20. Colt
20
colt
I drift my fingertip over her signature again. She didn’t call or text. She put pen to paper. I fold it and put it back into my pocket. It’s not warm and friendly, but she touched this note and thought about me.
The girls currently have only two modes. They’re either crying or fighting. I couldn’t take it anymore and shipped them off to my sister’s house in Virginia for a couple of days while I finish cleaning out her things. They can have dinner at Blair house with the Vice President, and Sloane can get a backstage look at the SNL Smithsonian display she’s been nagging me about. Her coping mechanism is research. I see her on the verge of deep diving into something, and it has to do with Saturday Night Live in a way. She’s read a lot of comedy books lately.
I tape up a Gemma box to take to the new storage unit. It’s for the girls if they ever want her things. I even saved her makeup and her hairbrushes as is. I know the makeup will go bad, but I keep it anyway. I zip locked it and put it in a box. It’s all very robotic, and there are moments of fleeting melancholy as I see old pictures. Yet, I’m not sure how to mourn someone I won’t miss.
I can’t be in the house, so I gear up and head out to the Charles River. It’s chilly but I don’t care. The familiar smell of the boathouse with its lacquer and slight decay is as comforting as hot chocolate. I sit down on the ground for a moment and breathe it in like a meditation. When I’m on the water nothing else matters. It’s like cooking. You have to be in it. You can’t set it and forget it. I’m not an Instapot cooker. If I’m making, braising, roasting, or simmering, I take an active role in it, checking and making sure everything is doing what it needs to in order to be delicious. I don’t rely on pushing a button on a microwave or crock pot. I flip my phone around in my hand then slip it into my pocket.
Then I read the note again, put it back into my wallet, and grab my hull.
Thirty minutes later I’m sitting out of the lane drifting. I went hard and sweat is pooling but the frosty air is nipping at my face. I’ve got to go in soon.
I sit holding my phone. What would I say? It had to be Mak who told her. I don’t know what to think of myself having buried my wife three weeks ago and I’m thinking about Maggie. Always about fucking Maggie.
That night in Vegas when we talked, we became friends. The temptation was there, but we were both married. Now she’s married and I just want to talk to her about nothing and everything again. She’s the only sure footing I’ve ever had. The Brothers come with too much baggage right now. They were all up in my grill to deal with my father and Gemma’s parents. Everyone has advice, but none of it seems helpful.
I made my world small by keeping work colleagues at bay or not joining clubs. All the events and dinner parties were only ever surface occasions. And now I’ve gotten way too fucking good at being a surface person. I want a real friend, who doesn’t come with my current situation.
I type out a message.
Colt: Hi. Hey. How have you been? It’s Colt. Did you know that?
Delete
Colt: Still beautiful?
Delete faster
Colt: What’s up? It’s Colt. No cap. Just chilling. Vibing. You know how I do.
What the fuck was that? Delete.
I exhale and I know I’m over thinking so I revert to manners. As is our family way.
Colt: Hi. Hey. I got your note. Thank you.
Send.
Hold my breath.
No dots.
Attempt to unsend.
It does not unsend. Why the hell can’t I unsend? I madly mash buttons and then it pops up.
Delivered.