Page 84 of Finding Denver

Hand in hand, pain in pain, we sit. Colt runs his thumb across my knuckles, and the movie keeps playing, and then I finally speak.

“It’s my son’s birthday soon,” I say, focusing on our joined hands. “He was born January fourteenth, three years ago, at 10.17 p.m. He died five hours later.” Died. Gone. Forever. My throat feels like it heats and fills with sand at the words. “And sometimes I pretend he’s still here. Before I open my eyes in the morning, I pretend he’s going to run into the room, or that he’s asleep beside me.”

It’s a cruel, imaginary world, but on the longest days, it helps me get out of bed.

Colt squeezes my hand. “I make Amy breakfast.”

My eyes are glassy, but I smile. “What breakfast?”

“Pancakes with fruit,” he says. “I used to cut the strawberries into love hearts, and she’d eat them last because she said they were too pretty.”

“Sometimes I look at schools,” I admit. “I wonder which one Theo would like, or if he’d even like school at all. I imagine picking him up, and asking him about his day, and surprising him with last-minute trips to Disney.”

Colt grins. “Mickey Mouse hats and churros.”

“Yes!” I laugh, leaning against him, our hands still tangled together. “And maybe he’d have a brother. Or a sister. And we’d buy every photograph from every rollercoaster, and I’d save them all, and embarrass them when they were teenagers by showing all their friends. And we don’t have to worry about our lives being dangerous because we’ve left it behind.”

Colt exhales. “No guns. No looking over our shoulders. No wondering if the sirens are for us. Legitimate businesses.”

“I’ve always wanted a real café. I like making coffee art. You know, those little drawings on foam? I’m kinda good at it, too.”

“Then maybe our first Luxe and Harland deal could be totally legitimate. We get that café. You make coffee. I watch you make said coffee.” He rests his head on mine as I smile. “And all we worry about is bills, and flour deliveries, and if we should open on Sundays.”

I frown. “Why wouldn’t we open on Sundays?”

“Because we could sleep in.”

“But so many people don’t work Sundays. We’d be losing out on business.”

“See? We’re already worrying about it.”

I angle my head to look up at him. “That’s true. I’ll win, though. I always win.”

“Of course, Del.”

I tut at his tone and return my head to his shoulder.

We sit in our silence. In a life that can never be, with children we miss more than life, and memories that never were. Tears blur my vision, and the weight of the last year tumbles over me when I wish it wouldn’t. Wyatt. Ethan. Harley. My marriage. This life I’ve chosen.

And the truth spills free. “I might be here for a long time.”

Colt is quiet because maybe he knew. Maybe he saw something in me that I couldn’t hide. “The conversation with Ranger last night didn’t go well?”

“I didn’t speak to him,” I say, sighing softly. “I called Cal, instead. He was out walking Wesson, so I video called him.”

Did I chicken out of calling my own husband? Yep. But I knew what his reaction would be, and I was too tired and beaten up to listen to lectures and demands. And at least I got to see Wesson.

“So … you didn’t speak to Ranger at all?” he asks.

I angle my head to look up at him. “Nope. I’m a coward.”

He searches my face. “Want me to call him?”

I tut. “Shut up.”

“Seriously. Or we could just send him a selfie. That’d be message fucking received.”

I laugh and rest my head back on his shoulder.