13. Laine
13
LAINE
As the echoes of Hank and Sutton reach us, the tension in the dining room is palpable, crawling over my skin and scratching at it like rough wool. The sound of the door closing behind Hank might as well be a thunderclap in a library. Immediately, Wells follows his dad’s trail, shooting a scowl at Sutton when he passes. Magnolia jumps up from her seat, her stance as stiff and straight as a flagpole. Frankie reacts in the opposite manner, sinking down in her chair and pinching the bridge of her nose. I, meanwhile, try to keep my Mona Lisa smile in place. Though, I feel more like a Picasso right about now.
Magnolia clears her throat, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She sends me an unconvincing smile. “Laine, darling, I’m sorry. Hank has been…going through a lot. I should go check on him,” she mutters, all but sprinting out of the room with enough nervous energy to power all of West River. “He’ll clean this mess up, don’t worry about it.” By her tone, I know she means only the literal mess, not the metaphorical one .
Frankie stands next. “I’m going to…” she says, her voice trailing.
“Yeah, I should head to bed too,” I reply.
Frankie coughs out a dry laugh and pushes her wild mane of blonde curls behind her shoulders. “Oh, I’m not going to bed. I’m going to go kick Wells’ ass.”
I grin. “Can I watch?”
“Trust me,” Frankie says over her shoulder as she walks out, “it won’t be pretty.”
Sutton returns to the dining room soon after, looking more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him. His hair stands at wild angles, presumably from raking his hands through his curls in frustration. The classic button-down he’s wearing is coming untucked. His eyes are so narrowed I can hardly see any of their whites.
“Your dad is such a sweetie,” I joke, trying to crack Sutton’s tension. “A real softy.”
He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his dimples, and collapses into the chair next to me. “Oh yeah, we’re like two peas in a pod.”
I’m shocked that I have to hold myself back from the impulse to reach for Sutton’s hand. That movement came so naturally, but it’s not as if his family is here to see it now.
“Do you think we're doing a convincing job?” I whisper, eager to get Sutton’s mind off his father. I lean close enough to him I can smell his cologne, ginger and a hint of musky floral. Maybe he intentionally strays from woody colognes or anything reminiscent of the ranch. “I think we need to up the ante,” I continue. “We’re hardly acting any different from our usual.”
Sutton’s lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Or maybe my family is actually vacating the premises one by one simply because they can't handle our dazzling chemistry.”
“That could be it. ”
“Yes. Not the fact that my father told me I was never welcome back.”
“And certainly not because there’s anything awkward about your brother and your ex getting married.”
“At least she and I didn’t date long,” Sutton quips, dry humor coloring his voice.
“Yeah, five years is nothing.” We’re quiet for a moment, and my eyes drop to the rhubarb stain across the tablecloth and floor. “I didn’t really want pie, anyway.”
Sutton lets out a half-bitter laugh. Then his smile fades, and I can see his thoughts spinning behind those vacant eyes.
“Hey,” I nudge his knee with mine, “let’s go hide out from everyone.”
He nods, and I pull him to stand, wrapping an arm around his torso as we shuffle back upstairs.
“I’m sorry you wasted that dress on a night like this,” Sutton says once we’re back in the guest room. He eyes me up and down, and my cheeks warm. He’s never looked at me like this before—so unabashedly. I tell myself his eyes are lingering because he’s just too exhausted physically move them any quicker.
“I’m sorry about my family. The good news is my dad will be gone for the next two days. He apparently has some business out of town. Meaning, we only have one jerk to worry about for a bit.”
“I’ve dealt with my fair share of difficult personalities. I think I can handle it.”
Sutton gives me a sidelong glance. I can see that he’s trying to act playful, even when he feels anything but that. “Is that your subtle way of saying I'm a difficult personality?”
“Oh, Sutton Davis, you're not difficult. You're…an acquired taste. Once you let someone in, you’re wonderful.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “An acquired taste, huh? ”
I nod, leaning against the dresser. “Definitely. But you grow on people, like…a good mold.”
Sutton lays his hand over his heart mockingly. “Comparing me to mold? Laine, you really know how to flatter a guy.”
“Oh, don't sell yourself short. You're the finest mold I've ever encountered. Like a nice gorgonzola.”
He laughs wholeheartedly, the tension of the night fading away into the background, even if only for a moment. Good to have you back, dimples. I’m relieved—and proud—that even amid chaos and family drama, I can still make Sutton smile.
“Do you mind if I turn in early? Being the disappointment of the family really takes it out of me.” Sutton offers a halfhearted smile.
I wave a “go ahead,” but as the en suite bathroom door clicks shut behind Sutton, I'm left alone in the guest room, the remnants of our banter still hanging in the air. It's then that I remember the bed dominating the room's space. My heartbeat quickens, sending a twist of nerves through me.
When I suggested we should pretend to be a couple, I somehow forgot this detail that goes along with keeping up that charade around his family. My mind lurches between the sound of Hank’s icy voice and the feeling of Sutton’s leg under my palm.
I walk to the edge of the bed, tracing my fingers along the line of a pillow. Are we going to share a bed? I mean, it's not like we're strangers. Sutton is my best friend. He’s even fallen asleep at my apartment before. Still, this feels…different.
My heart races, and I scold myself for letting my thoughts spiral out of control.
Friend. Friend. Friend.
I sit down on the bed for just a split second before jolting back up automatically. It's just a bed, and we're both adults. But it doesn’t feel like just a bed right now, not with that look he was giving me just minutes ago, and not with Frankie’s jab about months of pining still ringing in my ears.
Pacing the room, my anxiety gets the best of me. The idea of sharing a bed with Sutton suddenly feels much more complicated than it did yesterday. This isn't just a sleepover between friends; it's a delicate masquerade that I can’t get caught up in. Glancing at the bed again, a soft blush creeps over my face. What am I so worried about? It's Sutton, after all. He's practically family.
When Sutton reenters the room, I find it difficult to look directly at him, but from my peripheral vision I can see he’s in simple sweats and a white tee.
I laugh nervously, unsure of what to say. A rare occurrence. Then, I mumble out something about needing to get ready myself and retreat to the bathroom without making eye contact, pressing my forehead against the door after I close it behind me.
Already overwhelmed by my errant mind, I dig my headphones out of my bag and choose the first Spotify playlist I can find. It’s one Dad shared with me, the soundtrack to a musical he dragged me to three times last year. It’s the perfect noise to distract myself with.
I take my time getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth with care, washing my face twice over, and wasting ten minutes deciding what to wear. Shorts are out of the question. Even my matching pajama sets suddenly seem like they’re trying too hard.
I pick the best thing I can that says, “We’re definitely just friends, and I definitely haven’t spent the last twenty minutes wondering if you’re the kind of person who spoons in his sleep.” Once I’m in my striped pajama pants, the ones with the nail polish stain on the knee, and my three-times-too-big shirt with the line “Rut the Ruck” printed on it, right under a picture of Scooby-Doo, I pop my retainer in .
There. I’m like the walking antithesis of sex appeal. With a strange comfort in that realization, I reenter the bedroom. But right as I do, I trip over something and fall to my knees.
Sutton.
He looks up at me from his pillow on the floor. “Hi,” he murmurs.
“What are you doing on the ground?”
Sutton blinks slowly, his eyes half-lidded. “Is this not the bed?” he asks sarcastically.
“You don't have to do that, you know,” I say. “It's not like we're strangers.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like we’re actually dating either.”
My face heats, and I cross my arms defensively. “I just meant…you know…for appearances. In case your mom or someone comes in.”
“So, you’re not wanting to try method acting?” He smiles, giving up on trying to keep his eyes open.
“Don’t flatter yourself. Come on.” I shove Sutton’s shoulder, but he hardly moves. Has he always been so solid?
Sutton chuckles and rolls to his side, almost knocking me over in the process. He grunts as he stands, shuffling to the bed with heavy feet.
“How are you already half-asleep?” I ask.
“I haven’t been sleeping well since I found out about the engagement,” he says, practically gagging on the last word. “My counselor suggested I try to take a sleeping pill at night until I can get my anxiety under control.”
I guess that’s one way for us to avoid the pre-sleep awkwardness.
Sutton climbs onto the bed and settles onto his side, turned away from the center of the bed, his eyes drooping. After turning the lights off, I tiptoe to my side of the bed. I stay as far on my edge of the mattress as I can, keeping a respectable distance between us .
For a few moments, we lie there in a tense quiet. The rustling of the sheets is the only sound as we shift to find comfortable positions. Eventually, Sutton ends up on his side, his body angled toward me.
His breathing evens out, showing that he's finally drifting off to a full sleep. I, however, am anything but tired. My thoughts rage in my mind like a storm. I turn onto my side to study Sutton. In this space of vulnerability, he looks peaceful, his features relaxed. Curls hang down on his forehead now that they’re no longer styled away from his face. His lips pout out a bit, and there’s no crease between his eyebrows. It’s a pleasant change from his usual stoic, guarded expression.
As the minutes tick by, it feels like a weight presses against my chest.
Why do I feel so unsettled?
The heat builds under the covers, creeping all over my body and up my neck. I kick my feet out of the quilt, then my legs, then my whole body. I pull the bottom of my pants up to my knees. But it’s no use.
I imagine it would take a full brass band marching through the room to wake Sutton right now. Regardless, I slowly slip out from the sheets and tiptoe across the floor as quietly as I can, wincing at every creak of the floorboards.
Once I have the hallway door open, I stand in the open frame for a minute, listening for any sounds, particularly an argument between Hank and Magnolia or an ass-kicking from Frankie to Wells. But it’s silent.
I pad across the old wood floors, marveling again at the rustic grandeur of the house as I descend the stairs. I avoid looking at the elk mounts on the wall, half afraid the animals will come alive like they’re in some cheesy horror movie. Their massive antlers cast creeping moonlit shadows across the floor. Still paranoid I’ll wake someone up, I keep the lights off and rummage through the kitchen cabinets, looking for a cup, settling for a Mason jar.
“You couldn’t sleep either?”
I nearly drop the jar at the sound of Frankie’s voice. I turn around to find her leaning against the kitchen doorway, a playful grin on her face.
“Nice shirt,” she snorts. “Are you wanting water? Or something stronger?”
I laugh shakily, still on edge. “I’ve made enough of a fool of myself tonight without the help of alcohol.”
Frankie smiles gently and takes the jar from me, filling it at the sink. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. That pie—that stupid pie…my dad’s attitude. It wasn’t about you.”
“Really?” I laugh, unconvinced.
“Well, it wasn’t entirely about you, at least,” Frankie jokes. She holds my water back out for me, and I stare at it, unblinking.
“Is that…safe?” I ask, taking the jar as if it’s filled with some kind of chemical warfare. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone drink from the tap in the city.
She rolls her eyes lightheartedly. “Fresh water from the well. Try it.”
I do as I’m told, but nearly spit it back out. “It’s so flavorful .”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she laughs. “That’s what real water tastes like.”
“I apparently don’t have a refined palate. I’m used to the water that’s gone through a dozen rounds of sanitizing and refinement.”
“Brave enough to face Hank Davis, but not brave enough to drink tap water?”
“To be fair, I had a week to prepare to meet your father. I only had about three seconds to prepare to drink well water.”
Frankie’s smile softens. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs after a silent beat. “When Sutton first talked about you, I dreamed about it—about you—becoming something more.”
Guilt punches me in the gut, leaving me breathless.
“After all,” she continues, “you were the first girl Sutton talked about. I’m sure he went on dates in the city, but never long enough to warrant true feelings. Even though he swore he couldn’t date you—being your TA, and all—and then swore that you had a no-dating rule, I still dreamed that somehow you two would make it work in the end. I can’t tell you how amazing it was to see him happy tonight.”
“I don’t know if a dinner complete with a father-son yelling match constitutes a ‘happy’ moment,” I say, trying to move the conversation away from me.
Frankie scoffs. “Family drama aside, I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. You’re perfect.”
I laugh and shoot her a yeah, right look.
Frankie rolls her eyes. “According to Sutton, at least.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. As much as I’m drawn to Frankie, my instincts are begging me to leave before I give our farce away. Our lie doesn’t seem so harmless now. “I should—I should go get some rest.”
I turn to head back upstairs, but Frankie stops me with a hand on my elbow. “Can you do something for me, Laine?” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “Will you… Will you promise you won’t break Sutton’s heart? Even if things don’t work out between you two, just be gentle with him. I don’t think I can bear to see him go through another harsh breakup.” Frankie pauses, exhaling sharply. “Cassidy tore him apart. And I can’t watch that happen again.”
At least I can be honest with this, seeing as how I can’t break something I don’t truly hold.
“I promise.”