Chapter 20
TWENTY
COOPER
I stare at it all night.
Sutton sent me a photo of her in bed. A book and her readers on one side, and a sleepy tea on the nightstand. My shirt—the one I left on her dresser earlier today—is on her body. Lakeland Men’s Hockey stitched across the chest.
The image starts at her mouth. A simple, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across her lips. The bottom is heavier than the top, so it hangs out a bit. The feeling of it already haunts me. I feel them now on my lips like a ghost of a memory.
There is nothing overtly sexy about the photo—I doubt she’s even trying—but it’s the hottest thing anyone has ever sent me.
I save it instantly, but wait to respond…after typing out several responses and deleting them.
I want to tell her how good she looks and offer the rest of my closet to her. I also want to ask her if she tossed Dylan’s shirt.
Who keeps their ex’s shirt? After how their breakup went down, I’m surprised she’d have it all these years later.
You could tell her, the voice inside me that I hate creeps out of its dark recess. Holding what I did, what I saw, over my head instead of encouraging me to tell her. The guilt I do feel is held hostage.
My phone buzzes again, it’s a group chat, but it has me going back to my conversation with Sutton.
Knew you’d look good in my clothes.
Sutton
How many other girls have you fed that line to?
Let me count…
Zero
Sutton
I’m honored. Do I get a badge or something?
Or something. Like the truth.
God, why did I tell her I didn’t want things to change? I want things to change. Desperately. And in stolen moments, ones like this, I think they are.
Again, I’m typing and retyping a message before deciding to call her. Sutton answers on the third ring, her voice hazy with sleep.
“If this is to ask for a different type of picture, good luck.”
“It’s not.” I chuckle lightly. “But if you were to offer…”
“Not happening.”
“How was the movie?”
“You know I’ve never been a fan of thrillers. Accidentally punctured my Styrofoam cup, then moved on to squeezing Elliot’s hand to the point of bruising.” There’s a rustling of sheets across the line. “Is this phone call my something?”
“Sort of.” I get quiet, and roll over on my side, staring at the bracelet on my nightstand. I rarely take it off, wearing it except when I sleep or shower. It’s been through countless practices and games.
A long stretch of silence passes between us.
“Are you still there?” Sutton yawns.
“Yeah, sorry.”
There’s another wrestling of sheets and a creak of a headboard as if she’s sitting up.
“Can I ask you something?” Maybe she’s finally being bold enough for the both of us.
I thought I was, calling her to finally tell her, but the sound of her voice had me chickening out.
I wanted to protect her then, and I still want to protect her now.
Without a response, she asks, “You didn’t start the rumor, did you?”
One word. One word that has me hanging off the edge of a cliff.
You’d think with the years I’ve had to ruminate on my decision that I’d have the words to tell her. Rehearsed and memorized. But I don’t.
“No.”
“W-why?” Sutton breaks around the words. “You lied?”
“I lied when I said I started it.”
“Why?” she asks again.
“Because I wanted to protect you. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Protect me?” Her voice cracks. “Telling me you started it is what broke me. Not what people said.”
I hate her tone. Hate the images in my head of her in bed, eyes probably welling up, pulling at her curls or arms wrapped protectively around herself like I wish I could.
“I know…but I need you to believe that telling you I did was to protect you.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you know me better than anyone else, and I think we can both agree deep down you never thought I did it.”
“Will you tell me who started it then? I assume you know.”
I wish I didn’t. “Dave, if I tell you, what’s that going to change? What is that going to do for you now?”
Isn’t it good enough knowing it’s not me? I would ask that, but it sounds too desperate in my head.
She sighs. “Nothing, I suppose. It was years ago, and I’ve mov—” Sutton stops mid-word, but I know exactly the lie she was about to say absentmindedly.
“Were you really about to say you’ve moved on?”
“I’d like to think I have recently.” Her tone lightens, a playful edge to it. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would. Can I ask you something now?”
“Sure.”
“Can we officially be best friends again?” Friends. Because if one thing should change, then it has to be this.
She laughs and if it isn’t the best sound, I don’t know what is. I haven’t traveled much, but I bet Sutton has the best laugh in the world.
“No.” She’s teasing me. “But I’ll think about it. Might have to see if I have any open slots.”
“Fine. Just know that I might not be your best friend, but you’ve always been my best friend.” I swear I can hear her eyeroll. “And I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Give it your best shot, Carmichael.”
“Dave?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you wearing under my shirt?”
Her laughter floats through the phone, filling my eardrum and bedroom. I press the phone closer to my ear as if I could lock the sound inside my head.
“Goodnight, Carmichael.”
She hangs up, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.