10. Laine
10
LAINE
I probably should have focused on doing research for my articles this week. Instead, I spent most of it listening to The Chicks, thrifting for the trip, and watching an obscene number of John Wayne movies. Unsurprisingly, there was no direct flight from New York City to Missoula, Montana, the nearest airport to West River. Instead, we flew from New York to Seattle and finally backtracked to Montana.
I’ve never been out of the New York area, so I don’t truly know what to expect from Montana. As we descend below the clouds, I understand why Sutton insisted I take the window seat. I’m glued to the glass, mesmerized by the stunning landscape unfolding beneath us. The transition from the concrete jungle of New York City to the vast expanse of Montana is almost surreal. Rolling hills, open fields, a winding river, and rugged, evergreen mountains stretch out as far as I can see, painting an impossibly beautiful scene.
“Wow,” I breathe, unable to keep my smile off my face. “I can’t believe this is real. It looks like a screensaver.”
It’s been a long travel day—we got to the airport at six this morning, and now it would be six in the evening in New York—but I feel more and more energized as our plane flies lower and lower.
“It’s quite the change from the city, huh?” Sutton asks, leaning over me a bit to peer out the window with me. As soon as he does, though, he retreats and closes his eyes, pushing his hands through his curls.
“You all right?” I ask, squeezing his hand.
“Thank you for being here,” he mutters. “I don’t know how I would have done this alone.”
The mountains grow closer, the very tips of their peaks dusted with snow even in early summer. The rich, earthy colors of the landscape create a tapestry that's both soothing and awe-inspiring to me.
Sutton, apparently, doesn’t feel the same. His grip on my hand tightens as the plane descends farther, and I can see a conflict playing out in his eyes. I lean closer to him, my voice gentle. “Still okay?”
He hesitates for a moment before meeting my gaze. “Yeah, it's just…a lot of memories coming back.”
I nod in understanding, remembering that this trip isn’t about me having a vacation or Sutton showing his hometown off. It's about him confronting his past, his family, and everything that comes with that.
“It’s okay, you know,” I breathe, tracing circles on the back of his hand. “You don't have to carry everything on your own. I'm here to support you, no matter what. That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
The plane rattles a bit as we land, and Sutton exhales sharply.
“We're here,” I say, offering him a supportive smile. “A new chapter begins.”
“A new chapter,” he repeats, forcing a smile.
Sutton must be able to sense my excitement over being somewhere new, and it even seems to rub off on him a bit. When we walk outside the small, five-gate airport, we’re hit by the crisp air. It carries the scent of evergreens and wet earth. I take a deep breath, trying to imprint it into my memory. I didn’t imagine a place could smell so…clean. It’s only vaguely similar to the pine candles I’ve bought before.
We walk through the parking lot, stopping at an old, sky-blue Chevy truck.
“Sweet ride,” I say, chuckling at the size of it. It’s boxy and bulky and wouldn’t stand a chance in bumper-to-bumper New York traffic.
“It was my pride and joy when I bought it in high school,” Sutton says, smiling at the memory. “Frankie dropped it off for us.”
After loading our bags into the back, Sutton opens the passenger door, which is already unlocked, for me. When he gets into the driver’s seat, he flips the visor down. The truck’s key falls into his lap.
“And with a hiding place like that, it’s a wonder that this thing didn’t get stolen,” I say sarcastically.
“I’m shocked Frankie didn’t just leave the keys in the ignition. So paranoid,” he jokes.
Our drive to West River is over an hour long, and I stare out the windows for almost all of it, often with my mouth agape. Before us, the Montana landscape unfolds, each passing mile revealing an additional layer of its natural beauty. The road winds through valleys and trees, passing by rustic barns, quaint towns, and lots of cattle. The charm of the scenery is unlike anything I've ever experienced—far better than any Hallmark movie I’ve seen—and I find myself utterly captivated by it all. Sutton, meanwhile, spends most of the drive white-knuckling the steering wheel, his shoulders held high and tense.
Distraction time .
“So,” I say, “what can I expect from you as my fake boyfriend?”
The corner of Sutton’s mouth lifts. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what would it look like to date Sutton Davis? Are you the kind of boyfriend to hold hands in public? Are you going to start calling me something cheesy like honeypot ? Are you going to finish my—”
“Sentences,” he interjects. Sutton’s smile grows across his cheeks, showing off his dimples. “I’m not sure what it would be like to date me. It’s been a while since I dated,” Sutton says.
“How long?”
Sutton winces, and I know the answer before he says anything.
“You’re not telling me it’s been…”
“Six years,” he confirms. “Cassidy was my last relationship—my last serious one, at least.”
“Well,” I say, trying to act unfazed by that news, “you’ll just have to follow my lead, then.”
“As if you have so much experience in relationships,” Sutton says, grinning. I feign offense, and a laugh rumbles in Sutton’s chest. “Laine, you’re the one who said relationships ‘just aren’t for me right now.’”
Sutton turns off the highway, and we come upon a small and spread-out town nestled against the backdrop of the downright majestic mountains. As we drive through the outskirts, a mix of excitement and nervousness dances in my chest. Here, Sutton’s memories and emotions are deeply ingrained. I'm about to step into his world.
Quaint storefronts line West River’s main street, each with its own unique character. There's a rustic beauty to the architecture and hand-painted signs outside of every store. There’s only one lane of traffic in either direction. It only takes us a few minutes to get through the “city” of West River. From what I can see, there’s only one stoplight, one grocery store, and not a single chain restaurant.
We cross a small bridge over the fast-moving river and drive higher and deeper into the mountains. The road turns from asphalt to gravel, and the truck bobs over the washboards. Even with the windows up, the smell of the forest fills the cab of the truck, thanks to the trees that hug either side of the road.
After twenty minutes on the gravel, we arrive at a massive arch with stone and log pillars and a black iron gate between them. Sutton slows to a stop, waits a moment, and the gate opens slowly. As we pass under it, I peer up, marveling at the sight of the grand entrance, and see an S with a curved line above and below it.
Silver Ridge Ranch.
The trees widen, allowing a valley to come into view. Though it feels like we’ve already climbed high into the mountains, there is still a backdrop of peaks beyond the ranch, their frosty tips piercing the pale-blue sky that seems to go out forever and forever.
“This is it,” Sutton says, his eyes locked on the buildings ahead. The main building on one side, like the archway, consists mainly of stone and logs. Across the impossibly green yard, there are four white barns, each one facing in toward a central point. I crane my neck to view out every window of the truck and spot three more cabins on the outskirts of the private valley.
I laugh is disbelief. “This is…gargantuan.”
“So open, so big…but so suffocating,” Sutton saying, a grim smile curving his mouth. “One hundred and fifty thousand acres in all.”
“It’s cute that you say ‘acres’ as if I have any sort of gauge for what that means. ”
“To put it in perspective, New York City is just under two hundred thousand,” Sutton says.
I whistle. “Do I need a passport to get in here? Do you have your own governing body? A militia?”
As we get closer to the main home, more details come into view. Warm light pours out from the windows. A wraparound porch borders the front and sides, with lights strung between its columns. Flowerbeds in front of the house bloom in brilliant shades of pink, orange, and purple. A woman about my age with long, curly blonde hair sits on the front step. When she hears the crunch of gravel under our tires, she snaps her head up.
I can hear her yell through the closed windows of the truck. “Sutton!” She runs toward us, her smile so big it must be hurting her cheeks. She hits Sutton’s driver’s side window with her palms. As soon as Sutton cuts the engine, she opens his door, dragging him outside and into a hug.
“Frankie,” Sutton says in an exhale, both of them squeezing their arms around each other. They stand like that for a long time, but I don’t dare disrupt their moment. I’ve never, ever seen Sutton be so openly affectionate, and it makes me feel like my chest got pumped with helium.
I’m not sure how much time passes before the two separate, but just as quickly as she found Sutton, Frankie brings her gaze to me. She has the same brown eyes as Sutton, with that same bright sparkle in them. I like her already.
“Holy hell, she’s real,” Frankie whispers, a bubbly laugh slipping out.
“Am I?” I look through the windshield for dramatic effect. “Because it feels like I’m in a dream right now. This place is breathtaking.”
Frankie dashes to my side of the truck, opening the door for me. She lunges forward but pulls back at the last second. “Uh, sorry, can I hug you? ”
A single nod is all it takes before I’m being yanked from my seat. I’m five-foot-four, a perfectly average height, but Frankie must be half-a-foot taller—more, probably. Beyond that, she’s a little curvy and very strong. When she releases me, I feel like I need to catch my breath. Sutton is close behind her, watching us with knit brows.
With Frankie at arm’s length, I see that, beyond those brown eyes and golden tan skin, she and Sutton don’t look similar in the least. While he’s all sharp angles and squared features, Frankie has full cheeks and a heart-shaped face. She must not be wearing much makeup, because the freckles across her nose are in full view. She looks like an angel, or maybe the love child of Florence Pugh and Jennifer Lawrence. So, basically an angel.
“I’m so excited to finally meet you,” Frankie says.
“Finally?” I repeat. It’s only been a week since Sutton told his family about our so-called relationship.
“Yes, finally. For months I’ve been—”
Sutton groans. “Very smooth, Frank—”
“What?” Frankie asks, laughing again. “If she’s dating you now, it’s clear your months of pining have paid off.”
My heart drops to my stomach, and my breath catches in my throat.
I’m not sure what my face does, but I must have enough of an alarming expression for Frankie to feel the need to clarify. “Not in a creepy way or anything!” she says, pulling her hands back to wave them in the air. “At first, it was ‘This girl paid three hundred dollars to go on a date with me.’ But later, it turned into—”
“Where is everyone?” Sutton interjects, a scarlet wash across his cheeks.
“Mom is inside, making your favorite pie. Wells is out with the cattle. Dad had some sort of appointment in the city. ”
The news of the delayed reunion with his father causes Sutton’s shoulders to loosen a bit. They relax even more when Frankie adds, “And Cassidy already had plans for tonight, so you’ll have to meet her later, Laine.”
I try to look disappointed.
“Ready to meet my mom?” Sutton asks me.
Frankie nudges me. “Ready to meet that pie she’s baking?”
I grab my backpack, but Sutton takes it off my shoulder, slinging it over his own. Then, he grabs our two suitcases from the bed of the truck, lifting them by their top handles. Has he always been so strong? I had to pay an overweight fee for my bag, but Sutton carries it like it’s lighter than a single Trader Joe’s grocery bag.
“So, you pined after me?” I whisper to Sutton, sneaking him a devilish smirk.
“It was all a part of selling the story,” he says, his gaze straight ahead.
“Which reminds me,” I say, linking my elbow around his arm.
He looks down at me, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
I shrug. “It’s all a part of selling the story.”