope you bring her back, man.”