Chapter 26 Sadie
twenty-six
Sadie
My bones are exhausted and my muscles feel like they’re about to give up but I can’t stop smiling anyway.
Colson holds my hand until we’re in his room.
Even in the dark, it’s there—soft and unguarded—as I step inside and turn on my phone’s flashlight.
The beam sweeps over pale walls, clean lines, wide windows which let in light from the lightning.
The space feels open, airy which is so unlike the man hovering in the doorway like he’s bracing for impact.
I let the light wander. “This place is… bright,” I say, smiling so he knows it’s a compliment. “Even with the power out. Those yellow cabinets downstairs? They’re kind of perfect.” I tilt my head at him. “You don’t strike me as a yellow cabinet kind of guy.”
He huffs and drops onto the edge of the bed. Putting a hand to his chest, he says, “Who? Me. Are you sure?” The question is flat and rhetorical.
I follow him, tucking my legs beneath me, the mattress dipping as I settle in. He shifts, fidgeting with the blanket, tugging at the edge like it’s suddenly not right.
Colson takes a deep breath, one I can feel in my own chest.
He looks outside, gazing through one of the wide windows when he continues, “It’s not really mine. The place...” he says after a boom of thunder. “This was my mom’s place. Her summer house.”
“Oh,” I reply, warmth blooming despite the dark. “So is she—here? Or coming up later?” I can’t help but let the excitement run into my words. The thought of meeting Colson’s mom has me almost kicking my feet.
His hands still. Then he scrubs one over his thigh, his gaze fixed on the floor. “No,” he answers quietly. “She died last fall.”
The words land softly but firmly. I turn the flashlight off without thinking, the room going fully dark again, and reach for his hand instead. Suddenly the brightness makes sense—the yellow, the open space, the light that lingers even when everything else goes out.
Poor Colson. That’s all I can think. How the man isn’t so much grumpy as he is sitting in his grief.
I shift closer and wrap my arms around him, careful at first, like I’m not sure he’ll want it.
Colson does. He exhales and folds into me, one arm coming tight around my back, the other lifting to thread slowly through my hair.
The touch isn’t rushed but it feels like he needs it, pulling me closer to him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, my mouth close to his ear, resting on his shoulder.
He squeezes me tighter but I push back, wanting to see his face.
“The diagnosis came out of nowhere. She made an appointment because she was ridiculously tired. She couldn’t sleep enough. But she was an active person. Always running to this club, doing this thing, meeting this person. Flying to my away games.” His voice shakes when he shares that last part.
After a moment, he continues, “I thought she was burnt out. It turns out that stage four pancreatic cancer will also do that to you.” His thumb brushes the same spot near my temple again and again.
My heart feels like it’s about to crack open.
“I went with her to her first appointment with the oncologist.” Colson’s voice is jagged and rough. “At that point, we had no idea what to expect. There was this feeling of fight and hope that she brought with her. Like, no matter what, she could take it. That’s how she’d been my whole life.”
A small smile threatens his mouth when he says, “I was so proud of her for how she walked into that appointment. The way she was ready to fight anything, head on, no questions asked.”
Even in the darkness, I can see his face drop. The memory of that day coming back to him.
“But it only took a minute with the doctor to understand how bad it was. They tried to soften it. Prognosis, timelines...”
My hand pushes through his hair slowly. I move the hair from his forehead, over and over, until I let my hand rest at the nape of his neck.
His words are rushed, like they’re trying to step on each other. “I had all these questions. I was grasping at straws. Thought if I had the right ask, we could find the answer. That’s how she always was.”
Sadness punctuates his explanation.
Colson presses his lips in a thin line, closes his eyes for a beat. “The doctor was softly letting me down. My mom squeezed my knee, shook her head, then interrupted me. She looked at the doctor and said, ‘Don’t whisper. I’m not afraid.’”
My chest aches, but I don’t interrupt. I don’t ask questions he’s not offering answers to. I simply hold him and listen.
“This is her house. I bought it for her. It was a few months before she got sick, so she never really got to use it. But she did the decorating…everything is exactly what she wanted. She wanted light,” he continues, quieter now.
“Yellow cabinets. Big windows for natural light.” He swallows.
“This place was never sad to her. I think that mattered.”
Colson has had a rough season. Not just in life, but if his mom died last fall, that would have been right around the start of the NBA season. He escaped here. To the place that his mom had such a heavy hand on… it’s her, with walls.
I wrap my hands around his arm closest to me and lean my head on his shoulder. He tips his head, resting on mine, and it feels like his exhaustion is wrapping around us.
“There aren’t words,” I say, quietly. “But I’d love to hear about your mom. Whenever you want to talk about her.”
”Thanks.”
We sit there for a while as the storm continues to rage. I’m going over our interactions from earlier this summer—how pissed and bothered Colson seemed. It was so much more than the stuff going on with this team.
I can’t help but think about that night at the beach. Him in the water. Us together, sort of like this.
I don’t know how long it’s been before Colson stands, pulling the blankets back on his king-sized bed, and lays down. I follow suit and when we’re both under the thin blanket, Colson lifts an arm.
We don’t say anything. Instead, I lay my head on his chest like it’s the only option. And in my mind? It really is.
I listen to Colson’s heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, as I do my best to calm my thoughts. And with every minute that passes, I melt deeper into him until sleep swiftly pulls me under.