11. Sutton
11
SUTTON
The ranch feels smaller than I remember. I haven’t gotten taller in the past six years. Even so, the house seems less towering, the land less expansive, the air easier to breathe. Maybe I’ve matured. Maybe counseling is paying off. Or maybe with Laine by my side, everything feels easier to stomach.
Even if Frankie humiliates me in front of her.
Inside the house, hardly anything has changed. The couch has new throw pillows. I think the lamp on the side table is an addition from the past six years. But otherwise, it’s the same. Two massive elk mounts sit on either side of the two-story fireplace. Four flower arrangements from Mom’s garden are scattered around. The same painting as always sits on the mantel, showing two riders on horseback in front of a wall of aspen trees. It looks so similar to the view off the back deck, I could be convinced the artist used Silver Ridge Ranch as a reference.
It even smells the same, like wooden log walls and the unmistakable scent of rhubarb pie wafting in from the kitchen. We follow the latter like hound dogs hot on a trail .
Mom’s back is to us as she stares out the window over the sink. She still has the same shoulder-length honey blonde hair curled in perfect ringlets.
I look down at Laine, and her eyes are already on me, her gaze soft. She squeezes my hand, and the thumping in my chest takes on a new meaning.
Clearing my throat, I call out, “Mom?”
Every time I’ve seen my mom since Duke’s funeral, I’ve worried that she might harbor some anger toward me, like Dad or Wells do. But as always, when she sees me, there’s nothing but a joyous smile. Just as quickly as Frankie had, Mom closes the distance between us, colliding into my chest and tightening her arms around my back. Laine drops my arm so I can return the embrace.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. I can hear the broken shards in her voice. Guilt swells in me.
I pull back and wrap an arm around Laine, trying to make it look natural and hoping I can hide how the simple movement makes me more anxious than I was for my interview with Imagineer Books. “Mom, this is Laine Rodriguez. Laine, Mom.”
“It’s great to meet you, Mrs. Davis,” she says, smiling her perfect Laine smile.
“Magnolia,” Mom says, extending a hand out to Laine. When Laine reaches out, Mom doesn’t shake her hand. She just holds it. “Or you can call me Maggie.” Mom pauses, looking over every inch of Laine’s face. “You are every bit as beautiful as I imagined.” Her eyes flick up to Laine’s head, her lips curling into a humored grin. “And I like your hats.”
Laine laughs dryly, taking off the two brimmed hats she’s been wearing all day. “Oh, right. I didn’t want to jam them into my suitcase.”
“Brilliant idea,” Mom says, her gaze dancing between Laine and me. “You two look… ”
Phony?
“Worn out from traveling?” Laine finishes.
Mom shakes her head, and I spot a few silver hairs woven into the blonde. When did she get those? “You two look perfect together.” Her eyes glisten with unshed, hopeful tears. The room seems to hold its breath as Mom's sentiment hangs in the air.
Laine steps closer to me, wrapping both arms around one of my biceps and leaning her head down onto my shoulder. Selling the story . “Well,” she hums, “Sutton always looks perfect. I guess I’m just an added bonus.”
Heat courses through my veins at the whisper of Laine’s breaths on my arm. Her soft laughter, the warmth of her touch, the scent of her hair—it's a potent combination that makes it challenging to focus. My brain knows it’s a part of the farce, but my body doesn’t seem to get that memo.