Chapter 7 #2
We walk side by side toward the edge of the park. The night air has cooled even further, and Sutton pulls her denim jacket tighter around herself. Without thinking, I start to shrug off my sweatshirt to give to her, but she stops me.
“Don’t you dare,” she warns, pointing a finger at me. “If you try to give me your sweatshirt right now, I will literally walk away.”
I freeze like a deer in headlights. “What? Why?”
“Because it’s the most cliché move in the history of man-tries-to-impress-a-woman,” she says, amusement dancing in her eyes. “And I’m not cold enough to need it anyway.”
I drop my hands to my sides. “Fair enough. I’ll save my chivalry for when you’re actually freezing.”
“Good plan.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, close enough that her hand occasionally brushes against mine. Each accidental touch sends a current through me that I’m trying very hard to ignore, and it’s killing me to not reach out and take her hand.
What would she say if I tried?
As we approach the ice cream shop, she clears her throat and asks, “What’s your go-to flavor?”
“Salted caramel,” I answer without hesitation. “You?”
“Boring,” she teases. “I’m a mint chocolate chip girl myself.”
“But that’s just toothpaste with chocolate in it.”
She gasps dramatically. “Take that back immediately.”
“Never. I stand by my controversial ice cream opinions.”
The shop is nearly empty when we walk in, just a couple of teenagers in the corner and a tired-looking employee behind the counter. Sutton studies the flavors with intense concentration, like she’s making a life-altering decision.
“Can I get a scoop of mint chocolate chip and a scoop of chocolate, please?” she asks the server, then looks at me with a challenging expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, raising my hands in mock surrender. “If you want to ruin perfectly good chocolate with toothpaste flavor, that’s your business.”
“Says the man who puts salt in his dessert.”
“It’s about balance,” I argue, stepping up to order. “Two scoops of salted caramel, please.”
When I pull out my wallet, thankfully, Sutton doesn’t protest.
It’s a small victory.
The server hands us our cones, and we step back outside. It may be getting colder outside, but the ice cream is worth it. We walk slowly down the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind.
“So,” she says between licks, “do you actually live in Portland? Or just during the season?”
“I live here year-round,” I tell her. “On the outskirts of town. Not too far from the stadium, but far enough that I don’t feel like I’m always at work.”
She nods. “Must be nice having space.”
“It is,” I admit. “I like my quiet space after a busy day of being…me”
“You mean Shepherd Haynes, the football star?” she asks, but there’s no mockery in her tone.
“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love playing football, but at the end of the day what I really crave is…”
“Peace,” she answers for me.
I nod, watching her with the feeling that maybe she totally gets me. “Yeah, exactly. Sometimes I just want to be a guy eating tacos that might give him food poisoning, you know?”
She laughs again, and I swear I could get addicted to that sound. It’s now my goal to make it happen as often as possible.
“And what is Shepherd Haynes the non-football star like when he’s at home?”
I give her my most exaggerated shrug. “I think you’re looking at him.”
She raises a brow. “Really? Non-football star Shepherd Haynes is just a guy walking down the street eating ice cream?”
I nod, a goofy smile playing across my face. “Yep. Well, maybe I’m wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, but I’m still eating ice cream like any other normal person.”
“I bet you have fancy expensive sweatpants though.” She winks.
“I’ll have you know they’re very normal sweatpants,” I tell her, trying to look offended but failing miserably. “I mean, I don’t go shopping for the most expensive pair I can find.”
“Sure, you don’t. I bet they’re cashmere or something equally ridiculous.” A small drop of ice cream threatens to run down the side of her cone, and she catches it with her tongue in a way that makes my throat dry.
“They’re cotton. Regular cotton from regular cotton plants grown by regular cotton farmers.”
She laughs again, and I silently congratulate myself on another victory. “Regular cotton farmers? Is that what they’re called?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “But I know they’re not made of gold thread or whatever you think I wear around my house.”
“Fair enough,” she says, but I can tell she’s not entirely convinced. “What do you do when you’re home alone? Besides eat ice cream in your totally normal, not-at-all fancy sweatpants.”
I consider this for a moment. The truth seems too mundane to share, but I’ve been honest with her so far, and it seems to be working.
“Woodworking,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “You’re serious? Like actual woodworking? With tools and everything?”
“Yes, with actual tools,” I laugh. “What did you think I meant? That I whittle little figurines with a pocketknife?”
“I don’t know.” She throws up her free hand. “I just didn’t expect…that.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Video games? Watching film? Having models feed you grapes while you count your money?”
I nearly choke on my ice cream. “Models feeding me grapes? Is that what you think rich athletes do?”
She shrugs, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve never met one before, so my information is limited to bad reality TV.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint, but there’s a severe grape shortage at my house. And a model shortage, too, come to think of it.”
“Tragic,” she says, finishing the last of her cone.
“My workshop is my favorite place in the house,” I continue. “I build things. Tables, chairs, shelves. Sometimes just small stuff like cutting boards or picture frames.
I like working with my hands. Creating something tangible, you know? Something real that exists because I made it.”
Sutton studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching mine like she’s trying to…what? Figure me out? Find the lie? I hope she sees there isn’t one.
What she sees is what she gets.
“What are you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?”
She blinks, caught off guard by my question. For a moment, I think she might deflect with another joke, but something shifts in her expression.
“I’m thinking that you’re not what I expected,” she admits, tucking her hair behind her ear. The gesture seems unconscious, vulnerable in a way she doesn’t realize.
“Is that good or bad?” I ask, suddenly feeling like her answer matters more than it probably should.
She hesitates, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my chest tighten. “I’m still deciding.”
“That’s fair,” I say, matching her honesty with my own. “For what it’s worth, you’re not exactly what I expected either.”
“Let me guess, you thought all bartenders were tattooed hipsters who only drink craft IPAs and judge people’s bourbon choices?”
I laugh. “No, but now I’m wondering if I should be concerned about my bourbon choices.”
“Don’t worry,” she says with a small smile. “Your beer selection already told me everything I need to know.”
“Oh good. As long as you get me now.”
We continue walking, our pace slowing as if by mutual agreement. Neither of us seems in a hurry to end whatever this is between us.
“So, what about you?” I ask, turning the conversation on her.
“What about me?”
“What does Sutton, the woman whose last name I still don’t know, like to do with her time when she’s not working the bar?”
The corner of her mouth turns up before she answers, “Price.”
“Price?” I repeat, not following.
“That’s my last name. Sutton Price. And in my free time I like to volunteer and I like to thrift.”
“Thrift? What is thrift?”
She glances at me. “Thrifting…as in shopping at thrift stores.”
“Oh. And that’s like…a whole thing that people do?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I mean…yeah.” She seems a little self-conscious about it, which makes me want to know more. “I like finding things other people have discarded. Things with history.”
“That’s cool,” I say, and I mean it. “What kind of stuff do you look for?”
She hesitates, then says, “Mostly…cups. Teacups, mugs. Ones that are chipped or cracked.”
“Broken things,” I observe.
Her eyes meet mine, surprised. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Why?”
She takes a deep breath, like she’s deciding how much to tell me. “Because people toss them aside like…like they aren’t pretty anymore, but they are. And they still work. They still serve their purpose, even if they’re not perfect.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I tell her. “Not at all. It means something to you, and I think that’s…I don’t know. Remarkable.”
We walk a little farther in silence, and I find myself wanting to know everything about Sutton Price. Every detail, every story, every reason behind the walls she has surrounding her.
“And volunteering?” I prompt.
“Yeah, I volunteer at a homeless shelter not far from here actually,” she says with a nod. “And the local food pantry across town.”
“That’s impressive.”
Her eyes flicker with something, surprise maybe, or wariness at having shared something personal.
“It’s just a few hours a week,” she says with a shrug that’s meant to minimize her efforts, but I can tell it matters to her. “Nothing special.”
“It is special,” I counter. “Most people talk about helping others. You’re out there doing it.”
She lifts a shoulder. “I wish it was more. So many people in this town are in need, you know? Nobody has enough money. Money for a warm house or money to put food on the table or clothes for their kids. It’s frustrating to watch people struggle or suffer.
They’re no different than me.” She gestures to me. “Or you.”