Page 49 of Imperfect Cadence

Grayson

In the weeks that ensued, my days and nights fell into a somewhat predictable, albeit monotonous rhythm of parental duties intertwined with work obligations. The only thing that allowed me to push through some days was the reassuring embrace of my support network tightly encircling me. I’d been taken aback when Suzy, Remy’s mother, expressed her desire to step into a pseudo-grandmotherly role for Violet, not wishing to see her grow up without a positive female influence in her life. Violet had yet to adjust to the upheaval in her life and refused to sleep unless she had utterly exhausted herself from screaming for either June or Dad. As a result, most nights saw either Suzy or Remy staying over, granting me the luxury of a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before I had to go and operate heavy machinery the next day at my job as a construction worker. Brenda extended her helping hand during daylight hours, cooking up so many frozen meals that I could probably feed Violet until she started school.

Amid this backdrop, Violet emerged as a beacon of light in my life. I’d expected I would harbor some resentment towards her for the way she had turned my life upside down. I found none. The depth of love I held for her sometimes scared me with its intensity.

Still, even as life objectively became easier to manage, I struggled to find the will to pull myself out of bed most days. Masking my pain by plastering on a fake smile, I tried my best to convince those around me that I wasn’t emotionally dead inside. Colt’s absence ached the way I imagined a missing limb would, a visceral longing that I berated myself for entertaining. How dare I act like I had the right to miss him after the pain I inflicted? Any claim I had on his life had been ripped to shreds.

But my stubbornly deviant heart refused to get the memo. The agony of heartbreak consumed my every waking thought, eating me alive and sapping my strength until even standing some days became a monumental task. A dark cloud enveloped my moods, a fitting retribution for the anguish I had wrought upon Colt. I knew karma when I saw it—I accepted it as my penance, prepared to endure the hurt of every promise I’d broken, tenfold.

Balancing the physical demands of my labor-intensive job at building sites with the endless responsibilities of parenting a young child left me completely drained by the time I collapsed into bed each night.

One night, a piercing ring splintered the stillness of the house, jolting me awake. Instantly, my senses sharpened, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I scanned the darkness for the immediate threat. Parenthood had robbed me of my ability to sleep deeply; now, even the slightest stir from Violet’s bed caused my eyes to fly open. I’d also allowed a creeping paranoia to settle in, anxiety whispering tales of every bad thing that would happen to her if my vigilance wavered for a second.

As the insistent ringing persisted, I shook off the remnants of sleep, gradually realizing that the source of the disturbance lay not in the realm of masked intruders but in the innocuous glow of my phone. With a groan, I reached for the device, its luminous screen casting an eerie glow on the analog clock behind it: 3.14AM.

Fuck. Not again. Dread clutched at my chest, memories of the last time I’d received an unexpected call out of the blue flooding back with chilling clarity. It was a harbinger of tragedy, a messenger of heart-wrenching loss. I reached out, fingers trembling, and swiped my phone from the nightstand just as the call slipped into voicemail. Without bothering to check who called, I dove into the message, my heart pounding in my ears and bracing myself for another devastating blow.

The voice that emanated from the recording shattered the silence, sending shockwaves through my body. A voice I never expected to hear again, a specter from the past haunting me in the dead of night.

Heeey asshole! Pfft your voicemail says I’ve reached Grayson but you need to change it to asshole. Cause that’s your real name. What kind of asshole promises to love someone forever and then won’t even answer their call? What if I was dying? Or, you know. Maybe I’m sad because of what day it is. Oh I forgot, you don’t even care. Cause you’re an assho- BLEEP

His voice echoed through the phone. Except it wasn’t his. Because he didn’t sound like my Colt anymore, his voice fractured and distorted by the weight of his pain. He sounded broken. And drunk. Slurring his words the way he swore he never would.

I fucking did that to him.

The message abruptly cut off his rant before I could hear the remainder of the insults he wished to hurl my way. I clung to the fragile hope that he would reach out again. I pleaded with the universe, praying for the chance to set things right. Because I’m ashamed to admit this wasn’t the first time Colt had tried to call me. Although all the other times had been during the day when I was at work and I didn’t have to choose whether I answered the call or not. Trying to hold strong, I had deleted any voicemails without listening. Each deleted voicemail was a testament to my cowardice, a feeble attempt at avoiding the pain I'd caused. Now, I felt nauseous at the thought that Colt may have been drinking this whole time, reaching out for help, and I had failed him in his time of need.

As the minutes stretched in agonizing silence with no more contact from Colt, I found myself caught in a relentless cycle of replaying his words in my mind. “What day it is…” His cryptic lamentation puzzled me at first. In the whirlwind of caring for Violet, the days had blurred together into an indistinct haze, leaving me unsure of what month we were in, let alone what day. It took a glance at my phone to jolt me back to reality: December thirteenth. Which meant yesterday marked Colt’s nineteenth birthday.

The weight of my neglect bore down on me with suffocating intensity as the significance of his words dawned on me. It wasn’t just his birthday that I had missed; it was the anniversary of the night I had rescued him from the bitter cold, a pivotal moment that set our journey together in motion.

Then, another fragment of his message pierced through my fog of guilt. “What if I was dying? You don’t even care.” The accusation hung in the air, a damning indictment of my feigned indifference.

He wouldn’t…

The notion sent a shiver down my spine. Colt had always been guarded about his past traumas and the mental scars they left behind. I knew he battled with anxiety and weathered occasional bouts of depression, but he had never expressed thoughts of self-harm. Or so I thought. Was it possible that he had been silently struggling all this time, concealed beneath his facade?

The memory of that night in the alley flooded back, a stark reminder of Colt’s fragile state of mind. He had confessed to me then, admitted that in those darkest moments, he had lost the will to fight for survival, resigned to whatever fate awaited him until I had found him.

Would my recent betrayal, compounded by the weight of his birthday passing unnoticed and the reminder of that night push him to go a step further? A sickening realization of the potentially fatal consequences of my actions turned my blood cold.

I checked the time again. Twenty-three agonizing minutes had slipped by since he left that voicemail. I tried to reassure myself that he had simply drifted off to sleep; after all, it was the dead of night. Except, the fear that I might be wrong gnawed at me.

With trembling fingers, I dialed Colt’s number with my heart pounding out of my chest. The emotional fallout would be immense, but I would never forgive myself if his call had been a last desperate cry for help and I callously ignored it. Each ring felt like an eternity, my panic surging with every unanswered tone. And then, just before I completely lost it, his voice answered, a bittersweet symphony of joy and sorrow.

“‘Ello,” he croaked.

Oh, thank fuck. Intense relief washed over me, a moment of fragile respite in the middle of turmoil. But it was fleeting. I hadn’t anticipated him actually picking up, hadn’t prepared myself for what I would say.

“Am I dreaming?” His voice, barely above a whisper, wavered with a vulnerability that pierced straight through my heart. He sounded so small, so defeated, and the knowledge that I reduced him to this tore me apart. I was on the brink of confessing everything, blurting out how much I loved him and begging for his forgiveness.

What had I been thinking anyway? I had deprived him of the truth because I’d convinced myself that shielding him from pain was an act of mercy. It was a decision born of fear and uncertainty, compounded by the external pressures of his dickhead producer and our separation, along with my own grief. But that had been so stupid—I should have trusted him to make this decision. If he had all the facts and chose to leave his music career behind, why couldn’t I accept that he knew himself well enough to make an informed choice?

“No baby, I’m here. You’re not dreaming,” I murmured softly, instinctively slipping into a term of endearment that once brought us comfort.

“Please don’t call me that.” His response was laced with discomfort, and I heard his quiet sniffling on the other end of the line. Fuck, he was crying and he didn’t trust me enough anymore to let me hear him.

“I’m sorry. You just scared me is all, with the message you left me.”

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