Page 25 of Untruly With You

Laine, eager to direct the conversation away from a sore subject, asks Frankie about what it’s like to own the local radio station. Then Laine asks Mom about her time as a dance teacher. Mom and Frankie ask Laine about her degree and her new freelancing gig withWonderings.The three women hardly stop talking and seem more and more enamored with each other with every passing minute. But I knowthat—at least in part—their constant talk is also meant to cover gaps of awkward silences.

By the time the meal is halfway over, it’s clear that Hank and Wells aren’t planning on breaking their apparent vow of silence. Not that my father has ever been particularly good at carrying on a conversation. But he and Wells don’t know how hard it is to resist Laine’s charm. She angles toward them, scooting closer to me so she can again lay her hand on my thigh. I jump a bit from her touch, as if electrified.

“Wells,” Laine says, “I bet you’re feeling very excited about the wedding.”

My brother looks at me for the first time tonight—the first time in six years. Flatly, he says, “Very excited.”

Laine laughs. “You certainly sound it,” she says sarcastically.

Mom, always the peacemaker, chimes in. “We’re all very…excited.”

I catch Frankie making a face that looks like the bite of trout she got was rotten.

The tension in the air is so thick I could pierce it with one of those elk antlers on the wall. Laine, ever determined, presses on. “What’s been thebestpart about planning the wedding?”

Wells’ expression turns into a wicked grin, and he flicks his eyes at me for a second before answering. “Probably planning the wedding night.”

Mom chokes on her water, Frankie lets out a barely audible, “Ew,” and I really try to not imagine…that.

“Hank,” Laine says, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, “your ranch is beautiful. I’m doing some freelance writing and would love to feature Silver Ridge Ranch in my articles. I could interview the ranch hands this week—maybe even you, if you have some free time.”

“A rancher never has free time,” Hank says, and his words slur together a bit, likely the effects of yet another long day.

“Dad,” I grumble.

“Son,” he replies, the deep wrinkles in his face contorting with a hard stare.

Dinner continues in awkward near-silence, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the occasional polite comment from Laine or Mom. Here and there, Laine attempts to draw Hank and Wells out, her determination unyielding. But it's like trying to push against a brick wall with a feather—they’re impenetrable.

We finish the meal with Mom’s fresh rhubarb pie. As my father passes the pan to me, it drops from his grasp, tipping upside down over the tablecloth with a loud clang before splattering a crimson stain all over the rug under the table. Mom and Frankie sit completely frozen while a wide-eyed Wells stands from his chair, laying a hand on our father’s back.

“Dad, are you alright?” Wells asks, his voice more frantic than it needs to be. Maybe he’s overreacting to make me feel guilty.

Hank smacks a hand against the table and kicks his chair back. He pushes Wells just enough to move him out of his way as he walks out of the room.

Instinctively, I look to Laine, embarrassment, shame, and anger roiling through my stomach all at once. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m following my father.

“We need to talk,” I call out to Hank, who is already at the front door.

“Sutton,” Mom pleads, “leave it alone for tonight.”

I look at her, a silent apology in my eyes. “I can’t.”

Hank stops, slowly turning his head toward me. As I get closer, his mouth twists, like he can’t decide whether thethought of me confronting him is worth laughing or fighting over.

“You can’t treat Laine like that,” I say as I get closer, straightening my spine. I’ve been taller than my father by a couple of inches since high school, and I might have another inch on him now that his body seems to sag a bit, his spine curving down slightly at the top. “You can’t pretend she doesn’t exist. You’re mad at me. Don’t take that out on Laine.”

“What do you expect, son?” Hank says.

“I expect you to be civil.” Clenching my jaw, I feel my anxiety prickling in my chest. “I wouldn’t be here if Laine hadn’t encouraged it.”

“Well then, I certainly don’t want to reward her encouragement by being civil.”

He leaves without another word.

13

LAINE

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