19. Sutton
19
SUTTON
Frankie kept Laine out all night, so I didn’t see her again until waking up the next morning. I open my eyes to find her already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching me with a fond smile. Sleep tousled her hair, and delicate pieces of her bangs fell along her forehead. The soft morning light across her chocolate eyes makes them shine like moonlight on a dark lake.
"Good morning," Laine greets, her voice a gentle melody that matches the tranquility of the moment.
I stretch my arms over my head, trying to shake out the lingering drowsiness. Thankfully, the sight of Laine is a stronger energizer than any cup of coffee could be. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long. The quiet woke me.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s never this quiet in the city,” she justifies.
Noticing my old copy of Peter Pan sitting at Laine’s hip, I ask, “You get some good reading in?”
“I started it, knowing it was one of your childhood favorites. But I got distracted. ”
Laine smiles, and warmth swells in my chest. We’ve been sharing a bed all week, but this is the first time she’s been awake before me. It’s the first time we’ve actually talked like this.
“I don’t have a lot of these moments,” Laine murmurs. “I’m usually so impulsive and fidgety and talkative. It’s nice to just…be still with you. It’s easier to be still when I’m with you.”
I shift onto my side, mirroring Laine's position, and prop my head up with my hand. “Well, then, let’s be still.” I’ve always known Laine to be a whirlwind of energy, constantly go-go-go. But in this quiet, stolen moment, I get to see a new side of her.
“As much as I like the everyday Laine, I like this side of you too,” I confess, my eyes tracing the soft contours of her face.
Laine ducks her head and studies her hands. “Yeah, well, don't get used to it. It doesn’t come around often.”
I chuckle, my heart pounding. "I like all sides of you, Laine. The exuberant one, the introspective one, and everything in between."
Her eyes meet mine again, and I'm struck by the sincerity in her expression. There's a connection between us that has been growing stronger with every passing day—a connection that's as undeniable as it is unspoken. I’ve felt drawn to Laine since the first day I met her, and for once, it feels like she might, just might , feel a sliver of that.
She reaches out and touches my upper lip. “What’s that scar from?”
“Horse-riding accident,” I explain. “When I was twelve.” I reach my own hand out, gracing my fingertip across Laine’s matching scar. Her breath is warm against my palm. “And yours?”
“When I was fifteen, I had a six-week obsession with gymnastics. I thought I would be the next Nastia Liukin.”
“Naturally.”
“I gave it up to try my hand at ceramics.” She reaches out for my hand resting between us, tracing the ridges of my knuckles absentmindedly.
After a stretch of silence, Laine says, “Thank you for bringing me to West River.”
“Have you liked it?”
“More than I even expected. It’s beyond beautiful here. And I’ve loved spending time with your mom and Frankie.”
“How have the articles been coming?”
Laine’s expression drops a bit. “Okay, I think. I love interviewing everyone, seeing into their lives and living a bit of it through their stories. I just hope it all comes together in my writing. Today I’m going to be interviewing your dad. Hopefully that will give me the final few points I need for my article on modern-day cowboys.”
“I’m sure your articles will be great…but are you sure you want to interview Hank? ”
“He’s the lifeblood of the ranch,” Laine says, resting her hand atop mine. “This legacy has gone all the way down the Davis line, starting with his great-grandfather. Your dad is the head-honcho, the big buckaroo, the classic cowboy.”
“Alright, enough alliteration. Just…just don’t let him hurt your feelings.”
Though I was supposed to be spending the day working with Bill and the foals again, I find myself sitting under the open window of the porch, eavesdropping on my father’s interview. I’ve never known him to be intentionally rude to someone he doesn’t know. On the other hand, I also feel like I don’t know my father at all these days. If he does step out of line, like he had at dinner, I want to be there for Laine.
She spends nearly an hour at the start of it asking him softball questions. But slowly, she digs deeper.
“Did you always want to take over the ranch?”
Hank is quiet for a few long seconds. “No.”
Laine stays silent, allowing for him to expound, which he does after a gruff sigh.
My father’s voice is slower than I remember it. Some words blur together, like he has a mouthful of pudding. “I always knew I would take it over, but I didn’t want to.”
I feel a pinch in my chest.
“Why is that?” Laine asks.
“I knew I would take over Silver Ridge because it’s what every eldest son in the Davis family does. And for a long time, I was eager to follow suit.”
“Until?”
“Until I met my Maggie.” My father’s earnest tone takes me off guard. “She grew up on a ranch in Texas. I went to work there the winter I turned nineteen. Even though she swore to herself she wouldn’t end up with a cowboy, we were inevitable. But Magnolia had big dreams of being a dancer. She even had plans to move to New York City. And before long, I had plans to join her. I told her I would give up anything to be with her. Even though I knew deep down, as a Davis, that might not be possible.”
My face contorts. How did I live with my parents for eighteen years, yet they never told me these details? And how is Laine so good at making people feel comfortable enough to share things like this? I try to picture my father in the city, but I come up blank. It’s like trying to imagine a new color.
“What happened?” Laine asks after a pause long enough that it’s clear Hank wouldn’t keep talking without being prodded.
“My father passed away from a heart attack. It was my duty to return home and continue his work.” Hank’s voice is harsher now, and I know the next words that are coming before he says them. “I only wish Sutton had that same loyalty to the family.”
Bitterness coats my mouth. I try to swallow it down.
For a while, neither one speaks, but Laine eventually breaks the silence. “Sutton dreams of being an editor.”
“Crazy dreams are for children,” Hank says gruffly. “It’s time for him to grow up.”
“I know you don’t believe that,” Laine says, and I can perfectly imagine the smile on her face. “Sutton has worked hard to be an editor, and he’s nearly there.”
“He’s not living in New York to chase dreams. He’s in New York to run away from his real life.”
Laine sighs. “He’s been happy being back, you know. It’s like he’s whole, able to be Montana-Sutton and New York-Sutton. Editor and rancher. And I think if you give him the space to do a little of both, you might see more of him around here.”
“And what makes you think I want him here now?”
Laine ignores him, pivoting the conversation. “You said you’ve been running Silver Ridge since you were nineteen. What's that? Fifteen years now?”
My father laughs. Really laughs. I can’t remember the last time I heard it. Not since Duke passed away, surely. “Just about that, yeah,” he says.
“Nineteen years old? You were still a kid. That’s a lot of stress for someone that age.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“And you always expected to take it over. Imagine Sutton, never thinking he would have that responsibility, thinking it would be Duke’s to run. And then, as he’s still mourning the loss of his brother, Sutton is asked to uproot the life he had been working toward. At nineteen years old. Just a kid.”
My father doesn’t speak for a long time, and I wonder if he’s glaring Laine down. He’s not someone who is used to being contradicted. But then he says, his voice softened with a strange amusement, “Is this why you wanted to interview me? So you could defend Sutton?”
“That wasn’t the plan,” Laine says, chuckling. “He’s pretty amazing, though. And I’d hate for you to miss out on enjoying that firsthand.”
“Do you love him?”
Laine lets out a sharp breath. “Sutton?” After a long pause, she relents. “Your son is hard not to love.”
Laine’s words, though obviously embellished for the sake of upholding our fake-dating story, are like a soothing balm to the knot in my chest. From my vantage point under the window, I hang on every word exchanged between my father and Laine. Their conversation shed light on hidden corners of my family's story that I never had the chance to explore.
There's another silence, and I can imagine my father studying Laine, his brows likely furrowed in contemplation. “You're not like most city folk I've met,” he finally says.
“Oh?”
“You've got a way of understanding without judgment, of getting people to open up. And you do it without being nosy. At this point, you might know me better than my own children do.”
“Maybe you should change that,” Laine says.
He harrumphs.
“Maybe you’re like me,” she continues. Hank must make a face, because Laine laughs. “I know, I know, that’s a weird thought. But sometimes I feel like I’m a pointillism painting, those ones made up of thousands of tiny dots. I think those I keep at a safe distance will like me, because they’re seeing a big, overarching picture of who I am. But anyone close to me will see that I’m just a mess when it comes to the details.”
“You're saying I’m a mess?”
“Not any more of a mess than me, if that’s any consolation.”
My dad’s laughter rumbles again.
Two hours later, I walk into the guest room to find Laine applying makeup. Her dress fits snugly at her chest, then flares out in layers at her waist. It’s complete with puffy, see-through sleeves. She looks beautiful.
“Is it too much?” Laine asks, eyeing me in the mirror’s reflection.
I grin. “That depends on what our plans are for tonight.”
Laine turns around to face me, grimacing. “I forgot to tell you? Apparently, being a bridesmaid for Cassidy means going to her bachelorette party tonight in Missoula.” She bites her red bottom lip. “Is that…weird for you, though?”
“My fake girlfriend going to my ex-slash-soon-to-be-sister-in-law’s bachelorette party? What could be weird about that?” My voice is drenched in sarcasm. “Trust me, in a town this small, everyone gets all entangled in each other’s lives. It’s not the first time something like this has happened in West River.”
“I’d rather just stay here and be with you,” Laine murmurs, twisting the rings on her fingers.
“I happen to be going to a bachelor party tonight, so we’re even.”
“Who do you think will have the hotter strippers?” Laine teases.
I laugh, already thinking about the awkward night ahead. If Wells is any bit as much of a wild partier that he was in high school, this could be interesting.
Not wanting to think any more about the things that await me tonight, I ask, “How did the interview with my dad go?”
Laine snorts. “Should I be worried that your thoughts jumped from strippers to your father within two seconds?”
“Har-har,” I deadpan. “Was he nice to you?”
“Surprisingly so. He seemed tired—exhausted, really—but I think it went well.”
“Yeah,” I hum. “Growing up, he would be pretty beat after coming home from work in the evenings. But it seems like it’s worse now.”
“I compared him to a pointillism painting, and he seemed to appreciate it.” Laine says, telling me her analogy. “If you get too close to him, it’s easy to miss the big picture.”
“I think he’s more like the sun,” I say, pushing a stray hair out of Laine’s face. “Warm from afar, but stand too close, and you get burnt.”
Laine thinks on that for a moment before saying with a sideways grin, “Yeah, I think he’d prefer my analogy.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Have you talked to Wells lately?” Laine asks out of the blue.
“No. No, not really,” I mutter.
“Well, I think we need to get better at selling this thing between us when he’s around,” Laine says. “He seemed happiest with you when he thought you were too busy with your new girlfriend to worry about Cassidy.”
“We’ll sell it,” I say, trying to keep from smiling too wide .
A knock sounds at the door, and Frankie peeks her head in. “Time to go, Lainey!”
“Have fun tonight,” Laine says to me. She tiptoes up, dips her head back just enough for me to understand she’s subtly motioning to Frankie, and I meet her in a kiss. “Don’t make out with any strippers,” I murmur, quiet enough so only she can hear.