Page 111 of Came the Closest

Chapter Thirty-Six

Summertime In A Lake Town

Colton

Morning light from the windows of the master bedroom casts dazzling golden shadows across the shiplap accent wall. I yawn and stretch, but Cheyenne’s weight is no longer pressed into mine. The en suite bathroom is dark, so I sit up and rub my hands down my face to wake up.

And then I hear it.

A song from the Choose Happy playlist I curated drifts upstairs, followed closely by a distinctly feminine voice.

I pull on a pair of shorts and take the stairs two at a time. The music is streaming through the Alexa in the kitchen, but Cheyenne is in the sunroom. She has her back to me, yesterday’s curls piled messily on top of her head and hips swaying gently to Jimmy Buffett while she swipes a paintbrush across a canvas.

My wife.

Reality is sinking in now that yesterday has faded. The reality where Cheyenne is mine and only mine to love for the rest of my life. Where we will raise Milo—and God willing, our own children—in this very home together. Where we’re both still healing and breaking old habits, but we will do that together. We will communicate as openly as she did with me last night, and we will cherish every moment spent together.

I’ve been with more women than I’d like to count, most of them in a purely physical sense. It was never love. I didn’t know that then, but I know it deeply now. The love I have for Cheyenne dives deeper than physical attraction, it’s an emotional intimacy that is built on something substantial: trust. It’s not fleeting chemistry and it’s not fizzling infatuation, it’s a love that is as equally steadfast as it is ardent.

I look down at the gold wedding ring on my finger—my father’s band. We were standing in my dad’s kitchen when I told him I was marrying Cheyenne. First, Dad hugged me, and then he disappeared upstairs. Moments later, he came back with a velvet box.

“She left hers here,” he’d said. “They’re not supposed to live in a dusty box, son. Give them the love story I couldn’t give your mother. That’s what she would have wanted.”

Yesterday, I slipped my mother’s ring over Cheyenne’s knuckle, and she slipped my father’s over mine. And maybe he’s right—maybe we were the love story they were always meant to tell. Maybe my mother hoped for that even when she left so long ago.

I purposely step on the creaky floorboard three paces from the island. Cheyenne startles, but she glances over her shoulder and smiles softly. Early morning sunshine haloes her, accentuating the curves of her body and framing her in golden light. Her paint spattered t-shirt just barely hides her favorite pair of blue and white plaid flannel shorts.

Wordlessly, I cross the room, pull her to me, and kiss her. “Good morning, Mrs. Del Ray.”

“Mm,” she murmurs, smiling against my mouth. “A very good morning indeed, Mr. Del Ray.”

I let my fingers dance lightly up the ridges of her spine. “I see that you’ve found inspiration again.”

“Oh, um…” The corner of her mouth curls, and she settles her arms around my neck. “It’s hard not to paint now that I’ve started again. I only meant to come down for a little while to let you sleep, but I guess time sort of got away from me—Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” Fingers pressing into her lower back, I drop a kiss on the summer freckles dotting her nose.

“Like you think I’m goofy.”

“Considering I like to laugh,” I say, chuckling, “I think that would be a compliment.”

Her teeth sink into her lower lip. A groan rumbles in my chest, and I brush hair that’s escaped her bun from her neck. I trail soft kisses along the exposed line of her neck, and her head tilts to give me easier access. My wife smiles like lavender, fresh morning air, and lemons. It’s a dizzying combination.

I lean back slightly before I can get carried away. “Keep painting, sweetheart. I want to watch.”

“Colton—”

“Uh-uh. No Coltons about it.” I turn her back to her canvas and slide my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. “Go on, Fini. Lift your sails.”

She hesitates but she reaches for her brush after a moment. Ukulele strings drift in from the kitchen and she hums along, but her steady hand never falters. Not even when I press the occasional kiss to the sensitive skin of her neck or murmur sweet nothings into her ear.

Blue and orange and red are blended into turquoise and ochre and cerise. Sailboats bob in frothy lake water. People unrecognizable by face dot the shorelines and jump off the dock and mill around on the deck. Waves roll onto pebbly lakeside sand. Striped blue and white chaise loungers rest on billowy green grass. Tiny shops with pastel awnings are nestled on the left side, and the historic wooden rollercoaster of Palmer’s Park is tucked into a cerulean sky.

It can’t move, of course, but it feels alive. It’s like I can feel the texture of the sand, smell the smoking grill, and hear cool water lapping against sundrenched skin. It’s a lake town in summertime, and summertime in a lake town.

When she sets her paintbrush on the tray of her easel, her body releases a long sigh. Her shoulders relax and her hands come to rest over mine, her thumb tracing my wedding band with reverence.

“Collie?”

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