Page 67 of Came the Closest

Coming from Hazel, the answer doesn’t necessarily surprise me. It does, however, magnify every inadequate thought plaguing me.

“My turn,” she says, and she looks me square in the eye. “Tell me, Colton. Which option is scarier to you—the one where you try and could mess up, or the one where you don’t try and you don’t have Cheyenne in your life at all?”

Air ceases to exist. I inhale sharply, willing it back into my lungs, but I’m incapable of words. Incapable of answering her question.

“Because the thing about love, sweetheart, is that it’s not what the world says it is. It’s not starlit dances and anniversary candles. Those are wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but they’re not love.” She adds extra emphasis to the word and pauses there for a beat. “Love is choosing one person, and it’s choosing them over, and over, and over. It’s choosing them when they don’t know how to choose themselves and trusting them to choose you too. It’s deciding you’re more scared of living without them than you are of making mistakes.”

What about, I want to ask, when you might be their mistake?

“Love isn’t measurable,” she says, and as she says it, her smile gentles. “Oftentimes, it can’t be explained. I guess the movies do have it right in that regard. But love—the true, unwavering, unbreakable kind? That kind of love can only be chosen.”

“What if you don’t know how to do that?” I ask. My voice is nearly inaudible. I stare at her hand resting over mine, at the wrinkles on her knuckles and the coral polish on her neatly trimmed nails. “What if you don’t know how to…”

“Commit?”

The word twists like a knife in my chest.

I nod.

“That’s the thing, Colton,” she says. “None of us know how. It’s like a child who doesn’t know how to ride a bike. Until they’ve practiced, they’ll never know, and even once they’ve learned, sometimes they might still fall. It’s not the doing, Colton, it’s the trying. That’s all any of us can do.”

I nod again. I know that she’s right. But I grew up watching the greatest, most romantic love stories on TV with my mom. I noted grand gestures and formed the assumption that a gift—something tangible, something to hold—is how to show someone you care.

The idea of not using anything but my words makes it hard to breathe. Harder yet to think about facing Cheyenne empty-handed.

“Colton?”

I lift my gaze.

“If you need anything more than what you have to say in your heart, it’s not love.” Her smile softens with sadness. “Love can’t be bought, honey. It can only be given.” She squeezes my hand once before she pulls hers away. “I should probably let you get back to the office soon. Your father might not trust me with you again if I don’t.”

I frown. “But I thought—”

“That I was here to see your dad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll never say no to that,” she teases. “But I came to see you. Your father isn’t very good at expressing himself, but he cares. Very deeply. I think he noticed that you weren’t quite you lately.”

I let out a mirthless laugh. “Hazel, I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Even better,” she exclaims cheerfully. She reaches out, hesitates, and tenderly cups my whiskered chin in her palm. The gesture brings instant tears to my eyes. “That means you have the complete freedom to define yourself anew. It’s never too late to start over. Every dawn is a new chance, Colton, so take it while you have it. Do it scared, if you must, but believe me when I say the chance will not take itself.”

I want to get something. I want to buy flowers, or a blank canvas, or a set of paintbrushes. In fact, if Hazel didn’t own the flower shop, I’m not sure I could stop myself.

Approaching Cheyenne with nothing seems wrong. It chafes against the very core of who I am. I don’t attend many social events outside of work, but when I do, I never, under any circumstances, show up empty-handed.

Travis’s wife’s New Year’s party two years ago? I showed up on the doorstep of their California townhome with a brand-new karaoke machine (Travis hated it; Meredith loved it). Rodeo’s version of a black-tie event in Denver last year? I came with signed posters for sponsors to give away. One of the guys on the circuit just had a new baby? I dropped by the hospital with the cutest gingham print dress and a pair of tiny boots that Gran ordered for me on Amazon.

I don’t go anywhere without bringing something that speaks for itself.

Every time my mother came home, she brought us something. Colorful woven bracelets from Uganda. Locally made peach jam from the quaintest bakery in the South of France. Fur hats with ear flaps from a trapper in Iceland. A fridge magnet with dolphins on it from Bali.

Physical reminders of her so I wouldn’t forget her. Without them, I might not have remembered her.

How am I any different?

I don’t get the flowers. I don’t get the blank canvas or the brushes. I don’t even let myself stop at Sunny Glaze to pick up a donut; chocolate frosting, light, with sprinkles.

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