29. Laine
29
LAINE
I fall in and out of sleep all night. Each time, I search the sheets beside me. And each time, there’s nothing to find.
When I wake to a hint of pale sunrise seeping through the curtains, the absence of Sutton guts me. Mind racing, I throw myself from the bed and jog downstairs and through the house. There’s no one. No sign of Frankie or Magnolia. No Wells or Hank. And certainly, no Sutton.
My heart pounds in my ears, and I rake through my hair, grabbing fistfuls of it.
He’s probably fine , I tell myself. A much louder thought overtakes it almost immediately. And what if he isn’t?
A singular, soft beat sounds from outside. I rush to the window but see no one. Then again, thud. A long pause. Thud.
Barefoot, I run out the front door, too frantic to close it behind me. My feet pad against the bouncy grass, still wet from morning dew.
Thud . Louder this time.
The day’s early chill bleeds through the weave of Sutton’s sweater hanging around me. Fog hangs around the house, thick and suffocating .
I near the sound, gaining clarity. It’s a ragged crack. A noise I’ve heard only once before.
Sure enough, I round the back corner of the house to find Sutton, axe raised, splitting logs with his back to me. Already, a heap of firewood stands at his feet. Despite the chill, he has no coat on, just a black tee I don’t recognize. It’s too small for him, tight enough to show the ropes of muscle stretching and pulsing as he hammers the axe down, the wood splintering and flying to either side of him.
I watch for a moment, as if the image of him might dissipate right into the fog. Every rhythmic thud of the axe hitting wood eases some of my anxiety until, finally, I can smile.
Laughing from relief, I call his name. He pauses. The axe drops to his side, lifeless. But he doesn’t turn. Unable to stop myself, I approach him from behind and wrap my arms around his torso, burying my face against his solid back. Under my arms, I feel his breaths quicken, and he tenses, creating an invisible wall between us.
Stumbling back a step, I watch Sutton’s shoulders slump. He pushes his hands through his curls and stares up at the sky for a moment.
“Sutton?” I say, like it might break a curse holding him still and quiet. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t turn, so I grab onto his arm, yanking it back so I can swing him around to face me. What I’m met with makes it feel like the morning chill has plummeted straight through my chest. His eyes are flat, somehow grayer than their usual brown. And one of those eyes I can hardly see, thanks to the swelling puffed up around it, marbled blue and purple. The bruise spreads across most of the neighboring cheek. His other eye, though not swollen, is marred by a dark shadow beneath it, the testament to a long, sleepless night. His bottom lip also swells on one side, a red split cutting through it .
I say his name for a third time, whispering in a voice I hardly recognize. Is it even him? I scan his face and body slowly. Cuts and bruises scatter across his tan skin. He looks terrible, battered. Even worse than his black eye is that dead look behind it.
“What happened to you?” I ask through a gasp.
He tightens his mouth, and it exaggerates the swollen side.
“Did you get into an accident?” Reaching up, I gently nudge the unbruised side of his face, tilting it so I can inspect him for more damage. My eyes burn with welling tears, and Sutton’s eyes soften, just for a moment, before he steps back, away from my touch. “What happened?” I repeat, my tone practically begging him for an answer.
Still, nothing.
“Did…did Wells do this to you?”
Sutton looks back at me, his eyes darkening. “I’m fine,” he says, his hoarse voice telling me otherwise.
Desperate to give Sutton any ounce of the comfort and reassurance he constantly gives me, I wrap my arms around him, breathing him in. I hate the way his shirt doesn’t smell like him. It’s yet another thing dividing this Sutton from the one I know. My fingers press into his back, as if I can push life back into him. After too long, he returns the hug. But it’s timid, awkward. Like he’s trying to keep his distance even while I’m nestled right up to his chest.
When I speak, I keep my cheek against him, unwilling to look back up at those strange eyes. “You have to tell me what happened.”
“Laine,” Sutton says, voice catching. “I’m not going back to New York.”