by Bromberg, K.
I just stare at him, lost in two warring bodies: a little boy desperately begging for approval and a grown man unable to believe it once he’s been given it. “But it’s not poss—”
“No buts, son. None,” he says, turning me around so he’s not touching me from behind knowing I can’t handle that still all these years later, so he can look into my eyes … so I can’t hide from the absolute honesty in his. “Not a single day since I met you have I ever regretted my choice to choose you. Not when you rebelled or fought me or drag raced down the street or stole change off of the counter …”
My body jolts from the comment—the little boy in me devastated I’ve been caught—even though he’s not angry.
“… Did you think I didn’t know about the jar of change and box of food you hid beneath your bed … the stash you kept in case you thought we were going to not want you anymore and kick you out on the streets? You didn’t notice all the change I suddenly left everywhere? I left it out on purpose because I didn’t regret a single moment. Not when you pushed every limit and broke every rule possible, because the adrenaline of the defiance was so much easier to feel than the shit she let them do to you.”
My breath stops at his words. My fucking world spins black and acid erupts like lava in my stomach. Reality spirals at the thought that my biggest fear has come true … he knows. The horrors, my weakness, the vile things, the professed love, the stains on my spirit.
I can’t bring my eyes to meet his, can’t push the shame far enough down to speak. I feel his hand on my shoulder as I try to revert back to focusing on the numbing blur of my past and escape the memories tattooed in my mind—on my fucking body—but I can’t. Rylee has made me feel—broken that goddamn barrier—and now I can’t help but do anything but.
“And while we’re clearing the air,” he says, his voice taking on a much softer tone, his hand squeezing my shoulder. “I know, Colton. I’m your dad, I know.”
The fucking floor drops out beneath me, and I try to pull my shoulder out of his grip but he doesn’t let me, won’t let me turn my back on him to hide the tears burning my eyes like ice picks. Tears that reinforce the fact that I’m a pussy who hasn’t handled anything at all.
And as much as I want him to shut the hell up … to leave me the fuck alone … he continues “You don’t need to say a word to me. You don’t need to cross that imaginary line in your head that makes you fear an admission will make everyone leave you, will prove you to be less of a man, will make you the pawn she wanted you to be …”
He pauses and it takes every ounce of everything inside of me to try and meet his eyes. And I do for a split second before the door to the patio, the sand beneath my feet, and the burn of oxygen in my lungs as my feet pound down the beach calls to me like heroin to an addict. Escape. Run. Flee. But I’m fucking frozen in place, secrets and lies swirling and colliding with the truth. The truth he knows but I still can’t bring myself to utter after twenty-four years of absolute silence.
“So don’t speak right now, just listen. I know she let them do things to you that are vile and repulsive and make me sick.” My stomach pitches and rolls, my breath shuddering at hearing it aloud. “… Things no one should ever have to endure … but you know what, Colton? That doesn’t make it your fault. It doesn’t mean you deserved it, that you let it happen.”
I slide down the wall behind me until I am sitting on the floor like a little kid … but his words, my dad’s words … have brought me back there.
Have scared me.
Changed me.
Messed with my head so memories start pushing through the wormholes in my fucked up heart and soul.
I need to be alone.
I need Jack or Jim.
I need Rylee.
I need to forget. Again.
“Dad?” My voice is shaky. The sound of a little bitch asking for permission and shit, right now, isn’t that what I am? On the damn floor once again about to throw the fuck up, body shaking, head racing as my stomach revolts?
He’s sitting on the floor beside me like he used to do when I was little, his hand on my knee, his patience calming me some. “Yeah, son?” His voice is so soft, so tentative, I can tell he’s afraid he’s pushed me too far. That he’s broken me more when I’ve already been fucking shattered and held together with scotch tape for way too long.
“I need—I need to be alone now.”
I hear him draw in a breath, feel his resigned acceptance, and his unending love. And I need him to go. Now. Before I lose it.
“Okay,” he says softly, “but you’re wrong. You may have never said the words aloud—may have never told me you loved me—but I’ve always known because you have. It’s in your eyes, how your smile lights up when you see me, the fact that you’d share your beloved Snickers bars with me without asking.” He chuckles at the memories. “How you would let me hold your hand and let me help you chant your superheroes as you lay in bed so you could fall asleep. So words, no, Colton … but you told me every day in some way or another.” He’s silent for a moment as a part of me allows the fact to sink in that he knows. That all the worry I’ve had over all of these years that he didn’t know how much I felt didn’t matter. He knew.
“I know your worst fear is having a child …”
The elation that lifted me is choked by fear with his words. This is all just too much—too much, too fast when for so long I’ve been able to hide from it. “Please don’t,” I plead, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Okay … I’ve thrown a lot of shit at you, but it was time you heard it. And I’m sorry I probably messed with your head more than you needed me to, but, son, only you can fix that now—deal with it now that all of the cards are on the table. But I have to tell you, you’re not your mother. DNA doesn’t make you a monster like her … just as if you were to have a child, your demons won’t be transferred to that new life.”
My fists clench and teeth grind at the last words—words that feed off the worst of my fears—the urge to break something returning. To drown the pain that’s back with a vengeance. I know he’s pushed me to the breaking point. I can hear his quiet sigh through the screams of every ounce of my being.
He stands slowly and I tell myself to look at him. To show him that I’ve heard him, but I can’t make myself do it. I feel his hand on the top of my head, like I’m a little boy again, and his uncertain voice whispers, “I love you, Colton.”
The words fill my fucking head but I can’t get them past the fear lodged in my throat. Past the memories of the chant I used to say that was followed by the brutality and unspeakable pain. As much as I want to tell him—feel the need to tell him—I still can’t.
See, perfect example, I want to tell him, to demonstrate how fucked up I am. He just bared his self to me and I can’t give him a goddamn response because she stole it from me. And he thinks I could be a parent? She made my heart black and my core rotten. There’s no way in hell I could pass that on to someone else if there were the remote chance it could happen.
I hear the door shut and I just remain on the floor. The outside light fades. Jack calls to me, tempts me, allows me to drown myself in his comfort, no glass needed.
Confusion fucking swamps me. Drags me under.
I need to clear my fucking head.
I need to figure my shit out.
Only then can I call Ry. And God I want to call her. My finger hovering over the damn Call button. Hovering there for well over an hour.
Call.
Call End.
Call.
Call End.
Shit!
I squeeze my eyes shut, head fuzzy from however much I’ve drank. And I start to laugh at what I’ve been reduced to. Me and the floor are becoming best fucking friends. Fuckin’ A.
It’s not hard to go up when you’re already at rock bottom. Time to ride the damn elevator. I start laughing. I know there’s only one other way to clear my head—my only other fucking high besides Rylee—that will help keep the demons at b
ay for a bit. And as much as I need Rylee right now, I need to do this first to get my shit figured out. My right hand trembles as I go to push Call, and when I do, I’m scared out of my goddamn mind, but it’s time.
Head straight.
Then Rylee.
Motherfucking baby steps.
“Hey, douche bag. I didn’t realize you knew my phone number it’s been so damn long since you’ve called me.”
Such a fucking old lady. God, I love this guy.
“Get me in the fucking car, Becks.”
His laughter stops in an instant, the silence assuring me he’s heard me, heard the words I know he’s been waiting to hear since I got the all clear.
“What’s going on, Wood? You sure?”
What’s with everyone questioning me tonight? “I said get me in the goddamn car!”
“Okay,” he drawls out in his slow cadence. “Where’s your head at?”
“Seriously? First you push me to get in the fucker and now you’re questioning the fact that I want to? What are you, my goddamn wet nurse?”
He chuckles. “Well, I do like my nipples played with, but shit, Wood, I kinda think you touching them would give me a reverse boner.”
I can’t stop the laugh that comes. Fucking Beckett. Always a bucket of laughs. “Quit screwing with me. Can you get me on the track or not?”
“Can you get the slur out of your voice and put down Jack, because that’s a dead giveaway your head is still screwed up … so I’ll repeat my question again. Where’s your head at?”
“All over the fucking place!” I shout at him, failing miserably to not sound drunk “Goddamn it, Becks! That’s why I need the track. I need to clear the shit from it to help fix me.”
There’s silence on the line, and I bite my tongue because I know if I push he’ll hang up on me. “The track’s not going to fix that fucked up head of yours, but I think a certain wavy haired hottie could do that for you.”
“Drop it, Becks.” I bite the words out, not in the mood for another shrink session.
“Not on your life, fucker. Baby. No baby. You really gonna push the best thing you got going for you out the damn door?”
And session number two begins.
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. You’re not my type.”
His condescending tone pisses me off. “Stay the hell out of it!”
“Oh! So you are going to let her go? Isn’t that a song or some shit? Well, since you’re gonna let her go, I guess I’ll give her a run then.”
Motherfucker. Are my buttons that easy to push tonight? “If you’re smart, you’ll shut the hell up. I know you’re pushing me … trying to get me to call her.”
“Wow! He does listen. Now that’s a news fucking flash.”
I’m done. “Quit fucking around, do your job, and get me on the goddamn track, Beckett.”
“Be at the track at ten tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
“It’s about time. I’ve had it reserved for the past week waiting for your ass to get with it.”
“Hmpf.” He had me pegged.
“You won’t show.” He laughs.
“Fuck off.”
“You wish.”
I BLOW OUT A BREATH and roll my shoulders, welcoming the burn as I stretch my warm and thoroughly tired muscles. I desperately needed this run—the escape into our backyard and through the gate of the neighbor behind us so I could get away undetected from the persistent press.
I look up from my stretch and something across the street catches my eye. I’m immediately on guard when I see the dark blue sedan across the street with the man leaning against it, camera in hand with a telephoto lens blocking his face. Something about him strikes me as familiar, and I can’t put my finger on it … but I know my little piece of freedom—by secret passage—has been compromised.
The thought pisses me off and although I’ve yet to engage with any press, my feet have a life of their own and start walking toward him. My mind running the verbal lashing I’m about to give him over and over in my head. He watches my approach, the shutter clicking at rapid fire pace, the camera still blocking his face. I’m just about to start my spiel when I’m about fifty feet away and my phone rings in my hand.
Even after many days of no contact, my pulse still races at the sound, hoping it’s Colton but knowing it’s not before I even look at it. But I’m taken back a bit when I look at the screen and see Beckett’s name. I stop immediately and fumble with my phone, worried that something’s happened.
“Becks?”
“Hey, Ry.” That’s all he says and falls silent. Oh shit. Dread drops like a lead weight through me.
“Beckett, what’s wrong with Colton?” I can’t stop the worry that weighs heavy in my voice. The silence stretches and my mind runs as I glance at the photographer momentarily before turning my back and hurrying home.
“I just wanted you to know that Colton’s on his way to the track right now.”
I’m standing outside in the open, but I suddenly find it hard to draw in a breath of air. “What?” I’m surprised he can even hear me, my voice is so soft. Images flash through my head like a slideshow: the crash, the mangled metal, a broken Colton unresponsive in the hospital bed.
“I know you two … the whole baby thing and he hasn’t called you.” He sighs. “I had to call you and let you know … thought you’d want to know.” I can tell he’s conflicted over breaking his best friend’s trust and doing what he thinks Colton needs the most.
“Thanks.” It’s the only thing I can manage as my emotions spiral out of control.
“Not really sure you mean that, Ry, but I thought I should call.”
Silence stretches between us and I know he’s just as worried as I am. “Is he ready, Becks? Are you pushing him?” I can’t hold back the contempt that laces my question.
He breathes out and chuckles at something. “Nobody pushes Colton, Ry, but Colton. You know that.”
“I know, but why now? What’s the urgency?”
“Because this is what he needs to do …” Beckett’s voice fades as he finds his next words. I push open the gate and scramble over the little fence separating the neighbor’s yard and mine. “First of all, he needs to prove he’s just as good as before. Secondly, this is how Colton deals when there’s too much going on in his head and he can’t shut it all off, and thirdly …”
I don’t hear what Beckett says next because I’m too busy remembering our night before the race, our conversation, and the words fall from my mouth as I’m thinking aloud. “The blur.”
“The what?”
It’s when Beckett speaks that I realize I have in fact said it out loud and his voice shocks me from my thoughts. “Nothing,” I say. “What’s the third reason?”
“Never mind.”
“You’ve already said more than you should, why stop now?”
There is an uncomfortable silence and he starts and stops for a moment. “It’s nothing really. I was just going to say that in the past he’s turned to one of three things when he gets like this. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay. I get it—get him. In the past he turned to women or alcohol or the track when life got to be too much, right?” Becks remains silent and there’s my answer. “Well, I guess I should be lucky there was an opening at the track, right?”
Beckett belts out a laugh, and I can tell he’s relieved. “God, he doesn’t deserve you, Rylee.” His words bring a smile to my face despite the worry eating at my insides. “I just hope you both realize how much he needs you.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Thank you for calling, Becks. I’m on my way.”
I’m thankful that traffic is light as I speed to the track in Fontana, and that the security at the parking lot prevent the press from following me into the facility. I park the car on the infield and freeze as I hear the crank try to start the car. The engine roars to life, its sound echoing against the grandstands and vibrating in my chest.
<
br /> I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How I’m going to be able to watch Colton, belted in and flying around the track, when all I can see in my head is the smoke and feel the fear? But I promised him I would be there the day he climbed back behind the wheel. Little did I know I’d get a call to collect on that promise when everything was unsettled between us.
But I can’t not be here. Because I keep my promises. And because I can’t stand the thought of him being out there without knowing he’s okay. Yes, we’ve not spoken and are confused and hurt, but that doesn’t mean I can turn my feelings off.
The motor revving again pulls me from my thoughts. My trepidation and the need to be there for him, for me, for my sanity, pushes me to put one foot in front of another. Davis meets me at the outskirts of pit row and nods as I take the hand he offers in greeting, before leading me to where Colton’s crew is working.
I stop when I see the car, the curve of Colton’s helmet in the capsule behind the wheel, Beckett’s body bent over him, tightening his belts as only Colton will let him do. I force my throat to swallow but realize there is nothing to ingest because my mouth is filled with cotton. I find myself going to worry the ring I no longer wear, out of nervous habit, and have to make do with clasping my hands.
Davis leads me up the flight of stairs to the observation tower above, much like the one I sat in while I watched Colton spiral out of control. Each step up reminds me of that day—the sound, the smell, the churning of my stomach, the absolute terror—each riser is another memory of the moments after the car hit the catch fence. My body wants to turn and flee, but my heart tells me I have to be here. I can’t quit on him when he needs me the most.
The pitch of the engine changes and I don’t have to turn and look at it to know he’s driving slowly down pit row toward the banked asphalt of the track. I stand in the tower, a few members of the crew focused on gauges reading the car’s electronics, but in the mere seconds I stand there, I can sense the nervous energy, can feel that they are as anxious about Colton being in the car as I am.
