Chapter 9
NINE
SUTTON
If Cooper wasn’t already the bane of my existence, it would be dating.
Truthfully, I don’t understand how to date.
It’s not rocket science, but why does it feel impossible to master? It shouldn’t be this complicated.
I thought being with someone would be natural. And before anyone wants to throw unsolicited advice, yes, I know relationships take work. And yes, I understand I’m in college and have years ahead of me, but it shouldn’t be this strenuous of an effort for attention…or affection.
It should be neck kisses, hands in my hair, and aimless drives. Counting freckles, memorizing your coffee order, and bumping elbows when you brush your teeth. Nothing and everything simultaneously.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m searching or expecting too much. Probably so, if my track record proves anything. Maybe it’s the love that I grew up around, so I know it exists. Maybe it just doesn’t exist for me. Maybe it’s boys because let’s be real, it’s not like they make it any easier.
But apparently Cooper can.
My stomach flips as if it’s a coin. One side embossed with nerves, the other an anticipation sort of excitement like you’re going up the first hill of a rollercoaster.
When I agreed to this, I was wearing blinders. I didn’t think this through and now all of those thoughts and questions compound on me.
You want a relationship, not hook ups. How exactly do you teach someone to date? How is he going to teach me to date?
Cooper doesn’t date. I mean he does date, as in goes on a singular date. Probably a way to wine and dine a girl before sleeping with them. I’ve never seen or heard of him dating.
Not that I care what he does…
I don’t.
“Are you sure about this?” Elliot asks quietly, leaning into me.
I roped her into coming with me tonight. She loves the idea that Cooper is helping me become more confident with dating. “Definitely can’t miss this,” she said while slipping into a pair of skintight jeans.
He’s walking ahead of us. A dark pair of jeans hugging his legs, a gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up, and a backwards Bears hat.
“Nope. But I’m going to do it anyway. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“I like that attitude.” She loops an arm around my shoulders.
We find the rest of our friends standing on the far side of The Tipsy Bear. I knew they’d be here; Cooper mentioned they would be in the car. It is packed, and I’m starting to second-guess myself. When Cooper asked about speed dating, I didn’t expect this.
The entire back half of the bar is roped off. Against the wall is one large booth. A series of two-person tables are sandwiched between chairs. The booth side is filled with some recognizable faces, but a handful I don’t know.
“These seats are taken,” I hear Jaxon’s voice carry across the place.
A couple moves to the next table.
“Yeah, those too. This whole section is, but I can help you find a table somewhere else.” He leaves his post, guiding them to a cluster of tables by the air hockey table.
Cooper says hey to everyone while Elliot and I settle up behind them. Two hands curl around my shoulders, squeezing twice. I glance up and see Jaxon has returned.
“You excited?” He’s beaming, energy bouncing off him.
“Not anymore.”
“Ah, come on, Soot.” Jaxon calls me Soot because my hair reminds him of a fire. “This is going to be great.”
Seeing more people pour into the space, I whirl to face Cooper. “Remind me again why you thought this was a good idea?”
“Your pre-eval had me thinking. You need one too. I need to know what I’m working with.”
“And my terrible encounter at the grocery store wasn’t enough?”
“No. Here, you’ll be able to date multiple guys in the span of—”
“I know what speed dating is,” I growl, annoyance tickling up my spine.
“I’ve already assumed we are going to need to work on being comfortable with small talk.”
“These are my friends.” I gesture to the people in a half circle around us. “I’m comfortable with them.”
“But you don’t know them.” He mimics my awkward hand wave, pointing to frat boys and other guys from Lakeland. He must read my face because he follows up with, “Yes, Dave. Small talk. You are, and I say this kindly, terrible at it. Especially with people you don’t know.”
It’s not that I don’t like small talk in general. Sure, with the male population, it makes me more nervous, and I end up forgetting how to form sentences or how to pronounce basic words, or in the worst cases, start rambling off unnecessary facts. I prefer deeper conversations with meaning.
You can tell me your favorite color, but I also want to know why.
I love getting to know people, remembering tidbits about them, and making them feel seen. The stretch of years in the foster home, all I craved was someone to see me. No one deserves to be invisible.
“Fine.” I blow out a hot breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
The first few rounds are easy. Chase, Dawson, and Jaxon all hyping me up. My fourth speed date is Beck.
“How’d you get roped into this?”
His jaw twitches. “Cooper owes me a night of babysitting.”
I ask him another question, but he doesn’t answer. Sips on his beer and broods. We sit there in silence for the next three minutes.
He flexes his hand against the glass when his phone buzzes, but Beckett doesn’t reach for it. There’s another notification, and this one, I swear, has a rare smile peeking through. Maybe if I close one eye and squint the other, I’d see a true Beckett St. James smile.
“You can answer that,” I encourage.
His light blue eyes snatch on mine. That sliver must have been a figment of my imagination with how tightly his lips are pressed together.
“Or not,” I quickly modify my answer. “Is that a new tattoo?” He pushes up the sleeves of his sweater, and on his forearm is a large drawing. It looks like a child drew it.
Beckett is covered in tattoos. I’ve seen a few, mainly on his arms and the one on his thigh, but apparently his entire torso and back are covered too.
“Madeline drew it.” That’s his little sister.
“That’s sweet. Does she want to be an artist? Next time Meave comes to town, she could—”
I’m interrupted by a loud commotion and laughing coming from the other end of the line of tables. I glance over to find Elliot with her head thrown back, laughing with a student I don’t recognize. Maybe he’s a freshman?
The buzzer goes off. Another hockey player sits across from me—he must be how Cooper found out about this. Apparently, two of them were talking about signing up at practice.
He’s cute. Really cute. Softer features, his face isn’t cut like glass as most of the team. Buzzed blond hair and dark forest green eyes. There’s a smattering of freckles on his left cheek and a birthmark next to his right eye.
“I’m Seb Horváthski,” he introduces himself with a heavy Swedish accent.
I stare at him. All the comfort I had with my friends evaporates. I wouldn’t call this intimidation, but suddenly I don’t know what to say…or even my name.
A strong hand cups my shoulder. Then I feel him kneel beside me, his next exhale tickling the shell of my ear. “This is where you tell him your name,” Cooper whispers, voice dipped in honey. Sweet and coaxing, worming it’s way through me.
“I’m Sutton.”
Seb smiles. It’s crooked and charming.
Cooper is back in my ear, giving me pointers and coaching me through the seven minutes. Our conversation is clunky and awkward, but I don’t think Seb cares.
Three more rounds go this way before Cooper pulls me away from the group. We find a table in the adjacent corner.
Crossing my arms in front of me on the table, I bury my head between them. A groan slips out of me. “Ughh.”
The chair across from me is pulled out and turned around so that the back is pressed against the table. Cooper slides into the seat, resting his crossed arms along the top.
“So—”
“So that was terrible.”
“You had your moments.”
I perk up, barely able to glower at him through my lashes.
“And by moments, you mean when you had to remind me of my name or when someone asked me my favorite color and I told them how white is technically not a color, or went on a rant about how rude it is for people to believe that Cleopatra was Egyptian. She wasn’t, by the way; she was of Macedonian Greek descent. ”
He snickers, tongue running along the bottom of his teeth. “God, you’re something else.” Cooper doesn’t say it negatively, but more…amusing, affectionate.
“You’re going to fix me, right?” I ask into my arms, head buried again.
A hand snakes between my elbows, tapping my chin. I move it up, barely. Cooper takes my chin in his hand, encouraging me to sit up straighter. Taller. His touch transferring confidence into me.
We are interrupted before he can answer.
“That was so much fun! I got four numbers and have a date tomorrow night,” Elliot says, diving into the booth next to me. Cooper drops my chin, and I lean back into the seat just in time for an arm to be thrown over my shoulders.
At least someone got something good out of this.
Tonight cemented what I already knew: I am completely out of my league with Zach. How am I supposed to have full-fledged conversations with him when I can barely even talk to guys who I’m not interested in?
You’d think as someone who is studying the brain, I’d be better at understanding my own. Put these guys in a class or make them my lab partner, and I’d be perfectly fine. Conversation would flow naturally—I’d even initiate it, then never want to stop, finding every detail about them.
I like people. I like talking.
I like to think of myself as an extrovert. Bubbly, outgoing, and overall a confident person.
But put me in a romantic type of scenario, and I become a deer in headlights. A baby deer in general. Barely able to stand on my own, wobbling with each step I attempt.
Why am I like this? I ask myself, tuning out the conversation happening around me. I can feel my heart sigh.
My parents are high school sweethearts. They never split. Not during college or Dad’s first few years in the league while Mom was finishing up school. They’ve overcome everything life has thrown at them—unexpected loss, cross-country moves, infertility.
Never once has their love wavered.
Having a front row seat to it was one of my favorite parts of my childhood.
I don’t remember my real parents, and I’ll never know if they loved each other, or the dynamic of their relationship.
But what I do know, what I do have, is my parents’ love. Mrs. and Mr. Carmichael’s, too.
They make it seem easy. Sure, I know they probably fight—I’ve heard disagreements, watched them make mistakes, they aren’t immune to that. What they do so well is choosing each other every day.
Dad once told Meave and me that love is as much an action as it is a feeling.
Meave at least had found someone long term.
So why is it so hard for me? What am I doing wrong?
I guess that’s what I’m looking for. Someone to choose me every day.
My back falls deeper into the booth behind me, listening to Elliot talk. I’m straddled between my thoughts and the present moment. And if I had a third leg, it would be in the past.
Dawson and Jaxon join us at the table.
Taking the final sip of my drink, I push the glass covered in condensation to the center of the table, excusing myself to the bathroom.
Cooper’s leaning across from the women’s restroom when I exit into the dark hallway. No one else is back here; both bathroom locks say vacant.
I take a small step forward, into the only space between us after he pushed off the wall, only to stumble backward into the door. Cooper catches my head in the cradle of his hand before it hits the door.
Ensuring I’m steady, he pulls his hand away, taking hold of my chin again. The touch more urgent than it was earlier at the table.
A desperation in his flaring pupils. Moonlight pours in from the window in the exit door to the left of me. Paints him golden.
“There is nothing to fix about you because nothing is broken. Just because you aren’t good at this”—he waves his free hand around—“doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.
Please, don’t think there’s something wrong with you.
” The way he says please is as if he’s begging.
I try to fight staring at him, but his touch and words are a lasso around me.
I fail to look anywhere other than in his eyes. “Can you do that for me?”
Clunky and tight, I nod.
“No, Dave. I’m a words kind of guy. I need to hear you.”
“I’ll try.” Yes would have been a lie. So would no.
Those two words must be enough; his mouth softens. “Good girl.” And those two words have they non-existent gap between my thighs closing in. Hopefully, he doesn’t sense the way my legs press together. I’ll add this to list of reasons to hate him.
“Plus, this is practice. All that matters is game time.”
“Practice,” I say, annoyed, and definitely not with any ounce of appreciation. Butterflies in my stomach try to escape at the loose smile painted on him, but I keep the net over them tight.
“Repeat it back to me. What did we just learn?” He’s still holding my chin, his face closer to mine. The buzzing around us irrelevant, we are completely isolated in a bubble.
“Practice makes perfect.”
“And?” His hold, his stare, they burn into me. Tug at something that’s been long forgotten…on purpose.
“I’m not broken.” Cooper doesn’t realize how badly I needed that reminder. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“And you’re wanted.” His thumb swipes up my cheek, pushing a loose curl behind my ear. Eyes drop to my mouth, and for a minute, I think he might do something stupid like kiss me. Stupidly, I’d probably let him. For practice…of course.
Cooper finds my eyes again. He stares at me for a beat. I blink and he’s heading out the back door. I want to chase after him. Say it back. Tell him that he isn’t broken either.