Page 27 of Untruly With You

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 likejusta bed right now, not with that lookhe 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’reactuallydating 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’renotwanting 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 sosolid?

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 theengagement,” 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.

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