Chapter Twenty
A conversation partner
Colton
Cheyenne and I need to talk. I know it, she knows it, heck, the whole town probably knows it. And yet, we’ve been dancing around it for the past nineteen hours.
It being the Kiss in the Kitchen.
The one that caught me by complete surprise. The one where Cheyenne grabbed my face and kissed me, but I deepened it. The one where muscle memory came flooding back in; where my hands fit perfectly, what sounds she makes when I parted her lips, how fully she understands me. The one that should not have happened.
Not that way.
Let me be abundantly clear: I don’t regret kissing Cheyenne. I regret letting it happen like that. If I’m going to kiss my fiancée, fake or otherwise, it will absolutely not be a few stolen moments alone in the kitchen. Nor will it be when there is so much uncertainty hovering between us.
Problem is, I don’t know how to tell her that. Which is why I’m here, in my office on Tuesday morning with no more clarity than last night. If Indi suspected anything, she mercifully kept quiet. Milo was too thrilled about swimming to be fazed by our distractedness.
Graham’s office beside mine is dark. He took the morning off to help Ember with inventory at the book shoppe, so it’s just me in this corner of the building. In his absence, I’ve been reviewing information he gave me. Next Monday is our first meeting with the Falls Lake Yacht Club, a meeting Graham plans to sit in on, and I want to give it my best shot.
Right now, however, my concentration is nil. I’ve stared at too many words for too long without a break. It makes me wonder how people read an entire novel in one sitting.
I put my monitor to sleep and push my desk chair in. It’s hot, so I leave my suit jacket draped over my chair, slip my phone into my pocket, and head down the hallway. One upside of Del Ray’s location is walkable proximity to restaurants. I’ve never had a lunch break, technically, so I’ve never looked forward to scoping out where to eat or seeing what coloring page Milo stuffed in the lunch Cheyenne packs me.
Caroline is officially on maternity leave—she delivered a healthy baby early, early this morning—so the receptionist desk is unusually quiet. I’ve worked here for less than twenty-four hours, and I already have a handle on the office dynamics.
Dad and Graham are firm and no-nonsense, but they’re not unapproachable. Susan, the tall blonde woman, is the CFO; she has an incredible mind for numbers and an affinity for tall heels. Bernard in marketing matches his suspenders to days of the week, Keira in HR color blocks our schedules, and Brent in communications is the only person in this office who knows how to properly work Cruella Breville.
I did order myself a custom door plate. It should arrive next Monday. I plan to wrap it and set it on my brother’s desk. Might even find some pregnancy announcement gift wrap just to make sure his heart still functions.
“Colton!”
I turn from the elevators at the sound of Hazel’s lilting Southern accent. My father’s fiancée wears a bright, patterned dress that flutters around her ankles, carries an orange leather purse in the crook of her elbow, and has her dark curls held away from her face with a white headband.
“Hazel,” I say, smiling. “Here to see Dad?”
“I was, but he has a fire to put out. We’ll take a raincheck.” She pauses, and I sense her hesitation. “I don’t suppose you’d like some company for lunch? It’ll be on me, of course.”
The elevator slides open, and I sweep my arm toward it. “I’d love the company. Lunch—or any meal, for that matter—is significantly more enjoyable with a conversation partner. But,” I add, more seriously, “ I will be buying.”
Hazel must know when to pick her battles; she only laughs softly and pats my arm on her way into the elevator. Notes of jasmine and orange peel fragrance the air around her, and she moves gracefully, but I’m stuck on how maternal the gesture feels, whether intentional or not.
My mother only did that when she was coming or going.
We pick up food from Block 16, a small local burger joint in Old Market, and I carry the oily paper bag for the sixteen-minute walk down to Conagra Lake. I ask her about the flower shop, she asks me how the summer with Milo is going, and we speculate on what updates they may make to Gene Leahy Park in the coming years. We settle onto a bench near the cityscape-flanked lake, pull our respective orders from the bag—she the Belgian Smash Burger, me the Block Burger—and set a shared order of fries between us.
I dig in and nearly groan in satiated delight. And then I realize I probably shouldn’t inhale it like this in the presence of a lady. Especially when she is engaged to my father, which will make her my stepmother.
It’ll be weird, adjusting to that. Having my father remarried, having a mother figure in my life. Thinking of my father as part of a couple again.
I blot the burger juice around my mouth with a napkin and look at her apologetically. “Sorry. I know you’re not supposed to eat that fast, but…” I make a face. “Well, between you and me, whoever stocks the snack pantry at Del Ray has no taste.”
I mean that literally—the Cliff bars and unsalted almonds in the cupboard are blander than everything being white.
Hazel laughs. “I grew up with your father, honey. I’d be concerned if you didn’t eat ravenously.”
The comment relaxes my shoulders. I forget that Dad and Hazel have a history when I see them now. Their story is so parallel to my own life that I shift uncomfortably on the bench, keeping my napkin tucked under my thigh so the breeze doesn’t catch it. A tall couple walks by, holding hands, and a pregnant mother pushes a black stroller, movement unhindered by her swollen belly.
Cheyenne wants a family, and more than anything, I want that for her. I know Cheyenne would make the most incredible mother. Watching her interactions with Milo has only confirmed what I already knew.
I just don’t know if I can be the one to fulfill that dream for her. Not in the practical sense; we have chemistry, physically and emotionally. And yes, I’m here now, and yes, a breather has been nice. But what if August comes and I get antsy? What if I’m not capable of staying when things get hard?
What if I fail her the same way Stephen did?
“Now you’re not eating at all,” Hazel says, interrupting my downward mental spiral. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your head.”
I exhale through my nose on a soft, nervous laugh, and realize I’ve clenched my hand around the second half of my burger. “Sorry. I’m just, uh, processing a lot right now, I guess.”
She neatly folds the foil around the second half of her sandwich. “Anything a conversation partner could help with?”
I sigh and let my eyes rest on the water fountain in the middle of the man-made lake. Its spouts are nearly iridescent in the shimmering glow of summertime. “Do you ever—” I shake my head. “No. Never mind. That’s a personal question.”
“Well, I am a person, aren’t I?” she asks. When I look at her, she lifts her brows expectantly. “Go on, Colton. I was a politician’s wife for a very long time. It takes a lot to insult me.”
That’s probably untrue, given her compassionate nature. Funny how the softest people are often the ones with the strongest backbones. Outwardly, that is. It’s usually a fa?ade to keep up public appearances.
I should know—being a softie isn’t seen as a strength in my profession. Bluntly, it could cost a man his life.
“Colton.” Hazel sets her hand on my knuckles. The solitaire my dad gave her catches rays of light effervescently. “It’s okay. Really. Ask me what you were going to ask.”
If this were anyone else, I don’t think I could. But Hazel Palmer is openly welcoming, and if nothing else, I’ll have offended her. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that with someone I care about.
I tap my thumb against my knee. “Do you ever wonder what it might have been like if you’d never left? Back when you and dad were kids, I mean?”
“Once upon a time, Colton, I wondered about it. Often ,” she adds, holding my eyes. Her attention isn’t focused, though. Physically, she’s here; mentally, I think she’s decades in the past. “Truthfully, there weren’t many days I didn’t wonder about that over the last forty years.”
“But…?”
“But,” she says, “while I’ll always wonder, I’ll never wish. If I wish for it to have been different, one, I’ll just be wishing, and two, that would wish you away. And never, not in my wildest dreams, would I ever do that. I didn’t get to carry and raise children of my own, but if you think I wish I hadn’t let your father go, no.” She shakes her head. “I don’t. Because I would never wish you—or your brothers, or sister, or Jolene—away.”
Coming from Hazel, the answer doesn’t necessarily surprise me. It does, however, magnify every inadequate thought plaguing me.
“My turn,” she says, and she looks me square in the eye. “Tell me, Colton. Which option is scarier to you—the one where you try and could mess up, or the one where you don’t try and you don’t have Cheyenne in your life at all?”
Air ceases to exist. I inhale sharply, willing it back into my lungs, but I’m incapable of words. Incapable of answering her question.
“Because the thing about love, sweetheart, is that it’s not what the world says it is. It’s not starlit dances and anniversary candles. Those are wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but they’re not love .” She adds extra emphasis to the word and pauses there for a beat. “Love is choosing one person, and it’s choosing them over, and over, and over. It’s choosing them when they don’t know how to choose themselves and trusting them to choose you too. It’s deciding you’re more scared of living without them than you are of making mistakes.”
What about , I want to ask, when you might be their mistake?
“Love isn’t measurable,” she says, and as she says it, her smile gentles. “Oftentimes, it can’t be explained. I guess the movies do have it right in that regard. But love—the true, unwavering, unbreakable kind? That kind of love can only be chosen.”
“What if you don’t know how to do that?” I ask. My voice is nearly inaudible. I stare at her hand resting over mine, at the wrinkles on her knuckles and the coral polish on her neatly trimmed nails. “What if you don’t know how to…”
“Commit?”
The word twists like a knife in my chest.
I nod.
“That’s the thing, Colton,” she says. “None of us know how . It’s like a child who doesn’t know how to ride a bike. Until they’ve practiced, they’ll never know, and even once they’ve learned, sometimes they might still fall. It’s not the doing, Colton, it’s the trying. That’s all any of us can do.”
I nod again. I know that she’s right. But I grew up watching the greatest, most romantic love stories on TV with my mom. I noted grand gestures and formed the assumption that a gift—something tangible, something to hold—is how to show someone you care.
The idea of not using anything but my words makes it hard to breathe. Harder yet to think about facing Cheyenne empty-handed.
“Colton?”
I lift my gaze.
“If you need anything more than what you have to say in your heart, it’s not love.” Her smile softens with sadness. “Love can’t be bought, honey. It can only be given.” She squeezes my hand once before she pulls hers away. “I should probably let you get back to the office soon. Your father might not trust me with you again if I don’t.”
I frown. “But I thought—”
“That I was here to see your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll never say no to that,” she teases. “But I came to see you. Your father isn’t very good at expressing himself, but he cares. Very deeply. I think he noticed that you weren’t quite you lately.”
I let out a mirthless laugh. “Hazel, I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Even better,” she exclaims cheerfully. She reaches out, hesitates, and tenderly cups my whiskered chin in her palm. The gesture brings instant tears to my eyes. “That means you have the complete freedom to define yourself anew. It’s never too late to start over. Every dawn is a new chance, Colton, so take it while you have it. Do it scared, if you must, but believe me when I say the chance will not take itself.”
I want to get something. I want to buy flowers, or a blank canvas, or a set of paintbrushes. In fact, if Hazel didn’t own the flower shop, I’m not sure I could stop myself.
Approaching Cheyenne with nothing seems wrong. It chafes against the very core of who I am. I don’t attend many social events outside of work, but when I do, I never, under any circumstances, show up empty-handed.
Travis’s wife’s New Year’s party two years ago? I showed up on the doorstep of their California townhome with a brand-new karaoke machine (Travis hated it; Meredith loved it). Rodeo’s version of a black-tie event in Denver last year? I came with signed posters for sponsors to give away. One of the guys on the circuit just had a new baby? I dropped by the hospital with the cutest gingham print dress and a pair of tiny boots that Gran ordered for me on Amazon.
I don’t go anywhere without bringing something that speaks for itself.
Every time my mother came home, she brought us something. Colorful woven bracelets from Uganda. Locally made peach jam from the quaintest bakery in the South of France. Fur hats with ear flaps from a trapper in Iceland. A fridge magnet with dolphins on it from Bali.
Physical reminders of her so I wouldn’t forget her. Without them, I might not have remembered her.
How am I any different?
I don’t get the flowers. I don’t get the blank canvas or the brushes. I don’t even let myself stop at Sunny Glaze to pick up a donut; chocolate frosting, light, with sprinkles.
I avoid Cheyenne’s eye when I walk into the kitchen that smells of fresh cilantro and fajita steak. I poke Milo’s belly when he prompts me to, and when he giggles, Indi explains that he’s pretending to be the Pillsbury Doughboy of 1982. I take Milo swimming and we walk up to my dad’s house for s’mores around a crackling campfire. I let the girls get Milo ready for bed, and we look through Sailing: The Basics like we’ve done every night we’ve spent at the lake house. I tell my sister goodnight in the hallway, and I avoid the creaky third step downstairs out of habit.
And then, empty-handed, I go down to the dock. Cheyenne’s toes skim the still surface of the lake, and her blonde hair brushes lightly against her lower back. When I sit down beside her, I feel the overwhelming urge to run.
But I don’t.
For the first time in my life, when the urge to run strikes me, I sit still.