Chapter Seven
Passive Aggressive Texting
Colton
Don’t do it for the mother you knew. Do it for the mother who knew you.
It’s been almost eight hours since our conversation on the beach, and Cheyenne’s words still play on a loop in my head. Thunder rumbles through heavy clouds and lightning illuminates Graham’s kitchen windows while wind tosses rain against the side of the house, but it can’t compete with my own inner storm.
Instead of natural elements, though, it’s thoughts whirling around in me like a cyclone.
Thoughts about my career, or lack thereof. Thoughts about how my mom is really, truly gone forever. Thoughts about Milo. Thoughts about Cheyenne and, every so often, bookstore meet cutes. About how she looked sitting in our old spot on the beach, winter skin just barely pinkened, those summer freckles on her nose begging to be kissed.
I’ve stared at the copy of Mom’s will in my hands for long enough that my line of vision is blurred. Probably doesn’t help that the only light is a single bulb above the table and the lightning flashing outside.
But it’s not that I won’t do it anymore. It’s that I can’t.
If in the event of my death I leave minor children, I appoint as guardian of the person and property of my minor children my son Colton Del Ray, provided that he is engaged or married. He shall have custody of my minor children and serve without bond.
“Why me, Mom?” I ask the empty room. “Why not Jordan? Why not Graham? Why not Dad?”
I don’t expect an answer. I’m sitting alone in a mostly dark kitchen at nearly two in the morning, a storm rages outside, and my brother sleeps soundly just down the hall. But I also don’t think I’d complain if the tiny mushroom figurine on the windowsill or the succulent next to it started talking, either.
I mean, I’ve been named the legal guardian for my late mother’s child. My half brother. Anything’s possible at this point.
“Collie?” Graham’s voice is sleep raspy behind me. “What are you doing?”
Without turning, I say, “Writing out the initiation rules for my new cult. You could be the first member.”
My brother’s scowl is interrupted by a yawn when he drops tiredly into the chair across from mine. His hair is mussed, and his cheek is pillow creased. He says nothing.
I tap my thumb against the creased will. “All you’ve got to do is go out in the rain, spin in three circles with your arms out, and yell, ‘Colton is my favorite person in the whole wide world!’”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why,” I tease, “because you don’t want to get your matching silk pajama set wet?”
He’s wearing cotton shorts without a shirt just like I am. It seems like a minor detail.
“No. Because if I were to pick, you wouldn’t be my favorite person in the whole wide world.”
I gasp and clutch my heart. “Medic, medic! We’ve got an emergency!”
Graham rolls his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Thanks. You should try it sometime.”
I pretend his silence means he’ll consider the idea, but it’s unlikely. Graham is nothing if not the stoic businessman my quiet little brother grew up into. The notion that he could break into song and dance just because is so funny I almost smile. Emphasis on almost.
“So.” He nods at the will in front of me as thunder rattles the windows. “Doing some light reading because you couldn’t sleep?”
“If that’s your attempt at a joke, it was sad.”
“It’s two in the morning, Colton. I’m not in a joking mood.”
“Are you ready for the wedding?” It’s a complete one-eighty in conversation, but I don’t want to talk about my tornadic thoughts, and the will makes up ninety percent of them. “We’re, what, a little under two months out now?”
Graham narrows his eyes. “I know what you’re doing.”
“You can’t. It’s impossible because you’re not in my head.”
Shuddering lightly, he eases to his feet and pulls a scratched glass from the cupboard. He fills it half full with drinking water, and I’m worried he’s going to try and “glass half full” me, but then he drinks it in three easy swallows.
He disappears down the hallway into the guest room that he refuses to let me call my room. It’s kind of ridiculous because, other than a brief stint when Jordan and Jolene moved back last fall, I’m the only person who ever stays in it. You’d think that kind of exclusivity would come with squatter’s rights and the green light to upgrade the bed frame.
Think again. I’m stuck in the guest room, sleeping on a bed frame that squeaks every time I so much as breathe.
Did I mention that I sleep under a mushroom print quilt? Which wouldn’t be so bad if Graham found my jokes about being a fun-gi amusing, but as it is, my younger brother mostly has the personality of a rock.
“Good talk,” I holler over my shoulder. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite, Grammy!”
“I’m not going back to bed yet.” Graham sets—no, plunks—a box in front of me on the table and drops back into his chair. His empty glass is still in his hands. “You know, it just dawned on me why you chose the sport you did instead of, oh, let’s say golf.”
I lean forward conspiratorially. “Oh? Please, enlighten me.”
His expression remains blander than plain cheese pizza. “It only requires eight seconds to qualify, so it’s highly conducive to your short attention span.”
“Have you ever ridden a bull for those eight seconds?”
Graham nudges the box closer to me with his glass. “We both know the answer to that question. Dad found this when he was cleaning a few weeks ago. It’s yours.”
“Mine?” I frown and untuck the top flaps. “What is it?” I pause and gasp. “Ohmygosh, is it my t-shirts that you hid last year in your freezer?”
“Do I strike you as the type to snoop through other people’s things to know what it is?”
Fair point. I lean over the box, and then I swallow. It doesn’t take one look past the Babe Ruth baseball card to know what this is. For the memories to come flooding in with the force of a high tide.
My Dad Box. In other words, a catchall for everything I thought would make my father notice me. If I had things he liked, and I pretended I liked them too, he’d have a reason to see me.
A baseball card for a pro player even though he likes watching the College World Series. A long-expired, half empty plastic container of Ovaltine I snuck from the fridge at age seven. A snack size Ziploc bag of faded, undoubtedly stale Lucky Charms that I was supposed to have eaten at school. A lanyard from one of Del Ray Development’s fundraisers twenty years ago. A business card from the manager of Dad’s favorite downtown Omaha restaurant, where he took us every Thursday night when Mom was home. A pair of cufflinks with DR engraved on the once shiny silver.
A couple dozen other items, everything small enough to fit in this one box, that didn’t even matter.
I remember putting every single item in the box, each time buoyed by false hope. I also remember sitting on the porch step with the baseball card in my hand and the cufflinks on the long sleeves of my Henley shirt, waiting for Dad to get home from work.
I remember him not coming home, too. Jordan coming to get me for supper, and Gran running me a bath I didn’t want. Dad’s car turning into the driveway after I was already in bed, baseball card and cufflinks back in my Dad Box.
Clearing my throat, I close the box and push it away from me. Stale packing tape scrapes the tabletop like gravel on tile. “You can toss it. I don’t need anything in there.”
Graham hums. “Pretty sure that’s not true.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t need it.”
“I have a pretty good idea of why, given that it says Colton’s Dad Box on the side facing me.”
My eyes snap to his. “You said you didn’t look.”
“Because I didn’t. I read.” He must have refilled his glass at some point; he leans back in his chair and sips leisurely.
Irritated, I look away. My gaze lands on the picture of Graham, Ember, Dad, and Ember’s parents hanging on the living room wall. Graham’s gazing softly at his new fiancée while Ember smiles beams into the camera. John, Jackie, and Dad all look like proud, doting parents of the happy couple.
It adds to the emotional riot inside me.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what it’s like to be that little boy,” Graham says in a low voice, a hint of steel underlining his words. “The one who just wants a place to belong and a parent figure to trust. Because you, me, and Jordan were all him at one point. You were just lucky enough to find that safe person in Tripp Kolter. Tell me—how would you have felt if he had rejected you like Dad used to?”
I inhale sharply. I hate being compared to my dad, and I don’t deserve to be compared to Tripp.
“And for the record, Gran knew the Kolters could give you what Dad couldn’t. Never underestimate the people who love you, Collie.” Graham taps his empty glass once on the table before he stands up. “Try to get some beauty sleep. God knows you need it. We have suit fittings tomorrow afternoon.”
I wonder what would happen if I “accidentally” ripped a seam in my suit jacket, like, thirty minutes before the wedding in July. It’s so hot I can barely breathe, and the fitting is in a temperature controlled bridal shop. Not standing outside on a hot summer day with the relentless sun beating down on the navy material.
My current temperature fluctuations might also have to do with the way the assistant keeps eyeing me. Female attention doesn’t typically faze me, but today, I’m annoyed.
“All right.” Francie, the owner of Happily Ever After, pats me on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand. “You can take your jacket off now. Carefully, so the pins don’t move, please.”
“Collie doesn’t know the definition of careful,” Jordan taunts, waiting behind me for his turn.
I scowl at him in the trifecta of mirrors. Or, rather, all three of me scowl at all three of him. It would be more fun if the ratio was three to one, but Gran would say beggars can’t be choosers.
Francie passes the jacket to the assistant, and I step off the platform. I drop onto the red velvet sofa beside Graham. He was the first to get fitted—groom’s privilege—which means we’re nearing the end of this appointment. I’ve been told this is our last fitting unless Francie determines differently when we come by to pick them up. I’m genuinely hoping she doesn’t.
I peer at Graham’s phone screen. “Ooh, are you texting your soon-to-be wifey?”
Jordan glances over his shoulder, but Francie nudges him back forward. “Are you as passive aggressive with your texts to her as you are with us?”
Graham scoffs and turns his phone away. “No. And also no. I’m working on an email.”
“It’s a Saturday,” I say, chastising.
“And?”
I shrug and lean back into the sofa. I’ve only been in this bridal shop once, and that was for our first fitting a couple months ago. It’s overly feminine, with lots of red and pink contrasting pale wooden floors and ivory walls, but it’s not bad. Francie’s a hoot, and if I were feeling normal, I’d egg her on a little more.
As it is, I opt for silence. I start counting the wedding gowns on the rack until my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and my eyes widen.
Cheyenne: Do you have plans this afternoon? I need to talk to you.
Angling my phone away from Graham, I reply with, Not that I know of. Just supper at Dad’s later
An event I’m not particularly looking forward to, considering I’m supposed to give Indi my answer regarding Milo. Panic spurs through me. Yes, I’m not working right now, but that won’t last forever. The rodeo circuit is not the place for a child. Besides, the most stable relationship I have right now is with my truck, and I don’t think that constitutes engagement or marriage.
My phone vibrates again. How about four at my place? I’m in the apartment above Hazel’s shop.
Right. Because not unlike my relationship with Tripp, my dad has always had a soft spot for Cheyenne. I don’t know how much they’ve talked since we broke up—or if he knows we dated at all—but they must be close enough that he spoke to Hazel about the apartment.
Works for m e , I type back.
See you the n , she replies.
And that’s that. Our first text conversation in years, nothing more than a dozen or so words each.
It feels like the single most important text exchange of my life.
TEXTS BETWEEN GRAN & THE brOTHERS:
Gran: Did you boys get fitted for your suits?
Graham: Yes.
Colton: See?? Passive aggressive
Jordan: Collie’s had to be let out because he’s eaten too many muffins bumming around like he is.
Colton: That’s not true and you know it
Jordan: Do I?
Jordan: *GIF of man smirking deviously*
Gran: Jordan, be nice to your brother. Colton, have you considered eating more vegetables? Graham, maybe consider adding emotions to your texts
Colton: I think you mean emojis
Graham: Ember wants to know if she can bring anything to supper tonight.
Jordan: This is where you put a smiley face, Grammy, like I’m putting the winking face. ??
Gran: Hazel is here at the house with me and she says just to bring your lovely selves.
Gran: I turned my phone away from her now because I don’t want her to see this text.
Jordan: Because…?
Colton: Jordan is sort of okay, we KNOW I’m lovely, but Graham…
Gran: Because your father is going to propose tonight and I won’t be the one to ruin the surprise!
Jordan: Should I come downstairs and ruin it for you??
Graham: If you do that I’ll ruin your proposal to Sydney.
Colton: Jordan’s proposing to Sydney??
Jordan: I won’t be telling any of you when I’m going to propose to Sydney for this exact reason.
Gran: You’ll tell me because I’m your grandmother. It’s my age-earned privilege!
Jordan: It’s unlikely.
Graham: Now who’s being passive aggressive?
Colton: Still you