Chapter Eight
Your Idea, Your Responsibility
Cheyenne
Someone knocks on my door at 3:30, but even though my pulse skips, I know it’s not Colton. The man is not punctual; him arriving thirty minutes early is a definite no. Even if, inadvisably, I wish it was.
“Coming,” I call, letting my hair fall from my hands. The claw clip I grabbed isn’t cooperating, so unbrushed and loose it is.
Colton’s seen me during winter sickness; at least I’m not pale and feeling like tree rot today. That’s one perk of living here—being within walking distance to the beach whenever I need some sun, sand, and water therapy.
I weave around a pile of folded towels and through the kitchen to the door. The apartment is small—one bedroom, one bathroom, and a shared living/kitchen area—but it’s enough for me. Yawning windows overlook Main Street, with its cobblestone road, pastel awninged shops, and quaint brass lamp posts. Beyond leafy treetops and restaurant deck seating, Falls Lake stretches blue and glittering for miles.
“Oh, hey, Mom.” I step back after opening the door. “Come in. Weren’t you supposed to babysit Tate this afternoon?”
My mother steps inside, smelling of lavender and horses. “Beau texted me and said plans changed. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I frown. Beau and Kaia canceled a date? It doesn’t sound like them, but then, nothing these days is particularly normal. Maybe he got called into the clinic.
“Nope,” I say, running a washcloth over the already shiny counter. “Unless you count laundry, but please do interrupt that.”
Mom laughs, smile lines not quite reaching her eyes, and she lifts the box in her hands. “Don’t tell your brothers about the donuts. This can be our little secret.”
Sunny Glaze donuts twice in as many days? Alongside being within ten minutes of the beach, this absolutely adds to the silver lining of moving home.
“We can sit.” I nod at the small round table supported by metal legs, situated between the island and the sofa. The only thing on top is a vase of blue hydrangeas from Hazel. “I don’t have plans until four.”
“Plans, huh?” Faint mischief sparkles in her words as we take our seats. Mischief that reminds me of a woman who wasn’t possibly on the verge of losing her chosen life partner. “Do these plans involve other humans?”
I set a paper towel in front of each of us. “It’s Colton. I asked him to come over. I want to talk to him about something.”
Mom doesn’t let her calm expression slip. “The interview?”
“Actually, no.” I wasn’t planning to talk about this with anyone until I’d talked to Colton, but this is Mom . The woman who held me tighter than my husband did after my miscarriage; who kissed my forehead after the divorce and whispered that I was stronger than life’s storms. “You heard about the daughter Sam didn’t know about, right?”
“Honey, the whole town knew about it five minutes before the girl appeared,” she says, bemused. “Yes, I heard.”
I know she’s trying to joke around, and I appreciate it, but it doesn’t stop me from squeezing my donut until frosting jams under my nails. “Well, it turns out that Kathleen died last month, and she has a four year old son— not with Sam, obviously. She, ah…” I glance at the chocolate and sprinkles donut in my hand. “She named Colton as his guardian in her will.”
Mom exhales slowly and lowers her maple glazed donut to her paper towel. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say. It is a lot.
Especially for a man like Colton, who is allergic to relationships that last longer than five minutes, and whose zip code changes nearly every week.
“I think it’s huge for him to step up and—”
“Mom,” I interrupt. “He doesn’t want to accept the guardianship.”
Her face falls. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” I say again.
I mean, I get it. His life would change drastically if he assumed the responsibility of a child that young. He’s lived a nomadic lifestyle for nearly fourteen years with only himself to care for.
“I want to offer to be a nanny for him,” I say quietly, picking at a yellow sprinkle on my donut. “I know he’d have to find a place to live, because Graham’s getting married. But maybe if he knew someone was there to help with Milo he’d be able to wrap his head around the idea. Maybe it wouldn’t feel as overwhelming.”
Maybe I’d have the chance to be someone’s maternal figure, if only for this summer.
I don’t say that last part out loud. My family knows I want to be a mom—my brothers used to tease me that I was their second mom—but I can’t talk about how close I came to it. How when I go to Target, I avoid the children’s section with its floral muslin infant blankets, and I think about what I might’ve named my little girl if I had a daughter. How I hold my nephew and inhale his soft baby scent that fades the older he gets, and I wonder if I might’ve had a son who had blue eyes, too.
Mom studies me carefully, and I think she’s going to comment on it from that perspective. Then she pauses, tucks her lips together, and says, “Offer him the lake house.”
Everything in me stills, including my pulse, for half a second.
The lake house.
Butterflies thrum lightly in my veins.
Ranching didn’t let us escape for lengthy periods of time, but the lake house was part of my life for as long as I can remember. Grandpa always declared it was a crying shame to live only miles from the lake and not wake up with a waterfront view. My second-floor bedroom overlooked the lake, and it had a cushioned window seat.
Dad and I played Go Fish in that window nook every time it stormed. Wind would blow and sleep would evade me, but Dad never failed to be there. He’d tug the curtains firmly closed, sometimes with clothespins for good measure, and I dealt our hands. First, children’s ones with pictures, and as I got older, a plain deck of Bicycle cards.
“Mom, I—”
“I can’t face it yet, Cheyenne,” she says softly, lifting her eyes to mine. “Not without your father. But it shouldn’t sit empty. Not during its glory months, anyway.” Her smile turns a little sad on one side and a little reminiscent on the other. “Who would be there to set off the smoke alarm by making microwave popcorn if it was vacant all summer? And, oh,” she adds wistfully. “Your daddy’s Bronco can’t possibly go an entire season without driving, windows down, and music blaring.”
Emotion burns in the back of my throat. “I wish he was here, Mom. I mean, I know he’s not not here, but I just…”
Want one more summer , is what I want to say. I know it isn’t true. One more day, one more holiday, one more summer —it would never be enough. Not if I knew it was all I had left. Looking back now, twenty-nine years wasn’t enough.
“I know, baby,” she says, nodding, her soft brown eyes filled with tears. I wish they were happy tears from stepping into the lake house for the first time of the year, not because Dad is lying in a hospital, comatose, and Mom can’t face the place she loves so much. “So do I. But he wouldn’t want to see this—us not eating our donuts because we’re sad. Remember what he always said?”
My own lips curve into that half sad, half reminiscent smile. “A happy donut is better than a sad salad, and happy tears are better than sad wishes.”
A watery laugh bubbles in her throat, and she reaches for my hand, her strong fingers squeezing mine. “Happy tears, Cheyenne. Think of those when you think of your father.”
My apartment door today has apparently transformed into a revolving door of guests. Mom leaves at ten till four when Beau texts her, I put another load of laundry in, and when I walk into the kitchen three minutes later, Justin is leaning against my island. Polo slightly rumpled, black rimmed glasses a little crooked, and cheeks bulging with donut. A glass of milk sits on the counter in front of him.
I nudge the fridge door fully closed with my shoulder. “Thanks for knocking.”
“You gave me a spare key. That’s basically an invitation to not knock.” He swallows and eyes me a little too closely. “Do you—” He sniffs the air. “Oh, my gosh, are you wearing perfume?”
“No.” It’s not a lie. At least, not fully. I didn’t spritz myself with real perfume; I just rolled a little on my wrists. “Is there a reason you barged into my apartment?”
Justin shoves the second half of a long john in his mouth. “Do I haf to haf a reathon?”
“Stop talking with your mouth full.”
He grins. “And there she is, folks. Mom Number Two mode, activated.”
“I’m serious, Justin,” I say firmly.
“ Wind it up there, Mother Dear,” he teases, smirk dimpling. “Do you possibly want some cheese with that whine?”
“I don’t know why I even bother,” I mutter, grabbing his now empty glass and carrying it to the sink. Unsatisfied, I rinse it and place it in the dishwasher.
His amused eyes follow my every move. “Probably because you love me.”
“That’s questionable.”
“So.” He waits until I look over at him, then sweeps his hand over his body. “Rate the ‘fit on a scale of one to ten. One being, ‘it looks horrible, Justin, why would you wear that in public?’ and ten being ‘oh, my gosh, Justin, why don’t you wear that more often?’”
“The ‘fit?” I run a dish rag over the glass stovetop. “What are you, an Instagram influencer?”
“Kaia was showing me a reel yesterday and it got stuck in my head. But back to me. Rate it.”
I pause to take in his floral-patterned polo, tan golf shorts, and white sneakers. “What am I rating it for? I need some context.”
“I met this girl—”
“Give me her number so I can apologize.”
“—at the coffee shop,” Justin continues. “We’re going out tonight. Rate the date, I guess you could say.”
“For the fit ,” I say, grinning, “I give it an eight out of ten. It could be a little formal, depending on what you’re doing. Date-wise, I’d have to hear what you have planned before I could rate it.”
“Well, she’s a golfer, so I thought we’d—”
“Justin, if you say mini golf, it is my sisterly responsibility to remind you why we don’t mini golf anymore.”
“Okay, first of all, I was eight.” He holds his fingers up for emphasis and pokes his glasses into place. They slide right back down his nose. “And second, we’re not going back to that mini golf place.”
“To refresh your memory, your ball plunked into the deeply dyed water, and you dove in after it. Are you sure you’ll be able to resist if the same situation arises?”
Justin’s frown flips into a smile and he points at my dining table, where the donut box still sits, only one blueberry cruller left. And next to it, a…fishing net? I slide my eyes back to my brother in silent question.
“That’s what this bad boy is for.” He rounds the island to grab the net and waves it too close to my face. Because, you know, that’s what brothers do. “This way, in the event of another water incident, I won’t have to worry about it. I can just scoop up—”
A knock at the door cuts him off. I glance at my watch—4:02—and then point at my brother. “ That is the proper way to ask to enter one’s home. Also, don’t be weird.”
My brothers only know that Colton and I dated briefly, not the depth of my feelings for Colton. Unfortunately, that means they toggle between being ticked at him and friendly with him. Based on Justin’s current pre-date bubbliness, I’m hoping for the latter today.
“Hey.” I ignore the lift in my pulse when Colton offers a lopsided smile. “Come in. Justin’s here, but he was just leaving. Right , Justin?”
My brother narrows his eyes. “What is he—”
“Don’t want to be late for your date, do you?” I give him a look and tip my head at the door. “I rated your ‘fit, so off you go. Go on, my little duckling.”
Justin lifts his brows, insinuating he’ll have thoughts on this later. He pauses when he gets within a half-foot of Colton. “Hurt her and you’re dead.”
“Justin,” I hiss.
Colton only chuckles. “That’s fair. But trust me, she has way more power than I do.”
Sticky warmth trickles through my body. I mean, I know flirting comes as naturally to Colton as breathing to most people. I am, after all, the girl he took a redeye flight from Maryland to Chicago to kiss goodnight.
Justin laughs, and just like that, his whole protective-older-brother fa?ade has vanished. “You know, you’re right.” He claps Colton on the shoulder and backs toward the door. “Wish me luck tonight, Mother Dear!”
“Bad luck,” I call after him.
He pokes his head back inside, expression annoyed.
I shrug. “You didn’t specify what kind of luck.”
“Good luck,” Colton offers.
“For the record,” Justin says, “he’s my favorite.”
Colton turns his focus to me after my brother leaves, and for a moment, I don’t move. I’m not sure I even breathe. In the small space of my apartment, Colton Del Ray feels too big, too filled with life, too real. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be the center of Colton’s attention—like you’re the Earth and he’s the sun, orbiting you with fervor, with boundless warmth.
I remember when I wondered what it would be like to be within this man’s revolution forever.
But they say you’ll get burned if you stare at the sun for too long. I guess that only makes sense.
“Hey,” Colton says.
“Didn’t we already say that?”
“No. Well,” he amends, “you did. Then Justin stole the spotlight.”
“You say that like you don’t do the same thing.”
His smile is as comfortable as my favorite oversized pajama t-shirt, soft and familiar and worn to perfection. “You wanted to talk?”
Right . I nod and turn away from him. Impulsively—or maybe reflexively—I reach for the yellow dish rag again, despite the kitchen being spotless. I can’t help it; I clean when I’m nervous or stressed. If there was one thing Stephen said I did right in our marriage, it was always keeping our home tidy.
Large, calloused fingers close around mine and a bearded jaw snags on my hair. “Put the rag down, Cheyenne. You clean when you’re nervous, and if I’m making you nervous, I’m going to leave.”
I inhale sharply, shuddering at his proximity. Stephen always praised me for being such a good wife, for keeping our home clean and ready to entertain at the drop of a hat. But never in our two years of dating or two years of marriage, did he have the decency to recognize that it was one of my unhealthiest habits.
Colton, on the other hand, stands close enough for his arm to press against mine from shoulder to pinkie. His chest isn’t touching my back, but it should be with the way my skin burns. His awareness of my nervous tics makes me want to turn around and bury myself in him, to feel his arms gather me close and his chin on the top of my head. To let his familiarity shore up my strength. Colton might be a drifter by nature, but for more than half my life, he’s been my anchor.
Instead, I step away from him and say the one thing that’ll put necessary distance between us. “I think you should take Milo.”
Even facing away from him, I sense his shoulders tensing. “Cheyenne…”
“No. I mean it.” Bunching the washcloth in my hand for strength, I turn to look at him. The helplessness drooping his shoulders breaks my heart a little. “He needs you, Colton. I know you don’t want to stay here—”
“I can’t stay here.”
“—but what if you didn’t have to?” My heart thrums against my ribcage. “At least, not all the time.”
“Cheyenne, I’m a straight shooter. Don’t talk in circles with me.”
“What if I nannied for you?”
Silence meets my question. The refrigerator hums and the pipes under the sink gurgle, but Colton says nothing. His expression doesn’t shift much, making it impossible to read what he’s thinking. Longing burns steadily in my chest for the days when it was impossible to not know his thoughts, becoming a physical ache I can’t rub away.
“And,” I continue, purposely breaking the silence, “you could live at the lake house for the summer. You and Milo.”
His jaw tightens. I don’t even know if I’m ready to face the lake house without Dad. To avoid the third step because it creaks and only pop half a bag of popcorn so the smoke alarm won’t go off. But for Milo, I will. I haven’t even met the child, and I already know he will keep a piece of my heart long after summer ends.
“Is that all?” Colton asks neutrally. Too neutrally to determine what his answer might be.
I itch to run the washcloth over the donut crumbs on the table. I resist and nod instead. And, because I’m only a woman and my once best friend is objectively good looking, I notice how his light blue t-shirt pulls tautly across his chest when he reaches up to scratch his jaw. His hand settles at the back of his neck, and that sticky warmth returns, pooling low in my belly.
I know what that hand feels like settled heavily into the curve where my waist and hips meet. How oddly soft his beard is when he kisses the tender skin behind my ear. What sound he makes deep in his throat when I run my hands up his muscled torso. Funny how easily you forget what you wrote on your grocery list, but you remember, with startling clarity, something that has no relevance to you anymore.
“Look, Cheyenne,” he starts, and my heart sinks. “I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. But—”
“Don’t say no,” I cut in. I hate the pleading in my voice, but I don’t try to hide it. “Not yet. Take a day or two to think about it, and then give me your answer.”
“Cheyenne, I have to be engaged or married to accept the guardianship.”
Oh.
I say nothing, because I have nothing to say. Colton made it clear since he was late in his teens that he didn’t want marriage or a family like I did. If engagement or marriage is stipulated in his mother’s will, it’s a nail in a proverbial coffin.
Salt burns my eyes, and I look away, the dishcloth turning blurry in my line of vision. Another chance at motherhood, if only temporarily, is being taken from me.
He sighs and rubs the nape of his neck again. “I’m supposed to give Indi an answer tonight, but it’s going to be no. She and Milo are fine staying at Dad’s, but other arrangements will have to be made. She’s eighteen. She doesn’t need to be responsible for a child.”
Just like that, my chance is slipping through my fingers. I mean, yes, the engagement or marriage thing complicates it. But surely there’s a workaround.
Ideas spin in my mind to try and change his. That’s how I am, how I’ve always been. People hurt, and I nurture. Mother them, my brothers would say. I think it’s just something I was born with, an instinct that I can’t shake. And from the moment Colton showed me the picture of Milo, my heart took a mental screenshot.
“Well then,” I say slowly, “I guess we’d have to be fake engaged.”
Colton’s dark brows lift incredulously. “ Fake engaged?”
“Unless you want to be engaged for real, yes.” The joke falls flat, but humor is a coping mechanism. One I need right now.
“What would you get out of it, though?” he asks. “Your house and your time. What’s in it for you?”
A missed chance at motherhood.
I can’t say that, though. Not without subsequently telling him too much of the truth. Instead, and because it is a partial truth, I shrug and say, “A reason to face the lake house.”
“You do realize what that would look like, right?” he asks. “You and me. Most people wouldn’t know it’s fake.”
I do know what it would look like, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. I nod.
He contemplates this for a moment. His eyes meet mine, and a tiny ember of determination edges into the apprehension. “I have conditions, Cheyenne.”
Conditions sound a lot like leverage , the one thing I swore I’d never let another man have over me. I shove the unease away. This is Colton. The man might have the power to break my heart again, but only because I’d let him. Even during those fleeting moments five years ago, the stolen kisses and humid summer slow dances and hours-long phone calls, he’d been clear that it was going nowhere.
It had been my choice to love him then, and it would be my choice to love him now.
“Which are?” I ask.
“Come to Dad’s for supper tonight so you can meet Milo,” he says. “Provided meeting him goes well, I want you to live at the lake house with us. When I’m on the road, you’d have to be there overnight anyways. The last thing Milo needs is more confusion right now, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” I say distractedly. I’m stuck on living at the lake house .
Me, Colton, and Milo.
A temporary mom, a temporary dad, and a very temporary child.
Like the little family I’ve always wanted, the one I very nearly had with Stephen. This one will come with tangerine sunsets over the lake, Quaker Squares and blueberries at the kitchen island for breakfast, and plastic sand toys at the local beach. But when summertime closes, it’ll slip away. Slowly, this time, like sand through an hourglass.
If you don’t take opportunities when they come to you, Dad used to say, you can’t complain about never having had the chance.
Colton looks at me hesitantly, as if taking a moment to truly consider what we’re about to agree to. He holds his hand out between us. “So. Is that that?”
With Dad’s words held close to me, I slip my fingers into Colton’s. Awareness fizzes in my nervous system. “Yeah, that’s that.”
TEXTS BETWEEN JUSTIN & CHEYENNE:
Justin: Not that you asked, but my date is going well. No mini golf balls have been lost to the Great Blue Water, and Sophie rated my fit 10.
Justin: The real question is what was COLTON doing at YOUR apartment????
Cheyenne: Were the all caps and four question marks really necessary?
Justin: Don’t evade me Mother Dear. Consider me to be in that role right now.
Cheyenne: You are not my mother.
Justin: Don’t make me come over with my key again.
Cheyenne: It’s a long story that’s not text conducive.
Justin: Fine then. Breakfast with Beau and me tomorrow morning.
Cheyenne: Where?
Justin: Beau’s obviously. Do you want to text him to tell him we’re invading?
Cheyenne: Your idea, your responsibility.