23. Laine
23
LAINE
I’ve never slept so poorly.
I swear Montanan crickets are louder than New York City traffic. Not to mention the constant rustling in the grass outside our tent, probably that garter snake back for revenge. And there’s the owls hooting their never-ending hoots. Of course, there’s also Sutton, dead to the world even as the clear sky lightens and the stars fade against their backdrop.
Instead of sleeping last night, my mind bounced between two very distinct tracks, like a wild game of ping-pong.
The first track—the one I much prefer—was reliving the evening we had. The contrast between the freezing, pure water and Sutton’s warm skin, fighting for territory. The way Sutton murmured my name endlessly, as if he couldn’t believe it was really me he was holding. The way he would periodically lean away from me or lift me up in the moonlight, just to look at me again before diving back into a kiss.
My mind seemed to shut off between the moment Sutton kissed me and the moment he fell asleep. It felt like both a single breath and a lifetime, and it was utterly perfect.
And then he was asleep .
And it was just me, alone with my thoughts.
Which brings me to the second track. The What in the actual hell are you doing? track.
The longer the mental ping-pong goes on, the faster and more erratic it gets.
He’s my best friend.
I can’t deny my feelings.
But I should deny them.
I’ve never felt so at peace as I did last night.
You’re ridiculous.
He’s perfect.
You’ll lose him.
Restless, I shift under the wool blanket draped over Sutton and me. I’m turned away from him, and he instinctively pulls me closer until my back meets his chest. His hand rests on my stomach. I freeze, listening for his breaths. They’re even and shallow, burning hot against the skin of my shoulder.
He’s still asleep.
Enjoy this.
Escape this.
I wiggle free of Sutton’s touch. His hand drops to the ground with a thud. And then, I can actually hear Sutton’s smile. He lets out a sigh, then almost laughs before drawing closer again, kissing the skin of my shoulder gently. It sends electricity through me, and I jolt up, propping myself onto my elbows.
Sutton’s chest is somehow even more impressive in the dawn light. On the night of the date auction—a night that feels a lifetime away—I was shocked to learn that Sutton was a cowboy, at least, had been one. But seeing him like this, it leaves no question. His broad shoulders, the definition in his arms and chest, down to his tapering torso—it all screams manual labor. Even years in the city didn’t strip that from him.
It’s hard to look at Sutton like this—happy, gorgeous, and carefree—and not pick up where we left off last night. Sleep tousled his brown curls into irresistible waves. Not to mention that lazy half smile, those eyes peeking out from heavy lids.
He looks drunk, though I know that can’t be possible. After all, I’m the one who drank half our bottle of wine last night after he fell asleep. And I might have had more had I not spilled the rest all over the dirt.
“Morning,” Sutton says, voice scratchy. He sits up, combing through his hair with his fingers, and groans playfully. “I hate to ask this. Because I already know the answer. But should we head back?”
Still unsure of how I’m feeling, let alone what I should say, I squeeze my mouth shut and offer a single nod.
Sutton leans in, cradling my face as his mouth presses against mine. His hands are massive, but they’re soft against my cheeks, careful with me as if I’ll break. My mouth parts, apparently not quite ready to resist temptation.
I’ve never felt so at peace.
He’s perfect.
Enjoy this.
Sutton pulls back to look at me again, shaking his head in disbelief. He brushes his thumb against my lips, his smile spreading wide.
“What?” I ask, wondering if he’s laughing at something stuck to my teeth or a bit of smeared dirt on my face.
Instead of answering right away, Sutton reaches for his phone, still in the pocket of his folded jeans. He aims it at me, and I cover my face. I’m sure my sporadic ten-minute stretches of sleep didn’t qualify as “beauty rest.” But Sutton guides my hands away. I again find myself copying his expression, which right now, I can only describe as content. Sutton takes a picture and hands the phone over to show me.
I look completely undone. My hair is a nest. I have smudged mascara rubbed below my lashes, yet I can still see the under-eye bags below it.
“Are you making fun of me right now?” I ask, shooting him a playful glare.
Sutton pulls me to his bare chest, his laugh bouncing against me. “Of course not. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you without some red on your lips.” He looks down at me, staring at my mouth. “I’ve never seen such a pretty color,” he whispers, reaching around me to trace a finger across my cupid’s bow.
“So, what do you…like about music?” I ask, pausing to rub my eyes halfway through my question.
Clive, who works at the radio station with Laine, stares at me. The wrinkles webbing across his face deepen as he furrows his brows. “What’s not to like?” he responds, his voice weary.
It’s a fair response to a mediocre question. Frankie told me about Clive. I know she did. His family—or was it his wife’s family—started the station forever ago. She passed away…a while ago?
Ugh.
I did the research beforehand. I brainstormed questions to ask. But the only thing I can think about now is the broad planes of Sutton’s chest and the way he would twist my hair around his fingers.
“Are you okay, darlin’?” Clive asks, a polite smile distorting his wrinkles.
I take another long drink of coffee and nod. Aside from the exhaustion and mental lapse. My notebook has only a few words scribbled in it from the interview. Clive. Likes country music. Seventy-eight years old.
I toss my notebook onto the desk between us. I can’t talk to my parents about this without getting a big “We told you so.” And I can’t talk to Frankie about Sutton without exposing my lies. So, Clive it is. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the desk.
For the first time all morning, Clive looks awake. “Course I have,” he hums, almost to himself. “Beth.” He says her name with reverence, like that one syllable is a prayer.
“What was she like?” I ask, partially because Clive looks eager to share, partially because I’m utterly desperate to hear about a love story gone right.
Clive leans back in his squeaky office chair and closes his eyes, reliving her. “We both grew up in West River. I don’t remember a time before her. Beth had brilliant golden hair, just the color of a quaky’s leaves in October. She was the music lover, really. Her parents started the station when we were in high school, and Beth practically ran the place from day one. And as soon as she let me, I got a job here too, just to be close. Beth would organize the music, and I would do her bidding. If they didn’t need me on the boards, I would wash windows, rake leaves, anything . Eventually, Beth put me on the air, but not without supervision. And thus began the Beth and Clive Show, every weekday.”
“And that was it?” I ask, mesmerized.
Clive snorts. “Just a little show to say ‘good morning’ to West River. During our first one, Beth poked fun at me for never working up the nerve to ask her out. So, she asked me , live on the air . I guess I didn’t get much more courageous over time, though, because four years after that, she proposed during another show. Said I was taking too long.”
“And you said yes ? Right then and there?” My mind stalls at the thought of being put on the spot for a decision like that.
“Oh, hell , of course I said yes,” Clive says, slapping a hand on the desk. “I’d be about as sharp as a marble if I gave up the opportunity to spend my life with Beth.”
I lean forward, looking at Clive like he’s some kind of ancient oracle dressed in a pearl snap. “But how did you know she was the one?”
“Why would you think Sutton isn’t the one?” Clive harrumphs. Then, seeing me open and close my mouth repeatedly as I seek a response, he adds, “You’re looking like a trout outta water, dear.”
It’s hard not to laugh when an old man calls you out.
“Frankie told me she’s never seen Sutton act the way he does with you,” Clive says.
I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah, you two like to gossip?”
“All the time,” he affirms, his voice serious. “Not much else to do in a town like West River. Now, don’t change the subject. “Why don’t you think Sutton is the one?”
Closing my eyes, untangle the webs of worry and excitement that tangled together. “I didn’t want to see Sutton that way. My parents fell in love—or supposedly did—when they were my age. Then, one day, they weren’t anymore. I don’t…I don’t want to fall in love, because I don’t want to fall back out of it.”
A voice behind us startles us both. “Did I just hear the word love ?” I turn to see Frankie striding through the back door, her long blonde hair somehow curlier than usual. She gives me a mischievous grin. “How was last night?”
“You’re just in time for gossip hour,” Clive says, saving me from coming up with an appropriate response.
Frankie pulls up a chair next to me. “What’s the dish?” she asks Clive with a wink .
Clive sucks his teeth. “I’m trying to figure out why Miss Rodriguez here doesn’t think your brother is the one .”
Frankie whips her head around to me, brows crinkled with concern, and I scramble for an explanation.
“I—I just have a hard time believing that two people can really love each other their entire lives, especially if they’re so different. Sutton is all schedules and plans and goals, and I’m…living day by day.”
Clive chimes in. “Love ain't about being the same. It's about complementing each other. Like a good country song, it's all about harmony.” He hums a short melody I’m unfamiliar with. “Laine, differences aren't roadblocks; they're the chorus of your love story.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket with a text. I pull it out, somehow both hoping it’ll be Sutton while also praying it won’t be. Instead, Ophelia Brooks’ name pops up.
How are things going? Can I call you tonight to discuss your drafts?
Any warm, fuzzy feelings I had while talking to Clive and Frankie get sucked out of me like air from a vacuum chamber.