12. Sutton
12
SUTTON
“I think that went well, don’t you?” Laine asks, balancing on the windowsill of the guest bedroom window so she can look out at the view yet again. The orange sunset bounces off her cheeks, making her olive skin glow. She looks back at me, and I avert my eyes to my suitcase, open on the mattress. I refocus on my unpacking efforts and pray she didn’t catch me staring.
Laine walks toward me and plops down on the bed, right beside my suitcase. I haven’t seen her reapply any makeup all day, but her lips are still a perfect, subtle shade of red. “We have one problem, though,” she says, biting back a smile.
“That problem being my brother is about to marry my ex-girlfriend?”
“Okay, two problems.”
As awkward as the situation is, I can’t help but laugh. “What’s the second one?” I ask.
“You’re not selling the whole ‘dating’ thing.” Laine crosses her arms. “We’re supposed to be in a fresh relationship, the honeymoon phase. ”
I try to ignore the sudden galloping in my chest. “What do you have in mind?”
“You know, hand-holding, snuggling, heart-eyes, forehead kisses…” Laine trails off and moves her gaze back out the window, her cheeks tinted pink. “I mean, we should make it convincing, right? We need to act like a couple that's head over heels for each other.”
Shouldn’t be too hard.
Before I can respond, she's on her feet and heading for the bathroom. "I'm just going to freshen up a bit before dinner," she says, her voice holding a hint of nerves. Maybe she’s creeped out about what Frankie called “months of pining.”
The guest room has an attached bathroom, and I hear the water turn on almost immediately. While Laine showers, I change out of my travel clothes and into a new outfit, trying to focus on anything aside from the feeling of Laine’s arm around mine. It’s a fruitless effort.
Well, at least it’s better than thinking about the rest of the mess in my life.
I glance around the room, taking it in. Thankfully, we didn’t get assigned to my childhood bedroom, which has apparently become a place for random storage boxes and Christmas decorations. In here, it looks like the rest of the Davis house, with a western-print rug and cowboy-centric art along the walls. It doesn’t carry the same pressured feeling my old room would. I read the spines on the bookcase in the corner and pick out the first familiar title, Peter Pan , sinking into the leather reading chair.
Just like I when I was young, I get so wrapped up in the story I lose track of time until Laine is standing directly in front of me, hands on her hips.
As usual, she dressed unapologetically in her own unique style. This time, she’s in a mid-calf dress with thin straps at the top. It hugs the curves of her chest and torso before fanning out into a full skirt with vibrant splashes of color.
She quirks an eyebrow at me, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Are you planning to read through the whole bookshelf, or are you going to join me for dinner?”
I close the book with a soft thud and meet her gaze, feeling the corners of my mouth twitching involuntarily. “Maybe not the whole bookshelf.”
Laine holds a hand out to me, pulling me to stand, but keeps her fingers intertwined with mine even after I’m up. “Honeymoon phase, remember?” she says, combing through her bangs one last time with her free hand. “How do I look?”
“I’m worried Wells is going to try to steal yet another girlfriend from me.”
I lead Laine down the stairs and to the dining room. Three of my family members are already at the reclaimed wood table. Mom. Frankie. Wells. Laine tightens her grip on my hand, trying to dissolve my tension before it even has a chance to bubble up.
“Wells, right?” Laine asks, her voice even more bubbly than usual. She reaches her free hand out to Wells, who takes it and shakes it once. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Ditto,” Wells says, an edge of harsh sarcasm in his voice. He doesn’t look at me.
My younger brother looks more or less like he always has—pale-blue eyes that are as cold as ice and dark, wavy hair. But instead of the cocky grin I grew up seeing from him, Wells now touts a sharp, narrowed stare and a flexed jaw. All signs of his boyishness disappeared over the years we spent apart.
Mom gestures for us to sit, but before I do, I glance at the empty seat at the end of the table opposite her. Just as I’m about to ask where my father is, the front door opens behind us. Heavy, tired steps approach .
In the six years it’s been since I’ve seen him, my father seems to have aged twenty. Sunspots dot along the leathery surface of his skin. Deep wrinkles emphasize the downturn of his mouth, as if pointing his frown out like a blinking neon sign.
After two deep breaths, I hold my hand out. My father takes it hesitantly. Neither of us shakes. Instead, we just look at one another, hands clasped together. His silver-speckled eyebrows furrow low over his watercolor eyes—those eyes that reflect years of disappointment and disapproval.
We exchange quick not-so-pleasantries, and I introduce him to Laine.
“Food’s getting cold,” Mom says, her voice shaky.
After pulling Laine’s chair out for her, I take the last seat left—the one between her and my father, the one directly across from Wells, who still won’t look me in the eye. Laine reaches over to grab my hand, and I wonder if it’s more so to keep up with appearances or to reassure me under my father’s glare.
“How was your appointment, sweetie?” Mom asks my father from across the table, a halfhearted smile tipping her mouth.
He shoots her a look I’ve received countless times, Wells even more, but Mom ? He usually looks at her like she’s holding up the sun in the sky just for him. Now, there’s a warning in his eyes. His voice is even colder than his expression as he gives his monosyllabic answer. “Fine.”
Laine squeezes my hand tighter.
Mom clears her throat and smiles at Laine. Despite her grin, I can see the hurt dampening the edges of it. “I can’t let this moment go by without saying how grateful I am that you’re both here,” she says to Laine and me. “For years I’ve been dreaming of having all of my kids together and…” Mom pauses to sniffle. I can practically see Duke sitting in Laine’s ch air. “I’m so happy to have Sutton back. And Laine, we feel lucky to have you in our home.”
Laine smiles up at me, leaning over to rest her head against my shoulder. “I think I’m the lucky one,” she says with all the magnetism in the world. “Thank you for having me.”
Mom encourages everyone to dig in, and Laine takes a bit of everything. Mom and Frankie fill her in on all the dishes. Laine’s eyes widen when she hears “elk steak” and “wild huckleberry glazed trout.” Mom and Frankie are clearly going all-out to make a good impression on Laine, and it’s working.
“Laine, Sutton told me you're a writer,” Mom says, taking it upon herself to slide a huge portion of fish on Laine’s plate.
“Freelance journalist—at least for now,” Laine says. “I’m not sure if it’ll be the right fit, but it’ll be good to try. I’m not like Sutton, who has always known exactly what he wants.” She pokes me in the ribs playfully. “And he’s about to get it, too!”
Everyone’s eyes slide to me, and Laine’s smile slowly fades when she sees their varied expressions.
“You got the job?” Frankie asks, bridled excitement in her voice. “You’re going to be an editor?”
“Assistant editor,” I say. “At Imagineer Books.”
Dad mutters under his breath. I only catch a single, insincere word: perfect . His eyes stay trained on his plate, but I can see his brow furrow and the grip on his fork tighten.
Laine, eager to direct the conversation away from a sore subject, asks Frankie about what it’s like to own the local radio station. Then Laine asks Mom about her time as a dance teacher. Mom and Frankie ask Laine about her degree and her new freelancing gig with Wonderings. The three women hardly stop talking and seem more and more enamored with each other with every passing minute. But I know that—at least in part—their constant talk is also meant to cover gaps of awkward silences.
By the time the meal is halfway over, it’s clear that Hank and Wells aren’t planning on breaking their apparent vow of silence. Not that my father has ever been particularly good at carrying on a conversation. But he and Wells don’t know how hard it is to resist Laine’s charm. She angles toward them, scooting closer to me so she can again lay her hand on my thigh. I jump a bit from her touch, as if electrified.
“Wells,” Laine says, “I bet you’re feeling very excited about the wedding.”
My brother looks at me for the first time tonight—the first time in six years. Flatly, he says, “Very excited.”
Laine laughs. “You certainly sound it,” she says sarcastically.
Mom, always the peacemaker, chimes in. “We’re all very…excited.”
I catch Frankie making a face that looks like the bite of trout she got was rotten.
The tension in the air is so thick I could pierce it with one of those elk antlers on the wall. Laine, ever determined, presses on. “What’s been the best part about planning the wedding?”
Wells’ expression turns into a wicked grin, and he flicks his eyes at me for a second before answering. “Probably planning the wedding night.”
Mom chokes on her water, Frankie lets out a barely audible, “Ew,” and I really try to not imagine… that .
“Hank,” Laine says, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “your ranch is beautiful. I’m doing some freelance writing and would love to feature Silver Ridge Ranch in my articles. I could interview the ranch hands this week—maybe even you, if you have some free time. ”
“A rancher never has free time,” Hank says, and his words slur together a bit, likely the effects of yet another long day.
“Dad,” I grumble.
“Son,” he replies, the deep wrinkles in his face contorting with a hard stare.
Dinner continues in awkward near-silence, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the occasional polite comment from Laine or Mom. Here and there, Laine attempts to draw Hank and Wells out, her determination unyielding. But it's like trying to push against a brick wall with a feather—they’re impenetrable.
We finish the meal with Mom’s fresh rhubarb pie. As my father passes the pan to me, it drops from his grasp, tipping upside down over the tablecloth with a loud clang before splattering a crimson stain all over the rug under the table. Mom and Frankie sit completely frozen while a wide-eyed Wells stands from his chair, laying a hand on our father’s back.
“Dad, are you alright?” Wells asks, his voice more frantic than it needs to be. Maybe he’s overreacting to make me feel guilty.
Hank smacks a hand against the table and kicks his chair back. He pushes Wells just enough to move him out of his way as he walks out of the room.
Instinctively, I look to Laine, embarrassment, shame, and anger roiling through my stomach all at once. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m following my father.
“We need to talk,” I call out to Hank, who is already at the front door.
“Sutton,” Mom pleads, “leave it alone for tonight.”
I look at her, a silent apology in my eyes. “I can’t.”
Hank stops, slowly turning his head toward me. As I get closer, his mouth twists, like he can’t decide whether the thought of me confronting him is worth laughing or fighting over.
“You can’t treat Laine like that,” I say as I get closer, straightening my spine. I’ve been taller than my father by a couple of inches since high school, and I might have another inch on him now that his body seems to sag a bit, his spine curving down slightly at the top. “You can’t pretend she doesn’t exist. You’re mad at me. Don’t take that out on Laine.”
“What do you expect, son?” Hank says.
“I expect you to be civil.” Clenching my jaw, I feel my anxiety prickling in my chest. “I wouldn’t be here if Laine hadn’t encouraged it.”
“Well then, I certainly don’t want to reward her encouragement by being civil.”
He leaves without another word.