Stranger Things Have Happened

Chapter 1

“Are you breaking up with me?” My voice was laced with incredulity.

Not anger or sadness or heartache. Just pure shock, disbelief.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and spun a full circle, sure I’d find him standing by his car with a wide smile on his face, ready to tell me it was just a joke.

Nate wasn’t there. Instead, his voice in my ear said, “Yes, Sutton, I am.”

“Over the phone? You couldn’t drive here and say this to my face?

” That sounded like a threat. I hadn’t meant for it to, but he was supposed to be here.

I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. We were going to go on a date, relax, laugh.

I needed to laugh. I had gotten us a hotel room, called in a caretaker for my mom.

“Now you’re going to tell me how I’m allowed to break up with you?” Nate asked.

I bristled. “I’m not telling you how to break up with me. It’s just common sense.”

“You’re more than four hours away. This had to be a phone call.”

Apparently, I, and our two-year relationship, weren’t worth a four-hour drive. “Was there anything else you wanted to say, or does a phone call five minutes before you were supposed to be here cover it?”

“I should’ve known this would be how you’d handle it.”

“How’s that?”

“Like you’re conducting a business meeting, going over an agenda. Very lackluster.”

My entire body tensed at the word he deliberately used.

It was a quote from the food critic in the Los Angeles Times about my recently opened restaurant.

I had the longer version memorized: Good food, well run, but lackluster atmosphere and dining experience.

I feared that was as much a description of me as it was of my restaurant.

Review of Sutton Scott by any boyfriend she had ever dated: Good heart, organized, but boring as hell.

Lackluster in my restaurant was fixable. In myself, probably a lost cause.

But Nate was the one who was breaking up with me, so why did he have to deliver such a low blow? “Now who’s the one trying to dictate how this should play out?” I asked.

“I never dictated anything in our relationship, Sutton.”

“I guess that’s why you’re breaking up with me.”

“I’m breaking up with you because I am number four in your life. After your business, after your mother who doesn’t even want you there, after your apartment.”

It was a nice apartment. I wasn’t going to leave it to move into a bigger place with him after only two years. I had the best rent in the city and a brick fireplace.

“Are you really telling me you didn’t see this coming?” he asked.

I really hadn’t. Had I not been eleven months into opening a restaurant with my best friend that I was now trying to help run from three hundred miles away.

Had I not been taking care of my mother who, after a major car accident, had both a serious concussion and a shattered tibia but who still insisted she didn’t want me here.

Maybe then, I might have seen some signs.

But I figured the distance between us was a result of our busy schedules …

and the literal distance between us. It obviously wasn’t.

A couple brushed by me on the sidewalk, hand in hand.

“Are we done here?” I asked.

“Done,” he said, and without another word, the phone went dead.

I was twenty steps from the front door of the fancy steakhouse where we were supposed to meet, but my legs felt like rubber, standing there in my high heels.

I had gone all out for him: put on a slinky black dress, slicked my long waves into a high pony, painted on lipstick, shaved everything … twice!

My eyes stung, but I bit the inside of my cheeks, not allowing any emotion to rise to the surface.

The closest door to me was a cowboy-themed bar. I didn’t care about themes at the moment. I stepped inside, needing a drink. Fast.

A neon decoration of a man tipping his wide-brimmed hat over and over glowed on the far wall as I headed to the long bar.

I took the closest empty seat, a low-backed barstool, beside two guys who seemed too preppy for the surroundings—both in pastel polos and too-tight jeans.

The bartender, a woman wearing a leather vest and a studded belt, approached me right away.

Maybe she sensed the urgency in my expression, or maybe nobody else needed her at the moment.

“You look like you should be next door” was how she greeted me, her eyes traveling over my attire.

“I should be,” I said, but didn’t elaborate.

“What can I get you?”

“Something strong,” I said.

Her eyebrows popped up. She pulled a shot glass from beneath the counter and filled it with vodka. I downed it, cringing at the burn before nodding for another.

She obliged. “That bad, huh?”

“Not a great day.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, filling my glass again.

“Actually,” I said with an ironic laugh.

“I grew up here. Five miles east. My mom still lives here. I came back…” I stopped myself.

My mom didn’t need her business spread around.

She didn’t need everyone to know she’d gotten in a serious accident two weeks ago that resulted in surgery, persistent concussion symptoms, and an unknown recovery time.

Hell, maybe the whole town already knew.

They probably did. And yet still, I finished with “To see her.” I downed my second shot.

“Enjoy your visit,” she said, raising the bottle to pour me another.

I held up my hand. “How about a beer? Do you have anything local?”

She nodded and left to fill that order.

“You said no then?” asked one of the preppy guys next to me.

Not to me. To the other guy. They were both very attractive.

The one closest to me in a boy-next-door way, with soft brown curls and a friendly demeanor.

The other had thick, dark hair, perfectly clear olive skin, and full lips.

He wasn’t the boy next door. He was very … pretty. But in a villain sort of way.

“I said, why would I go to therapy if there’s nothing wrong with me?” Maybe he wasn’t as boy next door as he looked.

I almost snorted. That vodka was going to my head quicker than I anticipated. I probably should’ve eaten something first. I couldn’t remember when or what I’d eaten today. A granola bar? Ten hours ago?

Maybe I did snort because Mr. I’m Perfect Therefore Don’t Need Therapy gave me a sideways glance. I lowered my head, staring into my empty shot glass.

“Exactly,” Villain Pretty Boy said.

“Let me guess, you’re a pro therapy person,” Mr. Perfect said.

It took me several beats to realize he was talking to me. Had I snorted again?

“What? Not my business,” I said.

“No, please, you’re obviously listening.”

“I just think everyone can benefit from therapy is all.”

He sighed. “You see, that’s my problem. If you think everyone needs it, then it’s not exactly a remedy for anything, is it?”

“I didn’t say everyone needed it. I said everyone could benefit from it.”

“That’s how they get you. They create this narrative that the world would be better with therapy. It’s a gimmick, a scam.”

“Who is they?” I asked, turning on my barstool to face him more fully, just as the bartender slid a glass full of amber liquid in front of me, the white foam on top nearly sloshing over the edge.

“The therapists,” he answered.

“Obviously,” Villain Pretty Boy said. There was a teasing gleam in his eye, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he was humoring his friend or because he, too, found the idea of therapy laughable.

“Who wants you to go to therapy?” I asked. “Your mom?”

This time Villain Pretty Boy outright laughed.

Mr. Perfect scowled. “No, my fiancée. Couples therapy, before we get married.”

“And this is too hard of an ask for you?” I said, my voice full of sarcasm.

If this guy couldn’t accomplish this straightforward request, what other things would he attempt to avoid in their marriage?

She needed to run. Or maybe that was my recent breakup speaking. I was feeling extra bitter right now.

“I could do it,” he said. “Humor her. But the way a marriage starts is going to dictate the entirety of it.”

“So you do get the point then,” I said.

He tilted his head in confusion when, over his right shoulder, I saw a woman walking toward me, a smile on her face.

Not just any woman—Tara McKinley, my best friend from high school.

Like I’d mentioned to the bartender, I grew up here.

And Tara and me were inseparable back then.

She was pretty much my saving grace through a lot of shit.

We’d both moved away after graduation and had kept in sporadic contact, but I hadn’t talked to her in months.

“Oh my god,” she said in both surprise and joy as she reached me. She was wearing jeans and a fitted graphic tee. Her blond hair was big and wavy. I stood and we came together in a hug. “You’re here.”

“You’re here,” I said.

“I moved back,” she responded, still holding on to my arms as we talked.

“You did? When?”

“Like a year and a half ago.”

“Really? I didn’t realize.” Okay, maybe it had been longer than a few months since I’d talked to her. I felt guilty that I didn’t even know she had moved. That I was so wrapped up in my own things.

“I know. You’ve been busy with your restaurant, and I’ve been busy with the move and settling in. Sorry, I should’ve told you.”

Great, now I felt doubly guilty. She’d kept up with my life in the last eighteen months. Probably saw all the online posts about the grand opening.

“No, I should’ve asked. I’m glad to see you.”

“You too. Are you here for your mom?”

“You heard?” Of course she had. It was a pretty small town. There was probably a meal train started on Facebook.

“I did. Is she okay?”

“She will be.”

Her eyes traveled over my face and outfit. “Have you been in Los Angeles so long you forgot how to dress for a Clovis bar?”