At the crunch of wood scraps beneath his feet, Colt drew his brother’s attention from his current project.
“Hey.” Luke acknowledged him with a quick glance before giving the strange object one last swipe with the square of sandpaper. At Colt’s frown of confusion, Luke explained, “It’s a quilt rack for Frida Connelly. Apparently, she’s outgrown the three others I’ve already made her.”
“Her place must look like a quilt museum by now.” Colt flashed a lopsided grin, too tired to form a full-on smile.
“You look terrible,” Luke pointed out, setting down the swatch of sandpaper. “I suppose it has something to do with your heroic, middle-of-the-night rescue of one wayfaring tortoise. And perhaps whatever happened with said tortoise’s owner.” Striding to a mini fridge in the corner, he cracked open the small door, revealing an assortment of glistening bottles. He removed a cream soda and a sarsaparilla, handing the latter to Colt.
“Thanks.” Colt popped off the cap on the edge of Luke’s drafting table.
“Want to talk about it?” His brother used the same method to open his bottle, just like their father taught them, much to their mother’s dismay.
“Well, I’m not here to build a birdhouse,” Colt said ruefully.
Chuckling, Luke nodded toward his workbench, while he perched on a backless barstool.
Once settled on the bench, Colt leaned forward, both forearms poised on his thighs while he stared at the sawdust-covered floor. “How’d you do it?” he finally asked, barely loud enough for Luke to hear him.
“Do what?”
“Quit Dad’s practice when you knew how much it meant to him that you’d taken it over?” His tone held no censure, only urgent curiosity.
“It wasn’t easy,” Luke admitted after a long, thoughtful pause. “Ultimately, it was something Mom said that helped me make the decision.”
Colt glanced up, watching his brother closely. “What did she say?”
Luke twisted the bottle in his hand, the dark, amber-colored glass glinting in the sunlight streaming through the open door. He took a sip before slowly lowering it, as if collecting his thoughts. “She said Dad would be proud of me. Not because I’d taken over his practice, but because of the man I’d become.” His voice thickened with emotion, and he roughly cleared his throat. “She said as parents, they try to pass on what they know, but at some point, you have to lean into the person God created you to be, and their wisdom becomes a guide more than an ultimatum.” Luke paused, studying him intently. “Why do you ask?”
His palm moist from condensation on the bottle—and perhaps nerves—Colt wiped his hand on his shorts. “Dad made me promise him something before he died. And I’m having a hard time keeping it. Truthfully, I don’t know if Iwantto keep it anymore.”
Silence filled the space between them, save for twittering birds in the distance.
They’d never discussed how Colt was the last one to see their father alive. Or how he’d been the one to watch him die.
“What was it?” Luke asked gently.
Colt squeezed his eyes shut as the vision of his father’s frail body lying in the hospital bed forced its way to the forefront of his mind. He could still hear the beeping of the heart monitor and smell the overpowering aroma of cleaning supplies mingled with the white peonies his mother kept in a vase by the window.
His father had just finished lamenting their unused plane tickets, and how he’d promised their mother a trip around the world. She wanted to dance on the beach beneath the moonlight and taste exotic foods she couldn’t find in Poppy Creek.
With trembling fingers, his father had reached for his hand. At the memory, Colt gulped against the emotion lodged in his throat. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget the sensation of his father’s cold, limp grasp or how his once large, meaty hands had turned to papery skin and bones.
Wrenching his eyes open, Colt met his brother’s gaze. “He made me promise not to waste a single second of my life, but to live each moment as if it were my last. Dad regretted not taking Mom on that trip, missing out on all the experiences they’d dreamt about all those years. I think he didn’t want me to get stuck here, always saying one day I’d live my life, but never actually doing it.”
Realization lit Luke’s hazel eyes. “That’s why you’re always traveling, pushing the limits, and never settling down.”
“I never minded before,” Colt disclosed with complete sincerity. “I viewed my promise to Dad as a gift, for him and myself. The adventures I’ve had… they’ve all been incredible. I’ve done things most only dream of. But…” He trailed off, a brief glimpse of Penny’s radiant smile derailing his thoughts.
All at once, he missed her so much, his chest hurt. He set the bottle of sarsaparilla on the workbench, unable to drink another drop.
“Colt,” Luke said slowly. “Did you ever think Dad’s thoughts may not be as interconnected as you assumed?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,Dadregretted not having those experiences with Mom. But tellingyounot to waste your life doesn’t necessarily mean the same thing.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” Colt’s voice rose a little in frustration.
Luke set his bottle on the drafting table and leaned forward, his brows lowered in careful consideration of his next words. “Maybe Dad wasn’t expecting you to live a high-octane life. Maybe he simply meant don’t miss out on the things that matter to you. For Dad, it was not taking Mom on that trip. But for you, it could be something else. Or maybe someoneelse.”
