32. Sutton
32
SUTTON
Everything hurts.
My jaw. My eye. My chest.
It takes me nearly an hour to work up the nerve to face Laine again. Chopping wood did little in the way of releasing the tension I was harboring. Instead, it just left me sore and sweaty. Walking inside, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I almost look as bad as I feel.
“What the hell happened to you?” Frankie almost shouts when she sees me, scrambling up from her seat on the couch. “Is that a black eye?”
“He knows, Frank,” Wells says, coming in from the kitchen. His words are so quick I’m sure he’s been waiting to say them all morning. “Sutton knows.”
Frankie’s brilliant smile drops, and it’s like she sheds a mask. Immediately, her brown eyes— my brown eyes—shine with tears, and her nose wrinkles, wiggling her freckles. She squeezes her eyes shut. “You know about…” She can’t get the words out.
I nod, willing my lungs to fill as normal, despite the pressing weight against them. “Dad told me. ”
Frankie catapults toward me, crashing against my chest in a bear hug. Her ragged sob heaves against me, tears soaking into my shirt. She’s nearly six feet tall, with a strong, built frame, but with her head tucked under my chin, she feels like the young little sister I remember.
“I wanted to tell you. But Dad—Dad didn’t want anyone to.”
“I know,” I hum, rubbing her shoulder.
After a few minutes of crying, Frankie lifts her head just enough to look at Wells. He watches us from the corner of the room. “Get over here, idiot,” she says, trying to laugh as she holds an arm out for him. Wells falters but eventually gives in. As soon as he’s close enough, Frankie grabs him by the torso, sandwiching herself between us.
All our breaths come out uneven, and each of us sheds some tears. Wells tries to hide his by wiping his cheek against Frankie’s blonde curls, but some catch in his beard, glistening. It could be minutes or hours that we stand, clinging to each other. The three remaining Davis siblings.
And it hits me—we never had this when Duke passed. Mom cried constantly that entire week I was home, and probably well beyond that, I’d bet. Frankie cried during the funeral. Wells’ stone-cold demeanor broke only during the burial. Meanwhile, I felt too ashamed to let them see my tears and only let them loose in the sanctuary of my room. It felt like I wasn’t worthy of mourning a brother that I, by my father’s measure, abandoned. And while our crying today may have started as pre-grieving for our father, it is equally our long-overdue grieving for our brother.
“We’re going to get through it,” Wells promises. And that look, that strong determination, makes me almost believe it.
Eventually, we gain some semblance of composure, painting our masks on. Wells squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. Frankie gives a wide smile. And I grow quiet .
“Have you guys seen Laine around?” I ask. “I need to talk to her.” Really, I need to apologize.
“I thought she was with you,” Frankie says.
“You didn’t see her come inside, maybe an hour ago?”
Frankie shakes her head, her mouth straining as she tries to keep from frowning.
“Wells? Anything?”
“No, but I was about to go check on the guys. I can ask if they’ve seen her.”
“I’ll join you outside. Just…just let me check upstairs.” It takes all my will to not sprint to the guest room. The door to it is wide open. Inside, I find the bed hastily made, the sheets untucked and the pillows askew. But what’s more important is what I don’t see.
There’s no sign of Laine. No suitcase. No clothes.
Though I know what I’ll find—or won’t find—I go to the bathroom. The counter is empty, aside from my toiletries all in an organized line on one side. I push my hands through my hair. My eyes fall to the ground where, just barely peeking out from under the vanity, a tube of lipstick must have fallen. I pick it up gingerly.
With Laine’s lipstick gripped in my palm, I follow Wells outside and to the barn. He assigned tasks early this morning, so most of the cowboys are already out. A few, though, are working at the barn and corral today. Each of them looks at me from the corner of their eye before averting their gaze in the opposite direction.
“I’m going to check…” I say, already walking away from Wells and through the barn without finishing my sentence.
No sign of her.
I walk through the bunkhouse. Around the outbuildings. By the sheds.
Nothing.
My knuckles are white around the lipstick tube. With my free hand, I pull my phone out, clicking on Laine’s name from my favorites list. The call rings once. Twice. Voicemail. I try again.
Once. Twice. Voicemail.
My pulse races, and I let a quick breath out, striding to Wells and Bill. The latter frowns at me from under his long, horseshoe-shaped mustache.
“Still nothing?” Wells asks, already knowing the answer.
I move my head in a tight, small shake. “Bill, have you seen Laine around today?”
He clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I—I thought you knew. She said it was your idea.”
A curse slips from my mouth. Then another. And another as I kick a bucket sitting nearby. When I speak again, my voice sounds more like my father’s than my own. “I need you to tell me where she went.”
Bill looks at his feet, his hat obscuring half his face. “She said you wanted her to leave. I didn’t want her to try hitching a ride from some stranger, and she said she was too embarrassed to ask anyone in the family for a ride, so I drove her to the gas station. She took the bus to Missoula.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that my girlfriend was leaving?” My tone comes out harsher than I would like.
“Explain,” Wells prods Bill, an icy edge to his narrowed gaze.
Bill coughs awkwardly. “Laine made it sound like you two…well, like you ended things.”
“That’s not…” My voice fades, and I feel a sharp tingling at my fingertips.
Wells looks at me, dropping his usual bravado as his mouth pops open. “Tell me that isn’t true.”
My sigh cuts through the cool air. “It’s complicated.”
Frankie’s shout sounds from the porch. “Any luck?” she calls, her hands cupped in a makeshift megaphone around her mouth. My parents and Cassidy stand at Frankie’s sides.
A weight drops in my stomach. I walk over to the porch to face my family, wincing at their expressions, a mix of curiosity and concern. Wells is right behind me, and I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, silently demanding an explanation.
“So?” Frankie says, drumming her fingertips on the porch railing.
“I have something to tell you—all of you.”
My parents exchange glances, and Cassidy shoots a questioning look to Wells. I hear his jacket rustle with a shrug.
“We should sit,” I say, mostly to buy myself more time. I reenter the house with methodical steps, planting myself on the bench of the fireplace’s hearth. My family, timid and suspicious, takes their seats on the couches opposite me.
“Is Laine okay?” Mom asks, deep eyes even darker with a shadow of worry. She sweeps her eyes over my ragged face. “Are you okay?”
My father’s expression isn’t much different. “What’s this about, son?”
“I haven’t been honest with you all,” I say.
Frankie scoffs, clinging to any shred of positivity left in her. “Dishonesty must be genetic,” she jokes.
I look down at my hands, at the lipstick tube still in my palm, taking in a slow exhale. “Laine and I weren’t actually dating,” I finally confess. “She was—is—my best friend. And when I told her about the wedding, about how embarrassed I was feeling about not having a date, she offered to act like we were dating.”
My mother's face contorts, and my father's brows furrow. Wells and Cassidy look at me with incredulous stares. Frankie simply blinks, as if she doesn’t speak my language .
Mom, as usual, is the first to break the silence. "Sutton Davis, you did what? "
I push my hair away from my face, avoiding their gazes. “Laine and I weren’t really dating. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you. It got out of hand.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Wells says, each word tight.
My family’s disappointment is palpable.
Hank, looking wearied from our terrible evening, shakes his head an inch to the side. “You shoulda been honest with us. Lying to us, bringing Laine here under that pretense…it’s now how we raised you.”
There's nothing I can say that can excuse what I've done. But as bad as it is to come clean, it would have been worse to continue the lies. I can’t stand having one more ounce of guilt in a vise around my throat.
Frankie is visibly shaken. “Couldn’t you have picked someone less perfect? Like, someone with an annoying laugh or someone who talks during movies or who smacks her lips when they talk?” Her attempt at a laugh is feeble. “I thought…I thought I might get a sister. Another sister,” she adds, looking over at Cassidy. “I thought Laine was the one.”
My family nods in agreement.
“So, where is Laine?” Mom asks.
I clear my throat. “We thought it would be best for her to go.”
Cassidy still hasn’t spoken, so I turn my attention to her. To my surprise, her eyes are red, tears threatening to fall over the edges of her lashes.
“I’m sorry, Cass. It was pathetic. I know you were planning on having her in the wedding, and I know this will probably mess things up. But I want to make it right—or as right as I can. I’ll pay you back for Laine’s bridesmaid dress, flowers, everything.” Cassidy opens her mouth, probably to object, so I quickly add, “It’s the least I can do. Please. ”
Cassidy purses her lips, mulling over my words. After a painfully long pause, she says, “I really believed you loved her.”