Chapter 6 Colton
COLTON
MAY — THIRTEEN WEEKS TO WIN OVER THE FACULTY
Plates of fried food stretch over the surface of our table, except for one little bowl of pasta in the corner, hoarded by Inez like gold.
Quinn whines across the table from me. “I can’t eat anymore.”
I lean forward, grabbing a supplì from the platter and tearing it in half, the deep-fried exterior breaking open to reveal rice and cheesy goodness.
The flavors explode on my tongue as I force it between my lips.
Our eyes were bigger than our stomach, but we can’t stop.
Not when the little Jewish-Italian grandmother who runs the restaurant has already popped over twice to ask how we’re doing.
She won’t take kindly to us leaving a ton of food on the table.
Quinn dragged us to the Jewish Quarter, one of the most authentic neighborhoods in the city.
For hundreds of years, the Catholic Church forced the Jewish community into this handful of blocks, leaving them with few resources in an area that flooded several times a year when the Tiber rose, until they built a retaining wall in the twentieth century.
Those centuries of pain gave way to a strong community, identity, and the best food in Rome.
The cuisine is a unique combination of Jewish and Italian foods.
Artichokes and rice and fish that all burst with flavor.
But it’s almost exclusively fried, a technique started as a way to maintain lower quality ingredients that’s now continued out of tradition.
After eating crappy plane food, our bodies aren’t equipped to handle it.
Quinn sends a pathetic little look to Inez. “Help us, Inez. Please.”
Inez pulls her bowl of amatriciana closer to her chest. “If I eat that much fried food, I’ll be bloated for a week.”
Quinn drops her head back with a little whine. “We’re so fucked, Colt.”
A ringing from Quinn’s purse interrupts our groaning, and she bites her lip when she turns the phone toward me to show my mother’s name.
“Don’t answer that,” I yell, frantically trying to pull my phone out of my pocket. If I can call her back before Quinn answers, I’ll have plausible deniability.
Quinn wiggles her eyebrows at me and swipes to answer the video call. “Momma Miller!”
“Hi, my sweet boo,” Momma says.
“We made it to Rome,” Quinn says, leaning close to Inez and holding up the phone. “Say hi to Inez.”
“Hi, Gerry,” Inez says cheerfully.
“Hi there, sugar. It’s so good to see you! How are you feeling about the program?”
“Wait,” I interrupt, “how do you know my mother?”
“Holiday check-ins,” Inez says with a bright smile for my mother, jumping into her plan for the upcoming week.
Yet another thing I’ve missed over the last decade.
The first year I was in Rome, Quinn was alone in Boston.
She was newly friends with Inez, but not nearly close enough after only four months to spend Christmas with her huge Puerto Rican family.
My fellowship didn’t cover a flight home, and my mom was going to be all alone for the holidays, too.
For Quinn’s present, I reserved a rental car and sent her down to Grand Creek.
They’ve spent every major holiday together since.
Seeing the two of them joking on the screen—often at my expense—was the only thing that got me through those lonely holidays, and I’ve been beyond grateful to be back with them this year, and hopefully for every year after.
“Are you two with my deadbeat son?” she asks, and I don’t need to be able to see the screen to know she has a teasing smile on her face.
Quinn raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh yes, such a deadbeat with his PhD and all those important professorship offers.”
“Anyone can be a deadbeat if they don’t answer their mother’s calls when they promised to check in by a specific time.”
“Sorry, Momma,” I call out, and Quinn hands me the phone. The second it’s in my possession, I say, “It’s Quinn’s fault.”
Quinn gasps. “Traditore! What did I ever do to you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your idea to go get food distracted me.”
Quinn moves around the table to the open seat next to me. “I didn’t know about the call. I’d never forget you, Gerry.”
“I know, darlin’,” she says, blowing Quinn a kiss through the phone.
It’s both weird and wonderful seeing how much my mother has welcomed Quinn into her life. It’s been the two of us as long as I can remember, the sperm donor who helped create me off doing whatever real deadbeats did when they left their wife with a newborn baby and no money.
My mother did everything for me. She took on extra jobs to pay for my expensive SAT prep courses.
She drove me to Boston and Philadelphia and New York for college scholarship interviews instead of relaxing on her rare days off.
She read dozens of dry books about the college application process so she could understand a world she never had a chance to explore.
I swore I’d be successful, that I’d be the first Miller to get out of Grand Creek and make enough to support us. I refused to be another man who made promises he didn’t keep.
“Gerry, did you see the article I sent you about Christmas?” Quinn asks, snapping me out of my reverie.
“The one about doing a trip instead of exchanging gifts?”
“Yes! I figured now Colton’s home, we could each present our ideas on Christmas Day and then vote. What do you think?”
“I love it,” she says, then sends a chastising look in my direction. “I’m just relieved Colton’s finally at a job that doesn’t make him work over the holidays.”
My chest tightens, and Quinn slides her hand under the table to squeeze mine. She knows the truth, that there wasn’t enough money left over after paying for my mom’s housing for me to fly back every year. When my mother assumed I couldn’t get off work, I didn’t correct her.
Momma continues. “There’s nothing you two could give me that would be better than spending more time with my kids.”
“Quinn’s not my sister,” I say without thinking. If she’s supposed to be my sister, I need some serious therapy.
“Your only child doesn’t like to share,” Quinn mock whispers, and my mom laughs.
I shoot Quinn a stern look. “I’m taking my mother over there to talk.”
“Spoilsport,” she yells at my back.
I turn back, smiling widely, and Quinn’s answering smile sends tingles to every corner of my body. “You can stay here and finish all this fried food for us.”
Quinn’s groan chases after me as I walk away from the restaurant and down the street. I lean against the first wall I find that isn’t part of the stretch of restaurants.
“How’re you doing, Momma?” I ask.
“Nothing to complain about. Ruthie’s still driving me crazy at the factory, but apparently it’s against HR policy to duct tape someone’s mouth for talking too much.” She shrugs innocently, and I laugh loud enough to earn stares from people sitting on the patio of the nearby restaurant.
She continues talking over my laughter. “I do have to call that horrible Bobby, I’m sure you remember him”—she always says that and I never remember them—“he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s the best person to help with the kitchen renovation I was telling you about.”
I clear my throat. “And he can stay on budget?”
A couple years ago, I finally saved up enough to buy her a house.
I sent her a dozen listings that were in the budget I’d come up with.
Cute houses and condos. But then she called me, her eyes shining with tears as she showed me the listing for her dream house, a little bungalow within walking distance of downtown Grand Creek.
She’d spent so much of her hard-earned money helping me achieve my dreams, and I wanted to give her one of her own, even if it meant stretching my finances beyond their limits.
She took my ability to buy that house as a sign that I was making a ton of money. Which… I’m not. My pay isn’t bad, but I don’t have disposable income, especially between my rent and Momma’s mortgage.
But I’ve never been good at saying no to her.
So when she wanted to paint her house a soft blue with white shutters, I footed the bill.
And when she mentioned her decades-old couch wasn’t very comfortable anymore, I sent her money to redecorate.
And when she asked if she could renovate the kitchen so it was open to the living room—It’ll be perfect for my girls' nights—I said yes without even thinking about it.
I mentally calculate what I’ll need to move around to make this reno work. Adding any new expenses will stretch my budget to near breaking, but I can make it work for now, especially since I’m subletting my apartment in Boston while I’m gone, and the university is covering my expenses here.
“It won’t be too much, baby,” she says, setting the phone down to fill up her cup of coffee and leaving me staring at the ceiling. She always busies her hands during uncomfortable conversations. “I won’t go more than a little bit over budget.”
Her laughter, teasing and sweet, rings through the phone, and it should make me feel better, but the lines of my budget spreadsheet feel like they’ve wrapped around my lungs, pulling tighter and tighter.
Quinn’s been on my ass to talk to my mom about all of this, but she doesn’t get it.
She has no idea what it’s like to owe everything to another person and to have a limited time to pay them back properly.
I’ve seen how much my mom’s changed over the years.
The long days standing in the production line at her factory job are showing.
It had been noticeable even over video calls, but when I saw her in person this past July, it knocked me for a loop.
Every moment of those ten years apart are written in the lines of her face, in the strands of her hair that have gone completely gray.
I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her, and she should get to experience all the things she wants—all the things she sacrificed for me—before I lose her.
I sigh. “Try to stay in budget, Momma.”
She barks out a laugh, grabbing the phone so I can see her face again. “Always so serious! I need someone who’ll get my vision. Bring Quinn back. I always did like that girl of yours better than you, anyway.”
I groan. “You know she’s not mine, Momma.”
“Only because you’re too damn stubborn to say something and make her yours. I got it when you were leaving, but why not speak up now?”
I rub my palm over my eyes. “She doesn’t look at me like that.”
I’ve spent a decade and a half watching for something from her, any hint that she might be interested in more.
We’ve had a couple charged moments since I’ve come home, but she’s always quick—very, very quick—to bring up how lucky we are to have our friendship.
She may be attracted to me, but does she want something real with me?
Absolutely not. She’s never hidden any of her thoughts and feelings.
If she wanted to be with me, she wouldn’t have been able to hold her tongue.
I’ve seen her walk away from friendships with other people after they confessed their feelings for her. She sat on my bed at least a half dozen times, talking about the awkwardness, how she didn’t know how to behave around them anymore. The thought of her walking away from me is crippling.
“Sounds like you’re a scaredy-cat,” she says.
We’ve hashed out this conversation dozens of times over the years. But she doesn’t really care about this topic today. This was evasion, pure and simple.
“Mother—”
“Ooh, you know it’s serious when you bring out mother.”
“Please stop playing around.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll ease up,” she says, lifting the hand not holding the phone before her eyes go soft. “I’m so proud of you, sweet boy. This big, beautiful life you’ve built for yourself. People who love you and the world to explore and a fancy job you get to do forever.”
Despite all the time and effort she’s put into understanding my life, she’s never fully grasped what the “tenure track” portion of my job title means.
I’m not even close to lifetime security yet.
There are plenty of reasons someone on the tenure track may not get tenure, and losing tenure at Billings would put me back at square one.
Or worse, in the adjunct faculty pool, where contracts are unreliable and pay is shittier than underpaid elementary school teachers.
And if I lose my position, there’s no way I’d be able to pay for a kitchen renovation.
Shit, we’d probably have to sell Momma’s house.
I drop my head forward. I can feel the weight pushing my body down on itself. I won’t fail her. I can’t.
There’s a familiar pang—a combination of fear, frustration, guilt, and regret.
I could have chosen something more stable.
I knew, even back then, that it was my job to help my family.
Yet I gave up my business degree for something that wasn’t a guarantee.
I’d been miserable with all of those numbers and metrics freshman year of college and I love my life now, but enjoying my work will mean nothing if I can’t support my mother.
“Will you at least think about telling Quinn how you feel?” she asks, bringing me back into the moment and the perfect girl sitting thirty feet away.
“Of course,” I answer. “I’ll think about how I’m not gonna do it.”
She barks out a laugh. “You’re a pest.”
Her smile’s bright enough to shine across the Atlantic, and I feel a tug deep in my gut. “I had to get it from somewhere.”
After we say our goodbyes, I turn back to our restaurant and spot Quinn with Inez, head thrown back like she’s bowled over by her amusement.
Her laughter—my favorite sound in the world—echoes off the concrete and cobblestones, settling into my bones and easing some of my anxiety.
We aren’t together, but she’s by my side, easing some of the stress and fear, and that’s enough.