Page 8 of Broken Cedar

Colt looks over. “We missed one.”

I pick up the spoon before he can point out that it doesn’t actually need washing. He doesn’t. He just reaches for the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. I rinse the spoon and hand it to him. His fingers brush mine. It’s nothing. Barely anything. But we both pull back like we’ve touched something hot.

We don’t say anything. He dries the spoon and I put it away. And now there is truly nothing left. No more dishes. No more work. No more excuses. I fold the dish towel. Once. Then again. Then a third time, because apparently even a towel can become a task if I need it badly enough.

“I liked hearing everyone talk about Jim,” I say because this tension is killing me.

Colt is quiet for a moment. Then he nods. “So did I.”

I look at him and wait. Because I know Colt. He doesn’t fill silence just because it exists. If he has something to say, he says it when he’s ready.

Finally, he looks down at the floor. “He cried.”

I frown slightly. “When?”

“When he let the coyote go.”

I think back to the story, to the way everyone laughed about Jim sitting in the barn in the middle of the night with that injured animal. “The man said he stood out there for ten minutes afterward.”

Colt’s mouth lifts slightly. “Longer.”

Something about the way he says it makes me smile. “You followed him?”

He nods. “I thought he was checking that it was gone.” He pauses, swallowing. “He wasn’t.” I don’t say anything. “He was crying.” The words are quiet. Simple. Like he’s telling me the weather. But I know Colt. I know what it costs him to give someone a piece of himself. “He didn’t know I saw.”

I swallow. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. Fuller. Like the two of us are carrying something together now. Not just today. Not just Jim. Everything.

I clear my throat softly. “So…” I lean back against the counter. “I guess tomorrow I’ll be back to pretending I know what I’m doing in meetings.”

Colt looks at me. “You do.”

I smile. “I fake it pretty well.”

“No.” The answer comes immediately. He doesn’t hesitate. “You were always smart.”

The simplicity of it catches me off guard. Colt has never been someone who throws words around. When he says something, he means it.

I look down at my hands. “How was it here?” He knows what I mean. He always knows what I mean.

“Good.”

I laugh quietly. “That is such a Colt answer.”

The corner of his mouth moves into almost a smile. “I mean it.”

I look at him. “I know.” And I do.

So I tell him about my apartment. The little things. The view of the river from my fire escape. The way the city sounds different at night. The way the sunlight hits the buildings through my blinds in the evening. He listens the way Colt has always listened. Completely.

When I finish, he nods slowly. “Sounds lonely.”

It’s not an accusation. Not even a criticism. Just an observation. Accurate. Gentle. So perfectly Colt that I have to look away.

“It’s not.” I force a small smile. “I have friends.”

“I know,” he says. A silence settles between us. Then he says quietly, “I just thought you were.”

I look back at him. “What?”