33. Sutton
Sutton
Sunday always feels slower than the rest of the week, but today, the house seems determined to stretch the day even further.
Soft winter light spills through the front windows, catching dust in the air while Hunter moves around the kitchen behind me.
A slow country song plays softly in the background, both of us humming along as we make lunch.
I lean against the counter, watching him juggle a spatula, a soda pop, and the stubborn cast still wrapped around his wrist, like he’s trying to prove what a badass he is.
Yesterday still hums quietly under my skin. Easton’s offer. The possibility of something new. Instead of feeling overwhelmed and trying to map out my five-year business plan, I’ve been savoring the excitement.
Is this what it feels like to make a life-altering decision and immediately know it was the right thing to do?
Apparently so.
I feel calm. Certain. And a little like I’ve got the sun shining out of my chest.
I feel that way about Easton’s offer.
But I also feel that way about therapy.
Mom gave me the contact information for her therapist—Libby. In the end, I decided not to invade Mom’s space, but reached out anyway to see if Libby might know someone else taking new patients.
I didn’t expect a response until Monday, so I’m pleasantly surprised when my phone buzzes with a new voicemail.
I read the message transcript. Her co-therapist, Jill, had a cancellation for the Tuesday after Christmas if I’m available, and she also wants to know if I’d prefer to meet in person or virtually.
My stomach drops, but not out of fear. Anticipation.
As hard as I know it’ll be, it’s far past time for someone to help me untangle all the things I buried in my heart all those years ago.
“Who’s that?” Hunter asks and shovels a giant bite of potato chips into his mouth.
“Just a voicemail.” I flip my phone over on the counter.
Yesterday, we spent the rest of the afternoon pouring over the contract and tossing around ideas for the future.
Eventually, the panic over the open house kicked in, and I cleaned, polished, and Windex-ed every available surface in the house again, while Hunter disappeared out back to try to finish the yard.
It was a good day, and I didn’t want to bring the mood down with another round of my trauma. But looking at his handsome face now, I know it’s time I told him. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
His fork stops halfway to his mouth. Eyes lock on me. “Should I be worried?”
“No, you don’t have to be worried,” I say. “Nothing’s wrong. I actually think something might finally be right.”
He sets his fork down and reaches for my hands, but doesn’t interrupt.
“Mom and I talked a lot,” I say. “About everything. Dad. The breakup. The baby. Me. Us.”
His thumb stills against my knuckles. “And?”
I take a breath and pull my hands from his.
I can do this part on my own.
“I’m going to start therapy.”
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then his shoulders relax. “What made you decide that?” he asks gently.
“It’s actually something my mom said.” I sit back, warming my hands on my coffee mug. “She said she started therapy when she realized she had been depending on me for her healing more than she should have. And I think . . .” My throat tightens. “I think I’ve done the same with you.”
“Sutton, no, you—”
I place my fingers over his lips. “Yes, baby, I have.”
His eyes soften, and he places his hand over mine.
“You’ve always been my best friend. Always. So that night when everything fell apart, you were the only person I needed. But I never once stopped to think how it affected you. Instead, I let you carry my pain and my secret for years. Years, Hunter.”
“I didn’t mind carrying it,” he says quietly. “I would do anything for you. And yeah, I wanted there to be more between us. But I was afraid to say anything then because I knew it would push you further away.”
“I wish you would’ve told me how you felt.” My tears fall easily now, my heart cracked wide open.
“I loved you.” He caresses my cheek. “Your entire world had just imploded. I could feel you slipping away and I . . . I knew if you let yourself be taken by the storm, you’d be lost forever.”
“So you anchored me.”
He nods. “I guess in a way, I did.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. The kitchen is quiet except for the drip, drip, drip of the faucet and the soft crackle of grilled cheese sandwiches still warming on the stove.
“I think that’s part of the problem,” I say.
His brow furrows. “Being your anchor?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Me needing one.”
I draw a slow breath, staring down at our hands resting together on the table.
“I’ve spent so long trying to make sure nothing ever hurts like that again. Like if I can just do the right things, plan enough, anticipate every possible disaster, I’ll somehow keep the people I love from disappearing.”
His eyes soften.
“But that’s not how life works,” I whisper. “And I think somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting I could survive the storm without grabbing onto you.”
It’s my turn now to catch the tears falling from his eyes.
“I kept telling myself I wasn’t ready to fall in love again, and that was true because I already was in love .
. . with you. But admitting that opened me up to too much vulnerability.
The idea of losing you was too much to bear.
So, instead, I let us live in this gray area.
Too scared to let myself have you. Too scared to let you go.
Too scared to do anything except smile, nod, and pretend everything was fine.
But,” I say, “things weren’t fine. I buried my pain so deep down, hoping maybe if I didn’t mention it or no one knew, it would go away. ”
He cups my face, his hands warm and reassuring. “That kind of pain never goes away.”
“Yeah, it’s taken me a while to realize that.”
“Sut . . .”
“That’s why I want to start therapy,” I say. “Not because you did anything wrong. You didn’t. You’ve been everything I needed for years. But I don’t want you carrying all the pieces of me that I should be learning to carry myself.”
For a moment, he just looks at me. Really looks.
“I never felt like I was carrying you,” he says quietly. “I wanted you to know you weren’t alone. I wanted you to know that I was standing right next to you.”
“I’ve always known that.” I lean forward until our foreheads touch. I close my eyes, letting my heart slow.
“I know this is probably scary,” he whispers. “But I’m really proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too.”
Hunter’s smile spreads slowly, like maybe the words mean just as much to him as they do to me. “That might be my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”
I laugh softly, wiping the last tears from my cheeks.
He reaches over and steals the crispest sandwich from the griddle. With one bite, half of it is gone.
“Excuse me, sir!”
“Snooze, you lose.” He mumbles.
The tension that had been sitting between us all morning finally dissolves.
The kitchen is warm and quiet, and for a moment, we sit there enjoying the quiet.
Then my eyes drift toward the back door.
“So . . .” I say carefully, “does this new, emotionally mature version of Sutton get to see the backyard?”
Hunter doesn’t even hesitate. “Not a chance, babe.” He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Be patient,” he says, amusement threading through his voice. “It’ll be worth it.”