I.
Back at his father's ranch, there's a creek about a mile away from the stable where rocks form a bridge you can step across, if the water's low enough. In the summer, when there's hardly any rain, you can stand right in the middle, and the water will barely be more than a puddle underneath the stones. It smells like salt and dead fish and sweat and an earthier, loamier scent, something more personal.
In the spring, when the rainy season comes, the stones are almost covered by the rushing water, and the current is surprisingly strong. If you wade in, you could find yourself up to your waist in freezing water that could drag you down if you aren't careful.
That's what Luke told him, when he was young. When his father spent more time at home than on the road. When he was there when Colt would come home from school. When his parents were together and he was too small to understand what they fought about behind closed doors. When Sage was a baby who followed him everywhere on chubby legs, driving him crazy imitating everything Colt did and said, always begging to play with him and crying when he said no. When his dad would leave in the middle of the night and his mother would be in the kitchen crying, where she didn't think the kids could hear.
Those were the days when he and Colt used to go riding in the meadow after school; the days when Luke still made time for things outside his career. They'd ride past that creek, and Colt would see the water rushing through the small stripe cut into sprawling green farmland. Sometimes it was brown and dusty, and sometimes, when the water level was very low, it looked red, bloody, Biblical. And sometimes, after a rainy few days when he could hear the water before he saw it, they'd ride the horses past the edge and watch the narrow water glimmer silver and gold in the sunlight, blinding them with the reflection of the sun.
As they turned away from the creek bed and headed back towards the barn, the creek would become obscured by a thicket of trees and undergrowth, thorns and wild honeysuckle and poison oak. But the rush of the water would still be a low hum buzzing in his ears.
Long after Luke stopped taking him for those after-school rides in the meadow, he brought Maddie to that creek for a surprise picnic. It was almost summer, too hot to lie in the sun for too long, and the creek was full from the rainy season. They took off their shoes and smiled at each other shyly, still feeling their stomachs twist with nerves as Maddie stripped to her bra and panties while Colt took off his shirt and kicked his shorts aside. They waded into the water that came just above their knees, hidden by the trees and wildflowers, protecting them from the sun and the eyes of anyone who might have been able to see them holding onto each other in the glimmering water.
The way she leaned into his hold, head on his chest and hair tucked under his chin, damp with sweat and creek water, his arms pulled around her waist and his eyes closed as the water winds around them slowly, it made everything stop. The sound of the water, the chatter of the woods, the rustling of deer and rabbits and squirrels and whatever else might be roaming through the undergrowth all stops. The only thing that existed was her, with him. Fingers entwined, the smell of the creek coming off of them, that same salty, earthy smell, like sweat and skin and where it meets.
"I love you," he breathed into her hair, hot from the sun on his lips.
Maddie leaned into his hold.
"I love you, too," she murmured.
They stood there for a moment, holding onto each other in the shallow bank, when Colt rested his cheek against hers and closed his eyes.
"I love you more than anything," he said. "I've never loved anything as much as I love you. You're the only thing that matters in my life anymore."
Maddie shifted, tilting her head up to look at him. A smile was tugging across her face, but it was different, this time. Almost hesitant.
Colt tucked her damp hair behind one ear, hands cradling her face. She was still giving him that smile, so he asked, "What? Is something wrong?"
It was a moment before she nodded, when she looked down at the ground and then made her eyes meet his.
"Are you happy?" she asked quietly.
He blinked, surprised. He'd half-expected her to say something about needing space, or needing time apart, needing anything that wasn't him.
"Are you kidding? I'm happy right now. I'm always happy with you."
Maddie frowned.
"What about without me?" she asked, her voice still barely above a whisper.
He let go of her face and looked at her. She couldn't meet his eyes.
"What's this about?" he asked. "Did my dad say something to you, or what?"
Maddie frowned. "No. Why would he?"
Colt shook his head. "Then what's wrong? Are you mad at me, or something?"
"No. Colt, I'm not mad."
"Then what's the problem?"
"Nothing!" She shook her head. "Look, could you just forget I said anything?"
"No, I really can't. What's the matter?"
"Nothing!" she repeated, and this time she looked ready to cry. Colt backed off, chastened, and looked away as Maddie wiped her eyes with the back of one wet hand.
"It's just," she says, not meeting his eyes, "you don't act like you anymore. It's like something's different. Like you're never happy."
He took her hand. "What are you talking about? I'm happy with you. Right here. Now."
"Yeah," she said, squeezing his fingers, "but what about later on? Without me? Are you happy then?"
Colt sighed, and there it was on the tip of his tongue, everything he kept locked away because of Luke.
He could tell her, right now, and things might turn around. No more nightmares. No more guilt. No more jumping when the phone rang, no more unexplained headaches, no more feeling so angry at his dad that sometimes he could barely stand to be in the same room as Luke, much less live under the same roof.
He put his arms around her waist.
"I'm happy," he murmured into her hair, and he felt her relax the slightest bit. Her hands wound around his neck, and he tugged her closer, bending down to meet her lips.
Maddie was the one good thing he had left. He wasn't about to ruin that by dragging her into this mess. He'd never forgive himself for that.
II.
"He's never seen Gabe; I swear."
"Excuse me if I don't believe that."
There's an edge to his voice they both hear, and Leda holds his gaze for a beat before dropping back down to the cutting board. They haven't talked about it, but the secret she kept about talking to Luke sits in the air between them. Colt is still angry with her, and she still won't apologize.
"You know, he isn't the monster you remember."
"Because you've known him all of five minutes."
"Almost five years," she corrects, eyes blazing. "He knows he messed things up with you. He's trying to change."
Colt snorts. "Yeah, well, tell him good luck."
"You changed," Leda says, her voice quiet but firm. "You're not the same person you used to be. Why can't you believe that about him? Why is it so hard to believe he's changed?"
Colt puts his hands on his hips. "Look, I know you think you're helping, but I know my dad better than you. And I don't want to forgive him. All he cares about is dancing around onstage, making people love him. He doesn't know how to do anything else."
"How do you know if you haven't spoken to him in so long?" Leda counters, and Colt groans. This conversation could go in circles forever.
"You can't talk to him ever again."
Leda's eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me? I can't? You can just tell me what to do like that?"
"When it's my family, yes I can."
"So my son isn't your family." Her voice is pure ice.
Colt glares at her.
"Our son is the most important part of my family," he spits out. "Which is why you can't talk to my dad. Because he's only going to hurt Gabe in the long run."
"He doesn't want it to be this way! Can't you at least try with him?"
"After everything he's done, no!"
Leda opens her mouth to reply, but he cuts her off, unable to stop. "You don't get to do this! You don't get to talk about my dad like you know him!"
He throws his hands in the air. "You LIED to me, Leda! You know how I feel about my father! You completely betrayed my trust, and I have never, ever done that to you. I have never gone behind your back and done something I knew would hurt you, and you fucking do this?"
Colt turns and stomps away, still seething.
Behind him, he hears Leda dissolving into tears. Somewhere in the house, Gabe is crying. All the fury drains out of him by the time he opens the front door and makes it to his car.
He sits behind the wheel and cries, his vision blurring the road like a rain-covered windshield. His hands shake so badly it takes him several tries to get the key in the ignition.
III.
How do you mourn the living?
Sometimes, Colt thinks it would be easier if his father was dead.
Not that he wants his dad to die. It's just that, in a lot of ways, Colt's life would be easier if it was true.
At least then, he'd know what to say when people asked him about his dad. There would be a certain way he was expected to behave. He would wear black, mourn, remember the good times with the rose-colored glasses people used when talking about the dead.
But how do you grieve if they're still out there? How can you be so angry and hurt and have it get all mixed up with love and need and it's all so strong it could bring you to your knees?
"What's the last good thing you remember about your dad?" Leda asked him once, when they were at his mother's house. She was chopping peppers at the kitchen counter, dumping the slices into a glass bowl where she was making some kind of salad. Colt was watching her; something about watching her cook made him believe she was much older than he was.
She sounded worried when he took so long to answer, and Colt wished he could tell her that she didn't need to be afraid of how he'd react, like a bomb or a trigger. But he would have a hard time making her believe it; their history was made up of moments where he wasn't focused on the present because he was lost in the past.
Lately, though, he'd realized those moments when he spaced out were more about the future. A college fund for Gabe. A degree for Leda, who is enrolling at MTSU for the fall semester. A career for himself as an EMT, because he's decided that he wants to do something that matters, that makes a difference in people's lives. If he can't change what happened in Atlanta or what happened right after, he will focus all the energy he used to waste feeling angry and hopeless and lost, and channel it into something that puts some good back into the world.
Colt thinks it's the least he can do, although he feels a little silly, trying to bargain with karma. But he spent so many years believing he had no future that it makes him want to work that much harder to make something of himself. Not just for his son, but for himself, because there are people in his life that are counting on him to be a better man.
But Leda would take longer to believe in him, and that day of the picnic at his mother's, she still didn't. As much as he wanted her to see he'd changed, he knew better than anyone that trust takes a lifetime to build, and an instant to shatter.
"I told you," he said to her. "My dad was on the road most of the time. And when he came home, he mostly just fought with my mom and spent all day riding horses on the ranch. After they split, I only saw him on holidays."
Leda nodded. Colt waited for more questions, but thankfully, she seemed to let it go, chopping the last of the peppers into the bowl. Her hands were slick with seeded orange pulp, but she still cut each piece steadily and expertly. It reminded him of Granddad, his hands covered in slick oil and engine grease under the hood of his truck, his weathered hands manipulating the wires and gears as deftly as paintbrush strokes.
"He took me swimming," Colt said, not sure where it came from, but as soon as he told her that the memory came back to him:
His dad holding his arms up to Colt, who is standing on the dock of the lake at the ranch. He's peering down at the water beneath him with wary eyes. He doesn't like the water; it's brown and filled with things – fish and plants and snakes and who knows what else – and he can't see the bottom, so who knows, he could jump in and fall all the way down through that darkness and maybe never reach the bottom.
But Dad keeps his arms reached out, and urges Colt to come in.
"The water's fine, buddy," he says. "You're going to be okay. I promise. Nothing's gonna get you in here."
Little Colt – he was probably around five or six, he guesses – frowns at his dad.
"But what if I fall in?" he asks.
Instead of answering, Luke swims closer to the dock, right to the edge. He reaches his arms up and hauls himself onto the wooden platform, water sluicing off his body. Then he squats in front of Colt and leans in close, so the world is made up of only the two of them.
"Bud," he says, his voice low and serious, "I promise you, I got ya. Okay? I'll hold on real tight, and you're not gonna get hurt. I won't let go unless you tell me to."
Luke's hair is dark from the water, curling around his ears and forehead. On his forearm Colt can see the tattoo his father got when Sage was a baby, right next to the one he had done when Colt was born.
His father told him and Sage the tattoos were his way of keeping their family close. They meant his kids would always be with him, even if he was far away on the road. He said that whenever he felt like giving up, all he had to do was look at the ink on his arms to know they were the reason he did all of this, the traveling and the touring and the being gone.
"I'm not gonna let you fall," Luke tells him, and this time, when he's in the water holding out his arms, the tattoos rippling across his skin like light on the lake water, Colt takes a deep breath and jumps off the dock, and he's only airborne for a split second before Luke's arms are around him, holding his head above the water, keeping Colt anchored to something strong and steady, just like Dad promised he would.
Which Dad is his real father? The one who would go horseback-riding all over the ranch with Colt, talking about nothing while the sun went down? The one who taught him how to shoot skeet in the empty field at the far edge of the property, the one filled with wildflowers and where you could catch a perfect glimpse of the sunset? The one who taught him how to swim by holding Colt against his waist and swimming in the lake on the edge of their farm, whispering the whole time that it was okay, everything would be okay, he was safe, Daddy had him, Daddy wouldn't let anything bad happen to him?
Or is it the one who came at Colt with a fist raised? The one whose career was more important to him than telling the truth, or having any sense of integrity, or even being a decent parent? The one Colt could never trust again?
Colt guesses the answer is both. But it's practically impossible to wrap his head around.
IV.
"Do you think your father should have protected you?"
The shrink stares at Colt across the table, his expression curious.
Colt blinks.
"From what? From seeing Jeff fall?"
The doc shrugs. "Is that what you think?"
Shrinks; God, would someone please spare Colt from the psychobabble and their wild theories. He isn't here to make them feel like he's some puzzle, or a guessing game. He's here for one reason – because the court and Leda's family both say so. If he stops seeing the shrink, he doesn't get to see his son.
Colt shifts in his spot on the couch. He stares at the old-lady carpet again, then his eyes trail to the side table in the corner, with a little brass elephant statue on top. God, what was with all the horrible decorations? Did this guy rob an old folks' home or something?
The doctor is still waiting for Colt. Infinitely calm. Infinitely patient.
Did he think Luke should have protected him?
Before Jeff died, he was angry at his dad because Luke was never around. Watching football, playing video games, riding horses in the meadow on the edge of the Wheeler ranch, eating junk food his mother would never allow in her own house, going on long drives through the country with all the windows rolled down and music turned up – all of that had faded around the time Colt was about eight or nine. After that, his dad was too busy for most things. Always on tour, always a single to promote, an album to sell, an awards show to attend. Filming commercials, going on talk shows, bouncing on private jets between one coast and the next.
And there was always someone. Rayna. Gabriella. Or something. Like the Brand.
Never Colt. Never Sage.
"No," he says, and the answer surprises him because it never crossed his mind to say that. "It's not like it was his fault Jeff died."
He's even more surprised to realize that he actually does feel that way. Colt blinks a moment, feeling like the world tilted sideways and he's lost his equilibrium completely.
"But you do blame him," the doctor says.
Colt stares at the same ugly-ass rug he looks at, every single time he comes in here. It makes no sense to him, but somehow he expects the drooping petals to be able to reach each other, to somehow close the gap between them and stay clinging to the branches.
He blames Luke for the lies about Atlanta. The reasons his father had for hiding the truth. For not believing Colt in the first place, and then forcing him into silence that ate away at his life until it cost Colt everything. He blames him for letting Jeff's family think their son killed himself; blames him for letting Layla Grant think her boyfriend killed himself and letting her feel guilty for reasons that weren't even true. He blames him for letting Juliette Barnes get away with…if not murder, than something close enough to it. And then getting to walk away from it and go back to her family, her husband and her daughter, and live her life as if nothing had happened.
He's been angry at Luke for years, but not because of Jeff.
Because Luke never seemed to know what mattered.
"I blame him," he says slowly, turning the words over in his head, "for not being the person he says he is. He has no idea what's really important because he believes in his own hype. He lies and gets away with it, and keeps doing what he wants, hurting people, and it doesn't matter to him. Being a good person, it's not important. It doesn't make him a celebrity. And I blame him for being that way."
"For failing you," the doctor says.
Colt can't look at him. He has the terrible knowledge that if he does, he is going to start crying, and he promised himself a long time ago he would not cry in this office, in front of a shrink, like this was some melodramatic primetime soap opera.
The doctor regards Colt, patient as ever.
"You loved your father," he says. "You needed him. You believe, as a parent, that he should always protect you and do what's right for you. But your dad put himself first. He violated your belief of who he was. And that's what hurts, more than anything. That he couldn't love you the same way you loved him."
V.
This one time, he and Leda were lying in the grass.
It was the middle of a hot summer afternoon, and Gabe was just learning how to walk. He'd been fussy all afternoon in the stifling humidity, so finally they took the cranky, damp baby out to the yard, turned on the hose, and teased him with it. At first he seemed completely baffled by the sudden cold torrent, then a little upset, but when Colt scooped him up and swung him up and down while Leda put her finger over the hose opening and misted them with water, he started giggling, and the tears he'd been crying just moments ago were replaced with squeals of delight. Gabe and Colt ran around bare-chested while Leda changed into a bathing suit, and they yelped and darted and sprayed each other until the sun was at its highest and their shadows made ambitious leaps across the dead yard and the dust that coated the shimmering July air underneath their feet became soft and slick.
The heat and the running around tired Gabe out quickly, and when the boy started becoming more interested in sitting in the muddy grass and whining for someone to pick him up, they dried him off and put him in fresh pajamas, and by the time they set him down for his afternoon nap his eyes were so heavy he didn't even fuss. He dropped off almost instantly with his arms splayed out over his head, one fist splayed open with the fingers fanning out and the other clenched in a chubby fist, like he was hanging onto something in his dreams.
It reminded Colt of when he and Sage were little, back when his parents were still together and his mom took them out on the road, and they would have to share a bed on the tour bus. There was a couch built into the wall that folded down into a mattress, and that was where Colt and Sage would sleep side-by-side every night. Their father would take the stage after their bed time, and right before he headed backstage he'd kiss both of them goodnight, putting his lips to their foreheads and telling them to be good for their mama.
Colt never could sleep away from home, and even with his sister and his mother so close by he still felt like he was drifting on an island somewhere, marooned far from everything familiar as he tried to fall asleep on a tour bus parked in some huge stadium lot out in the middle of nowhere. But Sage could turn off like a light where they were, and she'd drop off into heavy sleep almost immediately, her arms tossed over her body and her hands clenched into fists, like she was wrapping around something and trying her hardest not to let go.
She breathed so fast, too. Hot and damp, right on his cheek, and uneven, like she was running in her dreams. Gabe breathed that way lying in his crib, his little chest rising and falling rapidly. Colt felt the warm breath coming from his son's mouth with the back of his hand, then smoothed back his still-wet hair.
"Don't wake him up," Leda whispered to him, when she saw him brush Gabe's curls. "Let's get out while we still can."
They tiptoed out of the bedroom and back out to the yard, rolling up the hose and setting it back against the side of the house. Then Leda collapsed into a heap on the wet ground, sighing as she threw her arms over her face to shield herself from the sun.
"It needs to rain," she mumbled. "It's so gross out."
Colt lay down beside her, far enough away that there wasn't a chance they could accidentally brush against each other.
"We could go to the pool," he suggested.
Leda sighed. "Too many annoying twelve-year-old boys there. They cannonball right on top of you and hog the high-dive. And it's too crowded, anyway."
"It is that," he said, not sure why he was answering with something so inane, and then figuring it didn't matter, his head was spinning a little, and when he opened his eyes the world seemed to tilt around him, the clouds cartwheeling past him across a blue that looked drained of color, the sky bleached bone-white, like the blazing midday sun had managed to wilt all the color away.
He closed his eyes, breathed in. He could smell onion grass, clover. Leda's suntan lotion. Sweat. The mud-spattered earth that was rapidly drying underneath their bodies. And heat – sour and dusty and suffocating and thick, coating the insides of their noses and the backs of their throats, gritty and done-dry.
He put his hands into fists and squeezed tightly. His son and his sister always slept hard, dreamed hard, held on tightly. To what? What did they see in their dreams that they had to clutch onto?
He takes another deep, dry breath, sucking in the air. It smells like the world around him is burning, except for Leda, and her tropical, sweet smell.
He steals a glance at her. She's still got her arms tossed over her head, covering her eyes. If he moves his hand a few inches, he could reach her, but he closes his eyes and stays lying where he is, surrounded by things being scorched under the sun and that tropical smell that feels so close, like it's a part of him.
Before Gabe was born, Leda told Colt she'd read somewhere that mothers could identify their babies just by their smell. Colt thought it was all sappy Hallmark movie BS; babies smelled like milk and powder and shit, and not much else. He forgot all about those words in the chaotic first weeks with a newborn, until one night he heard the baby screaming and Leda was either asleep or pretending to be, and he decided she needed her rest so he got up and plucked his son out of the crib and started to walk the halls with him, trying to shush Gabe while he whimpered and sobbed and dribbled on Colt's baby-stained t-shirt.
He walked with the boy tucked under his chin and could smell the milky, soft scent coming off of him, like smoke curling off a fire. Except this was damp and slightly sour and unbelievably soothing, and after a few minutes of walking the hallways he could feel the baby calming down by degrees, and Colt was calmed along with him, the warm baby smell of him like a drug. When Gabe was finally asleep, Colt stood over him a moment to watch him, trying to inhale that same scent. It calmed some part of him he hadn't realized needed soothing.
After that, he knew that smell meant Gabe. Meant son. Meant mine.
(He wondered if Luke had a smell he could always tell was Colt, then figures, probably not. Luke Wheeler wasn't the 'get up with a screaming baby in the middle of the night' type. Just like he wasn't much of a 'stick around and be a father' type.)
Maddie, he remembered, smelled like vanilla and lemons. Like the color yellow. She wore perfumes and body sprays and lotions and he'd always loved to inhale her, especially after Atlanta. Because the closer he was to her and the more he took her in, the quieter those dark, growling spaces of his memories would become.
Leda was different. Earthier, and sweet. But a more natural sweet, like honeysuckle and damp earth and rushing water; like salt and grit and the ripples of heat that shimmered off the ground in the hottest days of summer. He could pick that scent out in total darkness; find her even with his eyes closed. He didn't have to touch her to know she was near. It was familiar, and comforting.
He wondered when that had happened. When being around her felt like something good.
VI.
He and Leda are on shaky ground after their fight, so he's been spending the past couple days at his mom and stepdad's place until he's sure they won't have another blowout. Now he's sitting in his old bedroom, in the same bed he slept in when he was sixteen and needed to leave his father behind, looking at relics from his teenage years (the pre-Atlanta ones, anyway).
He said goodnight to Gabe before he left, and because he couldn't get up and walk away when his son still wanted him close, Colt got into the narrow kid's bed with him until Gabe drifted off. When Colt untangled himself from his Gabe's small arms, he could see his son's eyes moving under their closed lids in a dream Colt couldn't see but must have been pleasant, because he looked peaceful.
(Colt doesn't dream, except when he has nightmares, and while they have become much less frequent than they have since the years right after Atlanta, he doesn't think he'll ever be rid of them entirely.)
It's the middle of the night and everyone else is asleep, but Colt scans his finger over his list of contacts, hovering over one in particular.
The last text message he has from that number is from almost three years ago. Before that there were a slew of messages that came in every couple of days:
Hey kid, just checking in.
Hey son, driving through Virginia for a tour stop, wondering if you wanted to say Hi
Just missing you, bud. Good night.
Hi bud. I played for some troops on a base in Kentucky today and thought of you. One soldier brought his little boy to the show. He looked like you.
Miss you, bud. You were a happy little kid. Always laughing.
I love you son. Good night.
He stares at the messages for a long time, reading it over and over again. For some reason, reading those last two sentences – I love you son. Good night. – makes him feel tired somewhere deep inside.
(It's a little late for that, Luke.)
VII.
Colt says: You don't understand.
Leda says: You don't understand.
They are both right, and they are both wrong.
VIII.
"You've got a lot on your mind today," the doc observes.
It takes every ounce of Colt's willpower to not roll his eyes. This is what his mom and stepdad are spending a small fortune on?
"You've treated a lot of patients, right?" he asks.
The shrink leans back in his chair. "Well, I've been in practice for almost thirty years, so, yes. I would say so."
Colt focuses on the rug with the flower petals, threaded forever in suspended animation, the moment before they drift to the earth.
"So after listening to people talk to you about their problems all day, do you believe that people can change?"
"People in general?" the doctor says. "I'm not sure. That's a loaded question."
Colt frowns. "Thirty years as a head-shrinker and you really don't have an answer?"
The doctor quirks one eyebrow, which is as close as Colt has ever seen to a grin from the old man.
"It depends," he says. "A lot of change comes from circumstance. If people can't change their circumstances, chances are they won't change their attitude concerning them. And if people can't change their attitude, then circumstances won't get any better. It's a cycle."
"So it all depends on how good someone has it?" Colt says. "People don't really change, they just stay who they are forever?"
"I didn't say that," the doc replies. "I meant, a lot of people come into my office wanting to change their lives when really, there's a specific part of their situation that needs to be addressed. Most of their unhappiness comes from the attitude they have towards particular aspects of their lives. They may not be able to control everything around them, but I try to show them that there are things they can work on changing, ways to change the way they see the world. They may not be able to pack up and move away and start a brand-new life, but they can start shifting some of their belief systems around, figuring out what's really important to them, what their core values are. And once they've identified those, they can start filtering their view of the world through those core values. A lot of the times, an attitude change is what makes circumstances better."
Colt snorts. "Sounds like one of those motivational posters my teachers used to hang in their classrooms."
This time, he actually gets a smile from the shrink.
"What do you think, Colt?" he asks. "Do you believe people can change?"
Colt opens his mouth, the closes it again. The reply he had dissolves on his tongue, sweeping a sour taste through his mouth.
"Leda thinks I should forgive him," he says, slouching into the couch. "She believes it's true."
"But you don't," the doc verifies. "You don't believe anything will ever change with him. That he's the same person he was when he betrayed your trust and lied about the night Jeff Fordham died."
Colt leans back into the couch. Every day he's been in here, it's smelled musty and almost damp, and the cushions sag with defeat even before he plants his ass down on top. The doc should really look into replacing this old thing. With the money Colt's mom and stepdad are paying him, he could afford a whole new office.
"It's okay to feel that way, you know." The doctor sits back in his seat, adjusting his glasses. "It doesn't make any sense, it's completely irrational, but that doesn't mean you don't blame him. And it's all right that you do. You don't have to forgive him."
Colt's eyes widen.
"Isn't that the entire point of why I'm here?" he asks the shrink. "Forgive my dad for being a terrible parent, talk about Atlanta, then you tell me to forgive him and get on with my life?"
The doctor gives Colt a small smile. "I'm not here to make you do anything, Colt. I'm here to help you better handle your PTSD. I'm here to help you manage your panic attacks and your high levels of anxiety. I'm here to help you come to terms with trauma. And yes, I'm here to help you move on with your life, but not by following a set of steps or checklist. Like I said – a lot of the time, people need to adjust the way they see the world. That's what I'm here for. I provide you the tools for coping; what you choose do to with them is entirely up to you."
IX.
Nashville is a four-hour drive to Atlanta, but with traffic it takes Colt nearly six. By the time he ends up in front of the Continental Plaza Hotel, it's dusk and the whole city is made of shadows, the steel and metal and concrete that twists and soars from the asphalt like magnetic wildflowers reaching for the mysterious sky. It smells like dust and exhaust and BO and smoke and something else, a bite in the chill of the wind that slides across his bare forearms like the trace of fingernails raking across his skin.
He stands in front of the hotel lobby, not paying attention to the people brushing past him to get in and out the front doors, guests and bellhops and the valets. They disappear from the edge of his vision, then from his mind. The smell of the city and the walls around him evaporate into the wind, the metropolis as insubstantial as the silver and purple shadows surrounding him, all the noise fading to a dull buzz he can barely hear in the back of his head.
He feels sweat trickling down his cheeks and dotting his forehead, hear resting on his shoulders. Colt keeps his eyes closed, seeing spots dancing behind them, the bursts of color like fireworks. He stands there and feels the golden pulse of the city around him, the warmth swooping away like the wings of a bird as the shadows take over. Around him, everything feels quiet, the noise draining away until it's just a faint buzz in the back of his brain.
The memories mingle with the buzz of the city until they become a slow hum in his ears, drowning out the sound of his breathing as he tries to keep it steady.
It's not so much the actual memory of Jeff and Juliette that comes over him. It's more like the feelings he associated with that night, the confusion and fear, the shock and anger and desperation. But instead of letting the darkness bottle up inside him like a pressure cooker, he keeps his hands resting on his knees, gripping the fabric of his oil-stained jeans, and breathes, breathes, breathes.
And he looks up.
All those stupid lessons the shrink told him, the ones he thought were a waste of time, he tries to remember them, the words coming back slowly and echoing through his mind. All he knows is the hum in his ears, this soft twilight.
The hum sounds reminds him of Maddie, the low rumble of her voice when they were sneaking away to his empty house, voices muffled with bedsheets, both of them feeling off-balance from the thrill and newness of each other. It reminds him of Leda, whispering to Gabe at bedtime, words that made his eyes feel heavy. He thinks of Sage, and the music that would vibrate through the walls of their house whenever she was practicing her dance, the words indistinct through the plaster. His mother, humming as she cooks, tuneless and forgetting the words, feeding little bits to Gabe in his high chair.
Luke.
The air around him so alive, crackling with the energy he carried into a room with him, his presence, his force of being Luke Wheeler. The pattern of his fingers on the strings of his guitar, each sound smooth as a stone skipped over still, open water. The rough texture of his guitar-calloused fingertips as he ruffled Colt's hair, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The rumble of his voice against Colt's cheek when he was a little boy, the rough bristles of his beard scratching Colt's small, round face, as his father held onto him and waded into the deep waters of the lake and whispered, "it's all right, son, I got you. Everything's fine. I got you; you'll be all right."
Slowly, his breaths become quieter and the knot in his chest loosens. A sense of stillness, if not peace, comes over him in the tiny overheated space of the car, and the warm sun coming in through the windows buzzes through his ears, like it's humming him into placid quiet. The silence around him has a texture to it, viscous and warm, like swimming in honey. Strong and all around him, buoying him above the race of his heartbeat or the sound of black screams echoing through a neon night so long ago.
It's not happiness, exactly. What surrounds him isn't love, or peace, or joy. It's the nebulous sense that he will be okay, somehow. He is loved, he is cared for, he is doing the best he can, and nothing can hurt him.
He's safe. He's sure.
He opens his eyes, and he stands there on the sidewalk. The day is still glowing softly with the last bit of daylight, making the harshness of night and day fade into a soft, muted purple. The shadows are barely wind through the silver clouds.
He isn't afraid of these shadows. He isn't afraid of anything right now.
X.
He's on her doorstep as soon as the sun rises. Mrs. Del Rosario answers in a bathrobe and surprised expression, then calls Leda downstairs. Gabe follows her, wide awake despite the early hour, wearing his favorite race car pajamas. He yells when he sees Colt and runs for him, and Colt sweeps him into his arms, inhaling the scent of cotton and sweat and morning breath, of Gabe, of everything important.
