17. Sutton
17
SUTTON
“She’s pretty great, huh?” Mom asks, joining me in the barn. We look out the open sliding door to see Laine. She’s been busy all day, first interviewing the cook and then taking pictures for her Wonderings articles.
“Yeah,” I exhale, looking back at Duke’s horse before Laine can distract me from the question.
Mom wipes some dirt off her overalls. Even though she’s been working in the garden all afternoon, she still did her makeup and hair. Despite growing up on a ranch, she’s always loved to dress up.
“Your dad’s coming home tonight,” Mom reminds me, trying to act nonchalant about it.
“Yeah. Too bad, though. I was just starting to feel comfortable here,” I say, not entirely sarcastically.
“Your father has been going through a lot lately,” Mom says, her voice as gentle as ever. “Give him some grace.”
“And what exactly is he going through that could justify the way he acted our first night here? Did some cattle get out of the fence? Did a cowboy show up to work drunk? Let me guess, property taxes are rising again. You’d think by now he’d be better at handling the stress of the ranch.”
The corners of Mom’s mouth pinch. “Even with your father’s attitude, is it good to be home?” She steps closer, eyes brimming with hope.
I smile, determined to get the smile back on her face. “It is good to be back. Don’t get me wrong, there’s so much about New York that I love. But I didn’t realize how much I missed it here. I forgot all the things that make Silver Ridge special.”
“And it’s even more special when you have someone to share it with,” Mom says, smiling mostly to herself.
“I had someone I shared it with before,” I remind her, chuckling. “Cass practically lived here during high school.”
“But that was different, don’t you think? Different from you and Laine?” Mom asks, her brows furrowing. “You didn’t…truly love her, did you?”
“I think I did,” I murmur. Mom’s shoulders droop, like she’s a deflated balloon. “It was different, though. Cass and I knew each other our entire lives. We were in the same classes, the same friend group. It was easy to be with her. Like, I loved her by default. But I never felt…”—I pause, searching for the right way to express it—“ enlivened with her. It wasn’t soul deep. I loved her as a best friend, as someone who was always there with me and for me.” At the sight of Mom’s furrowed brows, I add, “But don’t worry, I don’t have any lingering feelings for her—whatsoever.”
“That’s good. I was a touch worried about the—Oh, how did Cassidy put it…the ‘ embrace .’” Mom has to fight off a laugh.
“It was nothing. I thought it would be weird not to hug her. But when I did, she started crying, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad. Wells just got the wrong idea.”
“I see,” Mom hums. “You might want to make the terms of the ‘embrace’ clear to Laine, though. She seemed a little uneasy about it.”
“I doubt that very much,” I say, rolling my eyes. Of course, only I would know why Mom’s assumption is ridiculous.
“Honest!” She laughs. “She obviously didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I could see a touch of jealousy. It was sweet, really.”
Jealous . I roll the word around in my mind, imagining, even if only for a moment, what it would be like if Mom was right.
“You know,” she says, “I was going to make a run to Missoula to get some things for the wedding. Maybe you and Laine should go. You’ve hardly had time, just the two of you, since you got here.”
I smile just thinking about it. Not only because it means I can see less of my father when he gets home tonight, but also because, though I’ve seen Laine every day since we arrived, I somehow still miss her.
When Laine finishes taking pictures, her hair is ruffled, and her lipstick is almost completely worn off. Those deep brown eyes are at half-mast. But when she sees me on the porch, she perks up, hurrying her sluggish steps, trying to hide her exhaustion.
“How did the pictures go?”
“Don’t ask,” she says, laughing weakly. “They’re probably terrible. It’s been too long since I’ve been behind the camera.”
“I’m sure they’re good. You’re a jack of all trades,” I assure her.
“And master of none,” she mumbles. I can tell that she’s trying to be lighthearted, but there’s a bitter sincerity to her words.
Out of fake-dating habit, I wrap an arm around her shoulder, even though nobody is around to see it. “Don’t worry, I have the perfect distraction for you. I’ve been wanting to show my gratitude to you for helping me out these two weeks. Do you remember on graduation night when we went to a different restaurant for every course of the meal?”
Her entire face lights up. “How could I forget? It was paradise.”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up too much, because there’s no way we can replicate that in West River.”
Laine’s face falls. “Why not?”
“Because there aren’t enough restaurants for each course.”
“Ah, fair point.”
“ But I have the next best thing. One word. Two syllables. Costco .”
“You’re kidding!” Laine slides out from under my arm so she can face me head-on. She looks like I just told her we are going to Paris, not to a grocery superstore.
I couldn’t fight off my smile if I tried. Laine is so radiant when she’s happy. It’s like the air around her actually starts to shimmer.
“My mom needs some things for the wedding, and I remember you once said that you dream of going to Costco just to visit all the sample tables. Want to join me?”
“Yes! But let me go get changed. Costco is far too romantic of a date for this outfit.” She gestures at her dusty bootcut jeans and the pearl snap shirt she borrowed from Frankie.
Laine must be really looking forward to our night of sampling, because she’s downstairs in less than thirty minutes. I’ve never known her to take less than twice that to get ready. While she still has her red cowgirl boots on, she paired them with a short dress with applique flowers all over it. She’s like a garden come to life.
“Am I overdressed?” she asks as we’re walking to my truck.
I didn’t know that word was in Laine’s dictionary. “For Costco? No such thing.” It’s a lie, of course. She did overdress—most people there will be in jeans like the ones she just changed out of—but she looks too damn cute to say any different.
I open the passenger door for Laine and offer her my hand, helping lift her into the car.
During the entire hour-and-a-half drive to Missoula, Laine and I can hardly get a breath in because we’re in constant conversation. Frankie and Mom have fallen in love with her. As a result, they’ve been practically attached to Laine’s hip.
It’s been too long since we got to be alone together.
“How have you felt, being back at the ranch?” Laine asks, right as Costco comes into view.
“Surprisingly good. I missed the mountains. I missed my family—or, most of them. I missed the town. And even though I was sick-to-my-stomach anxious about coming home, it’s gone relatively smooth.”
“Aside from your dad being a jerk and your brother nearly punching you?” Laine jokes.
I scoff. “Right. And about that…you know nothing happened between me and Cass, right? It really was just a hug.”
“An awkwardly long hug,” Laine adds, half-smiling, half-grimacing.
I find a parking space and put the truck in park. It groans for a moment before quieting back down. “Cassidy started crying when we hugged,” I explain. “And I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by pulling away too fast. ”
“Okay,” Laine says, her voice almost a whisper.
“I just—I felt like you should know that. I want to be clear that I have no feelings left for Cassidy whatsoever .”
“Okay,” she repeats, more convinced this time. She nods to herself. Then, switching gears, she says, “Come on, cowboy. We’ve got samples to test.”
We spend almost two hours in Costco, going through each aisle and filling our carts with things from Mom’s list. Laine looks around the warehouse the way tourists look around in Times Square.
A few times, when I’m not pushing the cart, I find myself reaching out for Laine’s hand. It’s almost scary how natural it feels.
I do my best to focus on the tasks at hand and not on how beautiful Laine looks in that dress. The easiest way to do that is to be on the constant search for the sample tables. By the end of the shopping trip, we’ve tried every one. Even if a sample is mediocre, if it’s cold when it’s supposed to be warm (or warm when it’s supposed to be cold), we rave about it. The novelty doesn’t wear off, and the only reason we leave the store is because they’re closing.
“This has been the best fake date ever,” Laine says, holding her classic Costco food court hot dog with the same loving carefulness one would hold a new baby. “That place was like another planet.”
“I’m glad it lived up to your expectations.”
Laine’s eyes land on something on the bulletin board on the outside wall of Costco. She walks up to it, mouth agape, like she’s in a trance. “Oh. My. Goodness. We have to go.” I follow her gaze to a flyer for a bar where, according to the ad, there’s line dancing and live music every night. “Please, can we go?” Laine asks, rocking onto her tiptoes.
I smirk. “You want to go to a place called The Cowboy Cantina on a Tuesday night? ”
“Desperately.”
While I’m not as spontaneous as Laine, I’d do anything to make her happy. “Sure. Let’s try it. But I’ll warn you, there’s probably nothing ‘cantina’ about it.” I load the food into the coolers in the truck bed. “The nearest place to us to get authentic Mexican food is Albuquerque.”
The bar is on the outskirts of town. Its flickering neon sign, though probably once vibrant, now emits a feeble glow that barely manages to pierce through the darkness of the night. The building itself seems to sag under the weight of time, its wooden front weathered and worn. The dirt parking lot has no curbs, so cars and trucks are packed in haphazardly.
Even from outside, we hear the sound of boots on the dance floor and the twang of a country band. Once we go through the creaky front door, we’re greeted by a cloud of stale air and cigarette smoke. The scent mingles with the unmistakable odor of years' worth of spilled beer.
Despite all of that, and despite it being a Tuesday night, the atmosphere is electric, alive with the energy of the crowd. Couples and friends bounce around the dance floor in amateur synchronicity. Though the band playing on the makeshift stage won’t be winning a Grammy anytime soon, nobody seems to mind. Or maybe they’re just too drunk to notice.
“Wow,” Laine breathes, her eyes sparkling.
I grin at her reaction. “Quite the experience, right?”
“Very Footloose .”
The song drifts to an end, and people line back up for the next one. Without a second thought, Laine pulls me into the center of the floor, radiating with excitement.
As the music starts, so do the dancers. Thankfully, the footwork is simple.
“It’s a good thing I wore my cowgirl boots!” Laine shouts over the music. Focusing on the woman in front of her, she copies her steps. It only takes a minute for Laine to get the hang of it. And then every movement of hers is fluid.
“And it’s a good thing I was a dance major for a semester!” she shouts.
Laine is dressed nicer than anyone else here, but even in the classic Montanan uniform of blue jeans and a simple shirt, she would stand out—her smile, her arms, the way her head throws back with laughs of delight. The dress just adds to it, hugging her curves, accentuating her swinging hips.
At one point, I grab Laine’s arm and swing her into me, and she squeals. “Okay, Kevin Bacon!”
As the music continues to pulse through the dimly lit space, I find myself caught up in the energy. Laine's laughter is infectious, and I get swept away by her excitement. She moves with a surprising grace, her steps becoming more confident with each beat of the music. I’m not surprised, though. Laine approaches everything in life with an open-hearted enthusiasm. Her confidence and authenticity are like a magnetic force, drawing me in and making me feel alive in a way I haven’t in a long time.
The song reaches its peak, and the dance soon ends. Laine's laughter mixes with the cheers of the crowd. She turns toward me, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed from the exhilaration of the dance and the stuffy heat of the room. The next song starts, one much slower, and couples turn to face each other, still out of breath as they sway.
Laine and I gravitate together, and her hand slips into mine. I pull her close, resting my other hand on the small of her back. The warmth of her body feels like it might set my skin on fire. I look down into her eyes, and for a moment, the world around us seems to fade away. Maybe the other couples can catch a breath during the slow dance, but my pulse is racing faster than ever .
As the song continues, Laine rests her head against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. Our bodies move as one, and I can’t help but be aware of every point of contact between us—the press of her hand against my chest, the brush of her cheek against my shoulder. The curves and angles of our bodies blend together.
And I know with certainty: I’m done for.
I knew I had feelings for Laine—feelings I struggled to ignore—while I was her TA. Feelings I have since tried to forget, thanks to her “no dating” rule. But in this moment, with the world focused right here on this sticky dance floor, I know I can’t hide my feelings any longer.
I open my mouth, unsure of exactly how I should confess what I feel, but still knowing I need to. But I’m only able to murmur Laine’s name when a disruption breaks through the anxious pounding between my ears.
“Hey, gorgeous, mind if I cut in?” a voice slurs, the words dripping with insincerity.
I look over to see a guy around our age leering at Laine. Instinctively, I tighten my grip around her.
Laine smiles at him politely but shakes her head. “No, thanks.”
The guy's smile falters, eyes narrowing. “Come on, sweetheart, don't be like that.”
“She said no.” My voice comes out harsh and rough, like a true Davis man.
His demeanor shifts from annoyance to aggression in an instant. He reaches out for Laine's wrist. I push his arm away and step in front of Laine.
“Hey, back off,” I demand, trying to keep my control.
The guy's face turns red. I can tell by the smell of his breath that cheap whiskey—and lots of it—fuels his aggression. “And who the hell are you ?”
“Her boyfriend. ”
He grumbles something under his breath and reaches around me to touch Laine again, this time his hand grasping at her hip.
Without fully realizing what I’m doing, I’m shoving the guy’s chest so hard he trips over his boots, landing hard on his back. “Don’t touch her.”
He’s so drunk he struggles to stand. I take the opportunity to guide Laine toward the door. “Let’s go,” I murmur. “Are you—”
Before I can finish my question, I’m being knocked against the wall from behind. I spin around just in time for the guy’s fist to connect with my jaw. Sharp pain webs across my face like a thousand bee stings. My head strikes back against the door frame, but I barely register it. I nudge Laine to the side before balling up my fist, ready to fight back.
But before I can retaliate, Laine puts her arm on mine, and it's as if someone doused me with water, my concern for her overwhelming my anger. “He’s not worth it,” she urges, her eyes wide.
Laine laces her fingers with mine and pulls me out into the parking lot.
“I’m so sorry,” I say once we’re in the truck, the doors locked. My adrenaline is wearing off quickly. “Are you okay, Laine?”
She lets out a quick laugh. “Me? You’re the one who got Million Dollar Baby ’d in there.”
“You’re okay?”
Laine reaches over and holds my face between her hands. “I’m fine . I promise.”
“I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You were having fun. I should have just pushed him outside, not let him ruin the night.”
Her hands move down, lingering on my neck, and she scoffs. “You’re not the one who grabbed my ass.” I make a face of disgust at the thought of what happened, and she adds in a playful tone, “Not that you grabbing my ass would ruin anything.”
“Hilarious,” I say, deadpan, feeling warm all over again.
Laine drops her hands into her lap, and I immediately miss the feeling of them against my skin. “A Costco trip and a bar brawl,” she muses. “I’m checking off bucket list items left and right. But we should probably get out of here—getting our tires slashed is not on that list.”
As we pull out of the parking lot, I rub the back of my head to ease the throb of pain. My palm is wet with something hot and wet. Shit. Not wanting to make the night any worse, I keep my hand over the blood, pressing into the cut from the doorframe in an attempt to both slow and hide the bleeding. Apparently, it doesn’t work, because it takes only a few moments for Laine to notice the red seeping between my fingers.
“Sutton!”
“I’m fine,” I insist, smiling at her and praying that will dismiss her worries.
It doesn’t.
“Pull over!”
At the sight of the worry in her eyes, I do as I’m told, the truck rumbling against the gravel as we slow to a stop.
Laine pulls my hand away and directs my head so she can examine the cut. She rakes through my curls. “It’s a pretty deep gash,” she whispers. “We should go clean you up.”
“Let’s just get home.” She’s about to object, so I add, “I promise I’ll let you doctor me up there. For now, there might be napkins in the jockey box.”
She finds only one napkin, and my blood quickly saturates it after only a minute against my head. Fearing I’ll stain the truck’s headrest, I yank my shirt over my head, balling it up before handing it to Laine. She tries to protest, but I insist. “It’s an old shirt. Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re sure you’re alright?” Laine asks, scooting to the middle of the bench seat so she can keep my shirt planted firmly against the back of my head. She uses just enough pressure to keep the mess contained and bleeding under control without hurting me. Her other hand presses against my bare chest, as if she’s afraid I’ll fall into pieces if she doesn’t physically hold me together.
She spends the entire drive like that, her eyes never leaving me aside from the few times her gaze flicks down to my torso. Each time, her face looks a shade pinker.
“You look beautiful,” I whisper as we near the end of our drive.
Laine scoffs. “You must have hit your head harder than I realized.”