23. Sutton
Sutton
Why do all bars smell the same? It doesn’t matter if you’re in the backwoods of Tennessee, the beaches of Florida, or a small town like ours. Bars all have the same scent. Fried food, old pine cleaner, and whatever cheap cologne the pool regulars bathe in.
Everyone is already in our typical booth, drinks in hand. Greer waves me over. My stomach drops at her very large, very all-knowing grin.
“You’re late,” she says, even though I’m not.
“Sorry, Mom,” I tease. “I had to change.”
“Uh-huh.” She slides the communal bowl of mixed nuts toward me, eyes taking in the details of my deep blue sweater, one Hunter bought for me. The one I found hung in his closet near his button-downs.
“This?” I gesture to my sweater. “I’ve had it.” I busy myself, pretending to look for a walnut because who seriously eats the nuts from these bowls that have had a million grubby hands on them?
“Sure.” Greer arches a brow so slow it makes my stomach flip. “And the hair? That’s new too.”
My hair halos my face, one side pinned back, the rest of my curls flowing freely around me.
“I’m experimenting with my style.” I try not to smile, try not to give any indication that she’s a very astute best friend, but it’s impossible.
“Something new, huh? I bet a certain cowboy loves it this way.” She winks at me.
I beam back at her. There’s something about being here tonight that makes me not want to hide the emotions fluttering throughout my body.
Grace arrives with two club sodas, cheeks flushed like she jogged from the parking lot. “Where’s your husband?”
I choke on my drink. “He’s not my husband.”
“He will be soon enough,” she says plainly.
Greer points at her. “I like where your head’s at.”
“Oh my god,” I groan, trying and failing to sound annoyed.
Greer leans her elbows on the table. “You’re thinking about the wedding right now, aren’t you?”
I stare at the condensation slipping down my glass. “I am not,” I lie.
“Oh, please,” Grace rolls her eyes. “Don’t even try to pretend nothing’s changed and that you two aren’t halfway down the aisle already.”
“I’m not pretending.” I tighten my lips, trying not to smile. Of course, I’ve thought about marrying Hunter over a million times. I have vivid memories of planning the whole event down to every detail when I was younger. But we’re too new. At least this version of us is.
“But?” Grace prompts.
I swallow. “Talking like that? Thinking like that? Feels too soon.”
“Gee,” Greer says, “I seem to remember someone telling me not too long ago that timelines are merely interesting. That you can’t control when love will find you. That it’ll be, wait, what was it?” She taps her finger against her lips. “That’s right . . . good for me.”
“Did I say that?” I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip. “I guess it feels . . . dangerous to even think about let alone talk about getting married at this point.”
Greer’s face softens. Grace stops fidgeting with her straw.
“Dangerous?” Grace echoes.
I don’t really want to explain all this again, but I forget sometimes Grace isn’t as embedded in the Wildflowers.
I press my lips together before answering. “If I admit how good this feels, how right this feels, I’ll jinx it. Or give Life something to rip away.”
Greer places a hand over mine. “Sutton . . .”
“I know,” I whisper, shifting in my seat. “I’m not supposed to think like that. But every time I get something good, something falls apart. And I—”
A triumphant “Booyah!” from the pool table cracks the tension, and we laugh at the sudden reminder that we’re having this conversation in the middle of a bar.
Greer squeezes my hand. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“I know,” she says simply.
“And,” Grace adds, “he seems to be meeting you halfway. That’s clear as day.”
I glance toward the door as Hunter steps in, scanning the crowd, followed by the rest of the guys.
He traded his Stetson for a ball cap, and his flannel jacket is damp from the mist outside.
His eyes find mine, and a warmth blooms in my chest. That man in a cowboy hat is one thing, but when he’s this more casual version of himself? Something inside me melts.
The bar noise fades a little. Greer nudges me under the table. “Here comes the bride,” she says in singsong.
I couldn’t hold my belly laugh even if I tried.
Hunter weaves confidently between tables and patrons. When he reaches me, his hand slides around the back of my neck, thumb brushing the dip in my collarbone. My whole body melts with one simple touch.
“Hey, baby girl,” he murmurs softly in my ear.
That small, stubborn, scared knot in my heart loosens.
As we settle at the table, Hunter leans slightly toward Adam and Vinnie, talking quietly about work. I catch only snippets. It’s clearly important enough to break our “no shop talk” rule we have when we’re out together.
“. . . talked to Bill Daley.”
“. . . Logan . . . possible leads on the drug crew . . .”
My stomach tightens as worry pulses in my stomach. I watch Hunter calmly. It’s hard to forget, even here when he’s smiling and teasing, he’s still the man who steps into danger for a living.
“Earth to Sutton,” Greer whispers, nudging my hand. “You’re spacing out.”
I force a smile. “Just thinking.”
Grace leans in. “How’s the remodel at Hunter’s house going?”
“We’ve only got a few minor projects left that have taken longer than expected. Should be wrapped by Thanksgiving,” I say. “Well, except the backyard. Hunter says, and I quote, ‘Leave it to me.’”
“Someone’s got a surprise up his sleeve,” Greer says.
“I hope he’s done with it by the time we have the open house. That’d be embarrassing for me to show off my first project and not have it complete, you know?”
We startle when our purses buzz like a swarm of bees. Greer snatches her phone from her purse, and we lean in to read her message.
Navy: I can’t make trivia tonight. Rowan’s not feeling good, so I’d feel like a horrible mother leaving him with a sitter.
Greer: Poor Row. You two need anything?
Navy: A bucket and mop and about 911 air fresheners.
“Let her know Adam and I will be headed home soon,” Grace says from where she’s leaning over Greer’s shoulder, looking at Greer’s phone. “We’ll bring some stuff over.”
“Wait, you guys are leaving?” Greer asks. “You just got here.”
Now that I take a good look at Grace, her complexion looks rather pale, like maybe she’s about to join Rowan in a battle for the winner of Pukefest.
“Grace, you okay?” I ask. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
“It’s nothing,” she replies. “Been feeling a little run-down.”
Greer messages Navy back.
Greer: Adam and Grace will be over soon. Love you.
There’s no reply from Navy.
“Okay,” Grace says. “We haven’t talked much lately, so tell me all the things, Sutton. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
Hands full would be the understatement of the year.
Thinking about everything I’m juggling makes my heart beat quickly. I place my palm over the middle of my chest. Even without trying, every worry about the remodel, Hunter’s case, the party, and my regular work tangles with that little drop of fear that one thing could decimate it all.
Hunter’s hand is warm as he grasps my thigh and squeezes in that subtle I’ve got you way.
I place my hand over his and squeeze back.
A warmth radiates from him, quieting the restless storm brewing inside me.
Not because I think he can fix all my problems. Not because he promises nothing bad will happen.
But because I know he’ll be right next to me through whatever comes our way.
I slowly exhale, interlacing our fingers, and turn my focus back to my girlfriends. His thumb rubs soothing circles on top of my hand.
For the second time tonight, that little thread of worry constantly wrapped around my heart loosens more, sending a wave of calm through my whole body.
Two days later, I unlock Hunter’s front door, still feeling lighter than I probably should.
Maybe it’s the murmured baby girl against my skin last night.
Maybe it’s the way Hunter held me afterward, whispering I love you when he thought I’d fallen asleep.
Maybe it’s the way he left a cup of coffee on the bedside table before he left for work.
Maybe it’s the way he holds me together.
Whatever it is, I don’t mind it one bit.
But the moment I step inside the foyer, something feels off.
It’s cooler than usual, air stale from us not sleeping here the last two nights.
We’d had too much fun at trivia night, and it was easier to catch an Uber to my mom’s house.
A haze and faint smell of sawdust hangs in the hallway, mixing with the crisp bite of morning air drifting in from the cracked kitchen window.
The kitchen walls are halfway done being painted a soft gray. And the color on the walls looks much different from the gray in the can. That’ll be another thing on my list of things to fix.
Then, I hear it.
A soft drip echoes somewhere inside the house.
Then another.
And another.
“Oh, hell no,” I say.
The sound leads me to the corner of the kitchen. There, under the ceiling’s seam, is a shallow puddle spreading across the hardwood floors. Water plinks steadily into it from above, each drop splashing onto nearby paint cans. My heart sinks as I spot the paint rollers, soaked with moisture.
Because of course, when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, it will eventually.
My footsteps echo in the hollow house as I dash into the laundry room and gather old truck-washing towels from the cabinet. I toss them onto the puddle.
I curse at the water spreading on the ceiling, knowing exactly which room the leak is coming from.
As soon as I open the guest bedroom door, dread fills my stomach.
The ceiling is completely soaked through and some of the drywall has fallen down.
There must be a crack in the roof that all the rainstorms from the last few days took advantage of.
When I step into the room, the squelch of wet carpet fills my ears.
“Shit.”