“Not a day goes by that I’m not reminded, over and over. How lucky I am. That I should be grateful. That I should be happy just to be here.” He pauses, clears his throat. “That the only reason I am is because that guy—someone’s boyfriend, son, brother, friend—died.”
His words, and the way he says “that guy,” like Trent is a total stranger, knock the air out of me though I’m already down, crouched on my heels against the wall. A flicker of anger lights up somewhere in me now too—at him, and at myself. Out of all the rules I broke to find Colton, withholding Trent’s name in the letter was the one I actually followed. Now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d written it all down, every detail of who Trent was, so he’d know who “that guy” was. Maybe then he would’ve written back.
My hands are shaking, and now a part of me wants to step out from the shadows. Ask him the questions I somehow forgot I wanted the answers to.
The air is thick with silent tension, then Colton goes on. “Do you know what that feels like, Shelby? How am I supposed to answer a letter like that? Tell her I’m so sorry about her boyfriend? Promise her I’ll take care of his heart? That I’ll think about it every day and never forget that I’m here because he’s not?”
Colton’s voice catches. “Don’t you get it? That’s what I want. I want to forget, all of it. Why is that so horrible? To want a normal life?”
“Colton, that’s not what I—” There’s a small shuffle, like maybe she took a step toward him.
“Leave it alone,” he says. “Leave me alone.” He pauses, and in the quiet, my own heart thunders in my ears. “I don’t need any more reminders.”
I push myself up onto my feet. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, swift, desperate, silent. I need to get away.
I almost make it to the door before I feel the warm, familiar weight of his hand on my shoulder.
“Quinn?” Colton says. “What’re you—” The edge is still there in his voice, though I can tell he’s trying to hide it for my sake.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I know I should turn around and meet his eyes, for his sake. But I don’t. I can’t.
“Hey,” he says gently, turning me so we’re face-to-face.
We lock eyes, and I can see the storm in his, their usual bright green clouded over by the furrow of his brows. He looks like he wants to escape just as much as I do.
I glance over his shoulder toward the back room, willing Shelby not to come out and see me here. “I’m sorry, I should’ve called first, I—”
Colton’s eyes flick back in the direction of his sister and everything he doesn’t want to be reminded of, and I feel a stab of guilt when they come back to me with no idea that it’s all right here. Right in front of him.
“No, I’m glad you’re here. It’s just . . .” His hand comes to my shoulder, and I try to ignore the complicated rush his touch sends through me. Try not to look him in the eye.
“Wait,” he says. “Come with me.”
“Where?” I ask without meaning to. Looking at him without meaning to.
“Anywhere,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. Please, just . . . come with me.”
The need in his voice washes over me like a wave, finding its way in through the tiniest cracks, into the deepest, farthest places. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him, and it makes me want to run away; but I don’t do either one of those things.
I’ve never seen him hurt like this. Lost. I look at him standing there in front of me, and I can feel, in that moment, how much he needs me.
How much I need him too.
I search for any sign that he knows the truth about the girl who wrote that letter, but there’s none.
Without saying a word, I nod, and he takes my hand, and we go. Anywhere but here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”
—Thornton Wilder
WE DRIVE. WINDOWS open, wind swirling wild around us, filling the space of our silence with cool salt air. I can feel the tension rolling off Colton as he shifts and turns. I don’t know where we’re going, but it doesn’t matter. We drive like that, trying to block out the noise of our thoughts with the sound of the wind; and it’s not until we’re out of town, on the empty two-lane coast highway, heading north into the rolling hills, that Colton’s shoulders, and his grip on the steering wheel, relax the slightest bit.
“You ever been up to Big Sur?” he asks, his voice heavier than normal. It’s clear in this question that he doesn’t plan on acknowledging the fight he just had with Shelby in the store, but I can’t let it go, not anymore.
“Colton . . . ,” I say tentatively.
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “There’s this place up there called McWay Falls. It’s probably my favorite place, but I haven’t been there in a long time. It has the clearest, bluest water you’ve ever seen. Some days you can see twenty feet, straight to the bottom. And there’s a waterfall that comes down off the cliff, right onto the sand. I’ve been wanting to take you there,” he adds with a smile. That familiar optimism has crept back into his voice, and he sounds more like himself now. Or more like the Colton he lets me see. “We could grab some food on the way, eat at the falls, take the kayak out, have a perfect day—”
“Colton.” My voice comes out firmer this time, and I hope it’s enough to say to him that we can’t ignore what just happened. That as much as we both may want to, we can’t go any further with so much left unspoken between us.
He sighs. Looks out his side window for a brief moment before bringing his eyes back to the road. “I just want to get outta here for a little while.” He shifts in his seat, thrums his fingers on the steering wheel. “That, back there with my sister . . .”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. I can see how uncomfortable he is, and it weakens my resolve to talk about it. “You don’t have to explain. Mine can be the same way when she gets worried, and it’s between you guys anyway, and . . .”
Now I’m talking around it. Again.