My screen says private caller and I answer it with a breathless “Hello.”
“Rylee?”
My heart swells at the rasp of his voice. Shock has me hesitating to respond. Pride has me wanting to make sure that the hitch in my voice is absent when I finally speak. “Ace?”
“Hi, Rylee.” The warmth mixed with relief in his voice has me shaking with an undercurrent of emotions.
“Hi, Colton.” I reply, my tone matching his.
He chuckles softly at my response before silence fills the phone line. He clears his throat. “I was just calling to let you know a car will pick you up at the house on Sunday at nine-thirty.” His voice so full of warmth moments before is now disembodied and official sounding.
“Oh. Okay.” I sag in my chair, disappointment flowing through me at the realization that he’s not calling for me but rather to reiterate the email that one of his staff members had already sent two days ago. I can hear him breathing on the line and can hear voices in the distance.
“You still have a total of ten right? Seven boys and three counselors?”
“Yes.” My tone is clipped, business-like. My only form of protection against him. “They are extremely excited about it.”
“Cool.”
Silence stretches through the line again. I need to think of something to say so that he doesn’t hang up, for despite our lack of conversation, knowing he is on the other end of the line is better than him not being there at all. I know my line of thinking screams “desperate,” but I don’t care. My brain scrambles to form a sentence, and right when I say his name, Colton says my name. We laugh at each other.
“Sorry, you go first, Colton.” I try to rid my voice of the nerves that creep their way into my tone.
“How are you, Rylee?”
Miserable. Missing you. I infuse happiness into my next words, glad he’s not in front of me to read through my lie. “Good. Fine. Just busy. You know.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll let you go.”
No! Not yet! My mind grasps to think of something to keep him on the phone. “Are-are you … ready for Sunday?”
“We’re getting there.” I think I hear a tinge of relief in his voice but chalk it up to my reading into it. “The car seems to be working great. We’ve made some adjustments to the lift/drag ratio, which seems to be working better.” I can hear the enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ll dial it in more on Sunday. And Beckett, my crew chief, thinks we need to adjust the camber, and you asked me why I don’t do relationships.”
What? Whoa! Direction change. I don’t know what to say so I just murmur, “Hmm-hmmm,” afraid that if I speak, it might reveal to him just how much I want to know and at the same time afraid to know the answer to the question.
I can hear him sigh on the other end of the phone, and I imagine him running his hands through his hair in discomfort. His voice is hushed when he finally speaks. “Let’s just say my early childhood … those years were … more fucked up than not.” I can sense his apprehension and can feel his trepidation in his confession.
“Before you were adopted?” I know the answer, but it’s the only thing I can think to say without him thinking I feel pity for him. And silence from me would be even worse.
“Yes, before I was adopted. As a result … I … how do I …?” he struggles finding the right words to express what he wants to say. I hear another exhaled breath before he continues. “I sabotage anything that resembles a relationship. If things are going too well … depending on which shrink you talk to, I purposely, unknowingly, or subconsciously ruin it. Screw it up. Hurt the other person.” It all comes out in a quick jumble of words. “Just ask my poor parents.” A self-deprecating laugh slips out. “Growing up, I fucked them over more times than I care to count.”
“Oh … I … Colton—”
“I’m hardwired this way, Rylee. I’ll purposely do something to hurt you to prove that I can. To prove that you won’t stick around regardless of the consequences. To prove that I can control the situation. To control that I don’t get hurt.”
So many things run through my mind. Most of them are about the unspoken words he’s not relaying. That he’s been left or abandoned. That his history makes him test the limits of the person he’s with to prove he’s not worthy of their love. To prove they’ll leave him too. My heart aches for him and for whatever unknown thing that happened to him as a child. On the other hand, he has opened up to me some, partially answering the question I asked against his lips on my front porch.
“I told you, a 747 of baggage sweetheart.”
“It doesn’t matter, Colton.”
“Yes it does, Rylee,” he laughs nervously. “I won’t commit to anyone. It’s just easier on everyone in the long run.”
“Ace, you’re not the first guy I’ve know with commitment issues,” I joke, trying to add some levity to our conversation. But deep down I know that his inability to commit stems from something way deeper than just typical male reluctance. The shame mixed with desperation in his voice echoes loudly in my head, telling me otherwise.
I hear his nervous laugh again. “Rylee?”
“Yes?”
“I respect you and your need for the commitment and the emotion that comes with a relationship.” He pauses, silence stretching between us as he finds his next words. “I really do. I’m just not built that way … so don’t feel bad. This would’ve never worked.”