Now and Then (The Blue Collar Boys #2)

1. Sutton

Sutton

“It’s just you and me tonight, Don,” I say to my drink, twirling my shot glass across the dark mahogany bar.

Sparkling lights bounce across the surface of the golden liquid, spiraling like my thoughts.

I tap my phone screen. It’s late, later than I ever choose to go out in public alone.

But after the day I’ve had, the last thing I plan on doing is begging my girlfriends to join me while I drown my sorrows in as much Don Julio as I can stand.

I enter my phone’s password, and the screen sparks to life, glowing brightly.

The three words I’ve come to loathe glare back at me from the offending email, and I set my phone face down on the bar.

I inhale deeply, toss back the honey-toned liquid, and slide the glass across the counter. “Pour me another, Joe.”

Joe doesn’t say anything as he refills my glass, but I don’t miss the way his eyes narrow in that dad way. The I love you, but look, the one with the judgy eyes.

“What’s that look for?” I beckon him to pass the shot.

“No look, Sutton. No look at all.” He swipes a dingy white cloth over the counter, cleaning up nonexistent spills. “Haven’t seen you in a while, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” I toss back the shot and slam the glass down on the counter. “Don over here requested my presence.”

Joe braces his hands on the bar and leans toward me. A guilty buzzing starts in my stomach. Whether it’s the tequila or the stern look he’s giving me is yet to be determined.

Joe has run this bar for as long as I can remember. He and Dad were best friends, at least they were until Dad died six years ago. I grew up watching Joe give the look to my brother, Luke, and his friend Hunter, but not me, never me. I was the perfect daughter.

“You okay?” Joe asks.

He can nudge me to open up all he wants, but he should know by now I don’t easily offer up my pain, my secrets. “Completely fine,” I lie. “Just celebrating.”

“What are we celebrating?”

I don’t like his use of we. I’m not in the mood to be a we tonight. This pity party only has room for one. I mentally fortify my defensive walls and put on my best Sutton-like smile. “Oh, you know, just the fact that I closed on another house and have two others under contract.”

“That’s amazing. You were born to be a realtor, Sutton.

” Joe nods to my shot glass. “And I’m going to pretend that you celebrating is the real reason you’re drinking that tequila.

Don’t beat yourself up too much.” He taps the counter with his knuckles and heads to the other end of the bar to serve a few bikers.

“Was I born to be a realtor though?” I say aloud to no one.

Growing up, I was the girl who was naturally good at everything I tried. Good grades. Lots of clubs. Teachers who adored me. I played Sutton Bradley, perfect girl with the great smile and endless energy, and I played her well.

What most people didn’t know was that I was just going through the motions. And today, I feel like I still am.

Back then, I dreaded the question What do you want to be when you grow up?

It felt like someone had parked a bus on my chest every time I had to come up with an answer. I liked a lot of things but could never picture myself doing any of them forever.

But I became good at answering anyway.

Princess.

Teacher.

Garbage truck driver.

Whatever made them smile and stop asking.

When I was younger, it was fun trying on future versions of myself, like dresses in a fitting room, even though they never fit. But the older I got, the less acceptable not knowing became.

“Man,” I say, “it’s hot in here.” I slip my arms from my black suit jacket and roll up my white shirt cuffs.

“It could also be the tequila,” the man one barstool over from me mumble-laughs.

“Could be.” I fold my manicured hands in front of me.

“You’re a realtor?” Mystery Man is wearing a baseball hat low on his head paired with some kind of neighborhood baseball league jersey and jeans.

“Something like that.” I turn my focus to my bracelets.

My junior year of high school, I started going with Dad when he did his realty work.

He let me trail behind him through showings, where he pointed out crown molding and bay windows like they were hidden treasures.

I brought my sketchbook and filled it with drawings of room layouts, kitchen designs, and even, on occasion, a backyard.

Dad started talking about me joining his realty business. Then he started planning on it.

Somehow, without me really noticing, I blinked, and we were the Bradley Team—a father-daughter power duo who could sell a tree to a forest. We were unstoppable.

Then he died, and everything changed.

My phone buzzes next to me. I swear it never stops buzzing with phone calls, texts, and emails. I have this urge sometimes to throw it into a river, but that’s definitely not something the put-together, can-handle-anything Sutton who everyone knows would do.

I enter my password but get an error code.

I try again. And again. On the fourth attempt, I finally unlock my screen.

With a rapid swipe, the email disappears, and I pull up my text messages.

I see “Wildflowers,” the name for the chat with my best friends.

My heart grows heavy. I’m not in the mood to play sunny-side up Sutton tonight.

Navy: I’m bored. Want to hang out?

Greer: Yep. Luke’s on shift, so I’m in.

For a second, I consider not responding, but I know better.

We may have known each other for only a few months, but I know how my friends work.

They’ll text nonstop, or worse, they’ll come looking for me.

I love them like sisters, but tonight, I don’t want to be found.

Closing one eye to focus on the letters starting to swim in front of me, I relent and respond.

Me: Sorry, I’ve got a date with Don.

Greer: A date? You didn’t tell us you had a date.

Navy: Sutton’s like a vault. She doesn’t tell us shit.

Greer: Wait, Don as in DON Don?? Are you drunk?

“Not yet,” I mumble aloud. Mystery Man side-eyes me, so I give him a thumbs up. He shakes his head and manages a laugh but quickly returns to staring a hole into the counter.

Navy: She’s not drunk, G. Sutton never gets drunk.

Me: Why do you think that?

Navy: You’d never let alcohol make you out of control.

I toss the phone onto the counter, a little harder than intended, startling Mystery Man. I smile sheepishly, and he gives me a small, easy smile in return.

Navy’s right. Currently, I’m not the Sutton everyone knows. One by one, I tug all the threads of me, frayed and fluttering, and wind them back up onto their neat little spool.

Suddenly, the bar door flies open, the incoming breeze blowing a few red strands of hair that have fallen from my perfectly coiffed bun. A gold light illuminates the doorway, casting a man and woman in a hazy silhouette. Hairs prickle on the back of my neck.

I don’t need to see his face.

My body always knows when he’s around. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to suppress the butterflies that always fly up around him.

“You know those two?” Mystery Man looks toward the pair at the bar entrance.

“Yeah, I know them.” I scrunch down on the barstool and prop a menu in front of me, hoping he won’t see me. I’m not in the mood for butterflies tonight. They put a real damper on my wallowing.

Joe lowers the menu from my face. “You ordering food, Sutton?” His smile spreads from ear to ear as his eyes drift to the man at the door. “Maybe for two?”

Joe’s always been too observant, even for a bartender. A few weeks ago, I made the mistake of using him as a pseudo-therapist, confiding in him everything that had happened in Colorado. Well, almost everything.

“Not for two.” I snap the menu back in front of me. “I mean, yeah, sure.” My tone is softer now. “I’ll order for me.” I scan the menu trying to get the letters to organize themselves into actual words. “I’ll have, um . . .” Tequila thrums below the surface of my skin.

“The wings are good,” Mystery Man says. “I’ll share an order with you.”

Braving being seen, I tilt down the corner of the menu to look at Mystery Man.

I close one eye to get him to stop moving.

He’s removed his baseball hat, so I can actually see what was beneath its shadowed brim.

He’s got soft, deep-set wrinkles near the corners of his eyes and dark hair.

A few grays pepper his short beard, so he’s obviously older than me, but not by much.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Name’s Easton.” He lifts his glass in mock salute. “And you’re Sutton.”

I lower the menu more, narrowing my eyes. “How’d you know that?”

He scoffs. “Joe’s called you it a few times.”

“Always Joe.” I huff.

“So, about those wings?”

“I’m sorry, but—” I stop myself, realizing I’ve said those three stupid words I hate. My hand immediately covers my phone and the shame of that email, even though no one knows it’s there but me. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

Easton furrows his brow. “Said what?”

I gesture for Joe to come back over, the tequila obviously making me more forthcoming than normal.

“What can I get ya?” Joe asks.

“Two tequilas.” I gesture at Easton, then close the menu and place it on the bar.

“Make that one,” Easton says. “I’m not a tequila man. I’ll take a scotch on the rocks with a twist.” His voice lilts up. “And an order of wings?”

I nod.

“Sure thing,” Joe replies. For the second time tonight, he gives me the look and turns his back to place our order.

The lights in the bar dim as evening descends, casting an eerie glow over the interior.

This place has such a dreamy vibe, but Joe has no idea how to capitalize on it.

A little paint, new artwork, and it would feel like an opulent speakeasy from days gone by.

Maybe someday I’ll convince him to let me remodel it.

The woman with him laughs, breaking through the bar’s steady hum. I tuck my chin to my shoulder and chance a glance toward their table. They’re in a corner booth, heads hunched together, talking.

“Who even does that?” I roll my eyes.