7. Sutton
7
SUTTON
“Wells is getting married? ” I ask for the fifth time.
Frankie’s shallow breaths sound as distorted as they always do when she’s calling from the ranch. But even spotty reception didn’t warrant this news to be broken over text.
Frankie has filled me in on all the basic details aside from one. I know the date (twenty-two days from now), location (the Davis family ranch), the groom (my brother), and my role (best man, for some who-knows reason). What Frankie has conveniently left out is the detail of the bride. Her omission is all I need to know, however.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” I ask, my chest tightening with each syllable that I force through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry, Sutton,” Frankie murmurs.
For the first time in years, I allow myself to think back to Cassidy Clark. Her curly red hair. Her full face of freckles. Her doe-like, emerald eyes. Her lips, perfectly symmetrical between the top and bottom, which seemed to always be in a pout.
Like most of the kids in West River, Cassidy and I both lived there from the time we were babies. With only thirty- five students in our entire grade, we were in the same classes every year from kindergarten on. In third grade, we were married under the big oak tree at recess with dandelion rings. In eighth grade, we had our first kiss. And then, just after my first year at NYU—
“You okay?” Frankie asks, pulling me from my runaway thoughts.
I clutch at the hammering in my chest, wondering if Frankie heard my racing pulse over the phone. “I’m fine,” I force out.
“You’ll come to the wedding, won’t you?” There’s something different in Frankie’s voice. Hope . I can’t remember the last time I heard it from her. “It would mean a lot to everyone. Even Wells. Even Dad.”
The pounding sensation moves from my chest to my head, and I lean back against the side of the building. Ice shoots through my veins at the mention of my father.
“Sutton?” Frankie asks, her voice distant now behind the sound of my mind working overtime. “ Sutton? ”
“I’m here,” I say, choking on my words.
“Will you come?”
“I don’t know,” I say, which is my much more polite way of saying hell no.
The door to the karaoke bar opens, music pouring out onto the sidewalk. I try to turn my head, but my body feels frozen in place. Only her voice can pull me ever so slightly from my mental whirlwind.
“Hey, cowboy! Guess who just got offered a freelance gig that could turn into a real big-girl job?” Only a moment goes by before Laine is right at my side, tiptoeing up to see my face. “What’s going on?” she asks, her voice laced with some of the emotion I’m feeling.
“I’ll—I’ll talk to you later, Frankie,” I say into the phone, my hand shaking as I slide it back into my pocket. The motion draws my whole body down until I’m doubled over, hands on my knees.
Everything spins.
Laine places one hand on my back and the other on my chest. “I think you’re having a panic attack. Focus on your breaths.” She does the same, exaggerating them so I can focus on the sound and match mine in line. When it’s clear that isn’t working, she brings my hand to just under her collarbone so we can both feel each other’s breathing. We do this for a few minutes until the hammering in my head calms and the pressure around my chest loosens. I sink to the ground with closed eyes, still tuned in to our synchronized breaths.
“Let’s go back to my apartment,” Laine suggests.
I nod, even though nothing sounds better than going to my own room right now. There, I could lock myself in solitude while I pretend I can resolve my thoughts on my own, even when I know that’s not the case. But Laine will want to keep an eye on me to be sure I’m okay, and I’m too tired to argue over which apartment to go to.
We take longer than usual to get through the city and back to Laine’s place. She trips a few times on the trek and runs into three people and two light posts, all because her eyes are trained dutifully on me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper to Laine as soon as we’re inside her front door. She ignores me, sitting me down on the edge of her unmade bed and returning in a flash with a glass of cold water.
“Drink,” she orders.
Once I’ve emptied the glass in a three gulps, Laine pushes me back against the pillows, letting my head rest on top of them. For a while, we stay silent. I assume Laine is listening in on my breathing, making sure it stays steady. My relief at her comfort outweighs any embarrassment I might feel .
“Can we talk about what happened?” Laine finally asks once my pulse returns to normal. There’s still a hint of red across her lips, even after visits to three restaurants and a bar.
“Do we have to?”
Her fingers brush against my knee before she retreats to a barstool, giving me space. “I think so. When you’re ready.”
I groan, taking in a heavy inhale. “My little brother is getting married.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in six years. I haven’t even been home in six years. And now he wants me to show up there and be his best man.”
“This could be a great opportunity to fix things between you two,” Laine says, eyes sparkling at the thought.
“Did I mention he’s marrying my ex-girlfriend? That I dated for five years?”
Laine makes a face that I’ve never seen from her—or anyone, really. It’s the expression someone might make if they saw a monkey flying an airplane: utterly bewildered, slightly fearful, yet strangely entertained.
“Did I also mention that—six years ago—my father told me I wasn’t welcome back home?”
“Your life is absolutely Shakespearean,” Laine says, letting out a dry, disbelieving laugh. Then, it bubbles into one that’s livelier. She claps both hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “I’m so sorry. It isn’t funny. It’s just…this sounds like a story I’d hear on Dr. Phil .”
“I can’t go, right?” I ask.
“It’s still your brother’s wedding,” Laine says. “Isn’t that pretty important?”
Laine doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. And she has made it clear before that she’s convinced that all siblings should act like they’re in an episode of The Brady Bunch .
I glare at the ceiling. “In theory, yes, it’s important. But in theory, it might also kill me.”
“Sutton, I know your family is…complicated.”
“Clearly.”
“But I still think you should go.”
“And not only face my estranged father and brother, but also show up with nothing to show for the past six years. A mountain of student debt, no career to speak of, no place of my own, certainly no wedding of my own coming up.” I sink into the tangle of blankets, wishing they would swallow me up. “My dad always said coming to New York would be a waste of my time. I wanted to prove him wrong. And to show up to their wedding, single? As if I’m still hung up on her all these years later?”
After a few minutes of tense silence and lip-biting, Laine perks up and taps her fingers on the countertop. “I may not be able to get rid of your student debt, or hire you as an editor, or buy you an apartment. But I can help you with that last problem.”
I scoff. “You know someone who wants to go out with a guy with depression and panic attacks and who spends money he doesn’t have on books?”
“I know a girl who owes you a big favor, who wouldn’t be half-bad company on a cross-country flight, and who happens to be enthralled by the idea of seeing you in full cowboy form.”
For a few seconds, I try to imagine Laine in West River, Montana. Would she still wear her trademark red lipstick? Would she still insist on accessorizing every outfit beyond belief? Would she like lying in the tall grass of the ranch like I used to as a boy?
“So, what do you say?” Laine asks. She moves to the edge of the bed, grabbing me by my elbow. It occurs to me we’ve touched more today than we have in the past three months combined.
“I don’t know…”
“Oh, come on! We’re already best friends, right? How hard could it be to pretend that goes beyond platonic?”
Not hard at all , I think to myself as I study Laine’s face for the thousandth time.
“I’m sorry, am I not a suitable enough fake girlfriend for you?” Laine jokes.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Laine.”
“It’ll be fuuuuun ,” she insists. “Wedding aside, you can teach me how to ride a horse. We can go fishing. I can finally stargaze for the first time in my life. It sounds amazing. Besides, you can’t run away from your past forever. You need to reconcile with it.”
“But I have work.”
“Screw work!”
Screw work—for today, at least.
It’s hard to focus on the tasks when the imminent marriage of your brother and ex is looming overhead. Laine spent all of Sunday trying to convince me to go back to Montana for the wedding. And now that I’m alone in my gray cubicle, my mind goes back to Laine’s many, many arguments in favor of a trip to Montana.
She’s right, I know. I need to cross the chasm between my family and me. The prospect of returning home is both daunting and enticing. Part of me wants to face my past, confront my father, and mend broken relationships. Mom and Frankie have taken the occasional trip to the city to see me. Once a week, they each call me to catch up. Still, I miss Mom’s warm hugs and the sound of Frankie's echoing laughter.
However, another part of me is in shambles at the thought of pretending Laine and I are a couple. Sure, I’ve imagined how it would feel to walk hand in hand with her, to curl her hair around my fingers, to touch those always-red lips. But I hadn’t imagined it as part of a ruse.
When the clock hits five, I check my phone. As usual, there’s a text from Laine. This time, she sent a picture of worn, red cowgirl boots.
Found these thrifting. It’s kismet.
Another text is waiting for me. This one from Frankie.
Wells is convinced he can wear his wranglers to his wedding. See why I need you here on my side?
I groan, stretching my back as I stand, as if I can physically push the stress right out of my body. Right as I’m about to shut my laptop, a new email pings in my inbox. Never one to leave an email unread, I slump back down in my chair, and I swear I can actually feel the stress piling back on me. When I read the subject line, though, I stand back up from shock, practically jumping into the air.
Job Offer: Assistant Editor at Imagineer Books.
There’s a big difference between an editor’s assistant and an assistant editor, and for a few minutes, I’m sure my eyes are betraying me. I read through the email four times over. Suddenly, I feel like someone has thrown me a lifeline amidst a sea of uncertainty.