18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Maci
B efore my meeting with Melissa, I decide to try my hand at some more self-help. It’s been two days since I attempted to go to Nana’s house. Nothing seems to have been made worse, even if I’m not sure if it did much good.
This time, I make it to the turn off with no problem. I stop anyway, easing into what’s to come. At least, that’s what I try to convince myself I’m doing.
In truth, I can’t bring myself to move. It’s like some weird form of compulsive magic. My hands won’t steer the wheel onto the street, and my foot won’t push the pedal if that’s where I’m trying to go.
This time, there’s no additional sensory input. Just an overwhelming pressure not to move forward. Maybe this is a positive reaction? I convince myself to take the win and head to my meeting with Melissa.
Instead of parking at the cafe where I’m meeting Melissa, I park less than a block away in the bank lot behind Town Square. It’s a two-fold decision; for one, I’m shit at parallel parking, especially on Bull Creek’s narrow Main Street. More importantly though, the short walk will give me a chance to fortify my nerves against whatever may be coming in this meeting.
The green space in Town Square hosts a central gazebo, which is often used for live music like during the Fall Festival or for farmer’s market events. Today, families mill about or pass through on their way to visit shops on the next block.
Melissa is already seated at a bistro table outside of The Jim-Dandy where the original library used to be. The floor-to-ceiling windows expose the mostly empty interior. She has a takeout cup before her and watches people passing by.
I’ve never eaten here. In fact, the only times I’ve stopped in were with Leah and Izzy during past Jingle Bell Bash events, when we ordered their spectacular hot chocolate.
Melissa smiles timidly at me when I approach. She stands awkwardly, as if she’s unsure if she should shake my hand or not.
I gesture at the chair across from her and we both sit.
“How are you?” I can’t begin to imagine what she must be going through, no matter how we got to this place.
She takes a deep breath. “Disappointed. Ashamed. Hurt, obviously. I love my son, despite his faults.”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss. I had my own, recently, and though it’s not the same, it was also very painful.”
One of her hands moves to rest around the base of the cup. She fiddles with the textured outer layer. “How well did you know Colt?”
I clear my throat as a cover for determining how forthcoming to be. “I didn’t know him very well, honestly. In fact, I only met him a few weeks ago.”
She presses her lips together. “Whatever happened between you two, I know it was because you were defending yourself.”
My brows furrow. “That’s a bold statement for someone to make about their own child.” I can’t help my curiosity.
“I told you. I know—knew my son.” She swallows. “I’m going to assume you don’t know much about his past. Or if you do, it came from Alan and not him.”
Adrenaline spikes through me at the mention of Colt’s father and my stepfather. I’m still disgusted every time I think about it. Another scalding shower to scrub off the outer layer of my skin sounds preferable right about now.
“I don’t know much about him. Alan never spoke of Colt—at least not to me—and when we met, we didn’t realize the connection. Colt figured it out after.”
“I’m not surprised Alan never mentioned him.” She shakes her head. “I won’t go off on a tangent, because we aren’t here about him. I am sorry for what you went through, though. I feel partially responsible.”
“Responsible?”
Her fingers tear at the sleeve on the cup as a cold wind rushes through the covered sidewalk our table occupies. “Colt was struggling. He had been for many years. It started when he was a teenager, around when Alan left. At first, I assumed it was because of the divorce. We never told him why, and I thought his paranoia stemmed from feeling like he didn’t have the whole truth. But things continued to get worse and eventually, I realized it wasn’t about that. Not entirely.
“I tried to talk to Alan about it once, but he dismissed me as usual. It was the last we spoke, actually. Past that, I tried to get Colt to talk to someone, but he was adamant he didn’t need a ‘shrink’”—she adds air quotes—“and since he was so close to being on his own, there wasn’t a lot I could do.”
She shakes her head sadly before continuing.
“He wanted to go into the military, but I don’t think he passed the evaluation. He wasn’t very open with me after the divorce, but he seemed to become suspicious of me after he moved out. We spoke a few times a year, only when I reached out to him.”
For whatever reason, I notice how dry her lips are when they purse. I remember being near dehydration from tears after Nana passed. And also because I was living on coffee alone for a few days.
“I wish I could’ve convinced him to see someone. He needed help.” She averts her gaze, studying the bistro table.
“Was he having hallucinations?”
Her lids droop, and she rubs at a place on her forehead absently. “I’m not sure. Sometimes he would mutter to himself.” She gives me a questioning look. “But everyone talks to themselves sometimes, right?”
I recall times that it seemed like he was having a side conversation with someone else.
“Colt’s fuse seemed to get shorter and shorter. He was never an especially patient person. He got that from Alan.” She wrings her hands on the table. “A few months back, he shoved me into a wall when I suggested, again, that he talk to someone. It was the last time we spoke.”
She’s sharing so freely, like she hasn’t been able to discuss her concerns with anyone. I can’t bring myself to interrupt or stop her, even though I can’t imagine why she’s telling me all of this.
“I don’t know what the department has shared with you, but I’ve been very honest with them that I don’t think you were in the wrong. Colt could be downright obsessive about the things he wanted, for whatever reason. If that’s what was happening with you, I’m not sure there’s anything you could have done to change his mind. I truly hope this investigation is put to rest and you can move on with your life.”
I’m not sure she understands what she’s asking. This isn’t something I can tuck neatly in a box in the closet and forget about. I killed a man. Her son. I shot him as he shoved a knife into my gut, and he bled out on me while I wondered if we were going to die there together in a heap in my grandmother’s backyard.
But I share none of that with her. I press my lips together and nod. Because the only thing I can think of that might be worse than living with the guilt and trauma of this for the rest of my life would be doing it behind bars. Alone. Without Sutton, or the support of the amazing people in my life. Of which I have so many more now than I used to.
“I wish it had ended differently,” I finally manage. My heart rate picks up. I won’t be able to go into detail, and I hope that’s not what she wants. I recognize that people need closure in different ways, but I cannot provide that for her. Not those details. “I tried to talk to him, to reason with him, but it sounds like he was struggling with things far outside of my reach. I’m so, so sorry. I waited…”
My throat constricts, and it takes me a long moment to force it open. “I waited until I couldn’t anymore. I didn’t have a choice.”
Tears begin to stream down her cheeks and her hand falls away from the cup. Without thinking, I reach across and place my own on top of hers. I can’t take back what happened that night. Even if I wish that I could. But I can look into her eyes and tell her honestly that I’m sorry for her loss, because I am.
I’m sorry for mine, too.
There’s an innocence that I didn’t know I had that was stolen from me that night.
We stare at each other, silent tears falling from our cheeks onto the weathered bistro table. I can’t know if she’s being truthful about trying to convince the police department of my honesty, and she can’t know that I was acting in self-defense, but somehow we choose a mutual trust. In some way, maybe that heals a tiny part of each of our broken hearts.
“I’m sorry.” More tears escape her eyes. “And thank you.”
My breathing catches. My mouth opens, but the question won’t come out.
“There’s an unwritten rule that mothers constantly worry about our children. At least, it seems that way to me. You worry if they’ll get hurt, how they’ll do in school, if they’ll make the right friends. Then you worry if they’ll get into a car accident, drink too much at a party, get a girl pregnant. Sometimes you worry they’ll hurt themselves.” Her breathing catches into a sort of hiccup, and her words slow. “Or someone else. I don’t have to worry about him hurting someone anymore.” Her hands flash up to cover her face, and her elbows drop to the table as she begins to sob, her body wracked with heaving, disjointed breaths.
Behind her self-imposed shield, more words tumble out. “God, what an awful thing to say about your own child.” Her voice breaks and her body shakes harder. “I can’t believe I’m relieved. I’m an awful person.”
Fishing tissues from my crossbody bag, I pull one out and slide the pack across the table, nudging her elbow with it. Tears track my own cheeks, hot against the crisp air. She peeks through her fingers and takes in my face before accepting.
“Would it be okay if I come to Colt’s funeral?”
Melissa dabs at her cheeks and around her eyes. She studies me quietly. “Why would you want to do that?”
She’s right to think my offer seems out of left field. A large part of me is sorry for how Colt’s life came to an end, even if I’d choose my life over his again if I had to. Yet, a quote that I’ve heard from Mother Theresa sticks in my head. She said, “If you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.” I’m no saint, so my desire is somewhat selfish. I’m hopeful that facing this will provide another way for me to heal, as much as I hope it gives a measure of comfort to Melissa. She seems truly and utterly alone, and that’s heartbreaking. So, I channel a bit of Nana’s grit and compassion, hoping I can achieve something good for all of us with this one action.
“ Colt made some bad choices with dire consequences…but he was still loved. I’d like to show my condolences for his lost life.” I tuck my hands into my lap. “I won’t come if it will make you uncomfortable, though.”
She sniffs. “No, that’s fine. You’re welcome to come.” She folds the tissue and tucks it under the base of her cup. “As it is, I think I’ll be the only one there.” Her voice breaks and fat tears crest her cheeks again. “It’s next Wednesday. At eleven.”
“Ok. I’ll be there.” I hope my tone is reassuring, even though I keep it soft.
She composes herself again. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“I’m glad I did,” I say honestly.
She stands, still staying out of sidewalk traffic, and I follow suit. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Bye, Melissa.”
Melissa turns and walks down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. My feet remain planted until she turns into the parking lot, out of sight, before I turn and make my way through Town Square toward my Jeep.
Despite our open conversation, everything in me feels constricted. A new weight sits on my chest. Could I have done more to stop what happened?
At the final corner, a man I would guess to be about ten years older than me reaches the crosswalk at the same time as I do. “Hey there.” He grins at me.
I avert my eyes in annoyance. Does this puffy face and presumably red nose scream flirt with me?
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all by yourself?”
Disgusting.
I whip my head in his direction. “Does that really work for you?”
“Pardon?” His grin widens, and I’m positive his phrasing is deliberate and not a normal speech pattern for him. “I’m just saying, a cute thing like you should be locked up tight.” I open my mouth to respond when he adds, “I bet you’d be even prettier if you smiled.”
He takes a half-step forward and instinctually, I reach for Sutton’s gun tucked into the waistband of my pants.
The man’s pupils dilate. He freezes and his grin drops, but his brain is obviously malfunctioning because the falter causes an awkward grimace as he stares at my reaching arm.
My hand stills at my back, my fingers flush against the butt of the gun. I realize my reaction too late; my response is to immediately defend myself. I leave my hand where it is. “Why don’t you just fuck off.” My voice isn’t as harsh as I want it to be, but somehow this fucker gets the clue.
His hands raise in supplication. “Just having a little fun.” His weight shifts backward as his eyes return to mine, and he begins to back away.
“Well, I’m about to have a little fun if you don’t fuck off.” I enunciate the last two words, staring him down as he turns to cross the street, repeatedly checking over his shoulder at me.
My heart races in my chest. Was I really going to pull a gun on a guy on a street corner for hitting on me? He was a massive creep, but it didn’t warrant my reaction.
I swallow thickly, adjust my sweater, and hurry to my Jeep. I need to get to the ranch.