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He looks down at the pizza in his lap.
“Spice makes me have stomachaches. Stomachaches and gas. Lots of gas. Pickle says no to the spice. Spice gives me gas. Flatulence.”
I take a large bite out of my pepperoni slice, chewing as I talk. “That's a funny word, flatulence.”
Colin watches the race as he repeats the word. “Flatulence.”
“Flatulence,” I say louder, raising my pizza.
“Flatulence!” Colin screams, and my brows raise in amusement.
“Colin!” Dylan scolds from the living room, and I laugh.
“Flatulence,” he says again. “A funny word.”
My smile has never been wider as I go to take another bite.
“So, do you like your job, Colin?” I ask, grabbing for another slice.
He's spilled some sauce down his canary-colored striped shirt, but it doesn't slow down his appetite. He’s on this third slice already and seems to enjoy pepperoni pizza more than I thought he would. I add it to the memory bank.
“Yeah. Yeah, I like my job. My job is important, Pickle says. Bagging is important. Yeah.”
“It is. It's very helpful.” I agree, before taking a drink out of my water bottle.
“Do you like your job? Football and women?”
I practically choke on my water, wiping my mouth of the mess I've made.
“What?!”
“Football and women. They say you play football and get women. Football and women. More women now that you can't play football.”
“What you see on the blogs is all lies.” I shake my head, scratching the back of it. “I'm not interested in women.”
“But you like Pickle? She's a woman.”
I sigh, wondering how to navigate this.
“I really like Pickle. Your sister is...well, she's amazing. And I really love spending time with her, and with you.”
“So you love her then.” He nods to himself.
It's not a question, it's a statement. A very gut-punching, truthful statement. I look around his room, noting all the varied shades of yellow that fill the space, from the color on the walls to the drapes, to his favorite striped shirt. It's his own source of sunshine, putting the spotlight directly on me now with his questions.
“I-I, well I don't know, Col.” I stutter.
“So I was right. About both of you. I was right. Right. I was right,” he repeats, rocking forward onto his toes in the chair as his fingers twist and untwist. “Both the same.”
I peer at him, wondering what he could possibly mean. Has he had this conversation with her as well? Did he ask Dylan if she loved me? What did she say? What would she say? Would she embrace her emotions, or would she push them away to focus on the responsibilities before her? Does he see she does that? I'm not always sure I understand Colin or the things he insinuates, but it doesn't mean I won’t try to be patient until I do.
We watch the last lap of the gripping 2001 Cracker Barrel 500. This is a race I remember well. The rookie Kevin Harvick was racing as a replacement for the late great Dale Earnhardt, who had been killed in the tragic, historic race only a week before. I watch as Colin crosses and uncrosses his fingers while anxiously watching the screen. I know he knows what happens. This is an old tape. But the fact that he's still so invested makes me warm with affection.
Harvick and Gordon cross the line at practically the same time, and Colin nods once.
“Great race. Great race. Emotional race.”
“Very emotional,” I agree.
