Page 97 of Came the Closest

“Is he…”

“We don’t know yet,” Beau says, answering the question I couldn’t get past my tight throat. “The best we can do is go to him. We’ll have to take it minute by minute from there.”

Blinking rapidly to quell my tears, I nod. I’m overwhelmed by trying to comprehend everything all at once. Nothing should be rooting me to this square of shiny marble flooring, but I’m frozen. Variables run through my head at warp speed, dizzying me.

Is Dad okay? Will he wake up? What happens when he wakes up? What if we don’t make it to the hospital in time? What if he doesn’t wake up? What if he wakes up and doesn’t remember us? What if we lose him? What if his levels are shifting but not improving?

What if, what if, what if.

“Cheyenne.” Sam touches my arm gently. “Go be with your family. I’ll make sure your painting makes it home safely.”

Home.

Not a specific place and not a singular person. A collaboration of places and people who are my home.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“Colton’s having valet pull his truck around,” Beau says, guiding me through throngs of curious people. “I trust him to get you there safely. Justin and I are taking Mom, and when we get back to Balsam Falls, Grandpa is going to pick up Aunt Rosie from the ranch. Uncle Ty is looking into flights from Dallas as we speak.”

I stop my brother, clutching the sleeve of his suit jacket. “He has to be okay, Beau. He has to.”

My brother doesn’t offer me reassurances he can’t give. He only squeezes my hand.

And then he sets that hand in Colton’s waiting one.

Chapter Thirty-One

Brilliant Tangerine Light

Colton

Something I will never forget about Cheyenne is her chatterbox tendencies when she’s nervous. Some people clam up and some people don’t let nerves show, but Cheyenne is neither of those people. She will fill every second of silence with conversation to avoid the stillness that comes with waiting. Under certain circumstances, it works in my favor.

For example: our very first kiss.

She rambled since we left that Chicago restaurant, ranting about how al dente pasta was pointless and why it shouldn’t be a thing. By the time we reached the bridge over the Chicago River, she’d moved onto the intricacies of her art history class. She was halfway through a passionate monologue on Da Vinci when I silenced her with a different form of communication.

Tonight, though, I can’t spin my nerves into something positive. Cheyenne talks about everything under the sun, and I drive without saying more than a dozen words. It’s wildly out of character for us both.

By the time we’re ushered to a family waiting area, though, her chattering ceases. No one is currently allowed into Tripp’s room, leaving us to wait not-so-patiently out here.

Cheyenne’s grandfather and her brothers pace like they intend to leave tracks in the tired gray utility carpet. Her grandmother, mother, and Aunt Rosie clasp each other’s hands in a small semicircle, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Beau’s wife rocks a fussy Tate, passes him off to Beau, and then takes him back only moments later. Cheyenne’s hand is clasped in mine and she sits in the chair beside me, but it feels like she’s thousands of miles away.

My heart physically hurts.

I could pull out my phone and scroll mindlessly. I could pick up the outdated issue of Readers Digest from the side table. I could try to initiate a conversation with someone, anyone, if only to distract us both.

I don’t do any of the above.

The uncomfortable plastic hospital chair digs into my tailbone, and my head hurts from thinking so much, but I don’t move. Tripp’s life is on the line. The sobering reality haunting me is that I can’t imagine how I’d feel if it were my father in that hospital bed.

I wouldn’t be ready to say goodbye.

Shoes tapping on the tile floor makes everyone look at the hallway. Indi smiles sheepishly when she comes into view.

“Sorry,” she says, lips twisted. “I’m probably not who you were hoping for.”

Cheyenne’s grandfather squeezes her shoulder. “Just because we’re all a bit jumpy doesn’t mean you’re not welcome here, darlin’. Pull up a chair—we’re playing a little game called Patience.”

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