Page 67 of Untruly With You

He’s probably fine, I tell myself. A much louder thought overtakes it almost immediately.And what if he isn’t?

A singular, soft beat sounds from outside. I rush to the window but see no one. Then again,thud.A long pause.Thud.

Barefoot, I run out the front door, too frantic to close it behind me. My feet pad against the bouncy grass, still wet from morning dew.

Thud. Louder this time.

The day’s early chill bleeds through the weave of Sutton’s sweater hanging around me. Fog hangs around the house, thick and suffocating.

I near the sound, gaining clarity. It’s a ragged crack. A noise I’ve heard only once before.

Sure enough, I round the back corner of the house to find Sutton, axe raised, splitting logs with his back to me. Already, a heap of firewood stands at his feet. Despite the chill, he has no coat on, just a black tee I don’t recognize. It’s too small for him, tight enough to show the ropes of muscle stretching and pulsing as he hammers the axe down, the wood splintering and flying to either side of him.

I watch for a moment, as if the image of him might dissipate right into the fog. Every rhythmic thud of the axe hitting wood eases some of my anxiety until, finally, I can smile.

Laughing from relief, I call his name. He pauses. The axe drops to his side, lifeless. But he doesn’t turn. Unable to stop myself, I approach him from behind and wrap my arms around his torso, burying my face against his solid back. Under my arms, I feel his breaths quicken, and he tenses, creating an invisible wall between us.

Stumbling back a step, I watch Sutton’s shoulders slump. He pushes his hands through his curls and stares up at the sky for a moment.

“Sutton?” I say, like it might break a curse holding him still and quiet. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t turn, so I grab onto his arm, yanking it back so I can swing him around to face me. What I’m met with makes it feel like the morning chill has plummeted straight through my chest. His eyes are flat, somehow grayer than their usual brown. And one of those eyes I can hardly see, thanks to the swelling puffed up around it, marbled blue and purple. The bruise spreads across most of the neighboring cheek. His other eye, though not swollen, is marred by a dark shadow beneath it, the testament to a long, sleepless night. His bottom lip also swells on one side, a red split cutting through it.

I say his name for a third time, whispering in a voice I hardly recognize.Is it even him?I scan his face and body slowly. Cuts and bruises scatter across his tan skin. He looks terrible, battered. Even worse than his black eye is that dead look behind it.

“What happened to you?” I ask through a gasp.

He tightens his mouth, and it exaggerates the swollen side.

“Did you get into an accident?” Reaching up, I gently nudge the unbruised side of his face, tilting it so I can inspect him for more damage. My eyes burn with welling tears, and Sutton’s eyes soften, just for a moment, before he steps back, away from my touch. “What happened?” I repeat, my tone practically begging him for an answer.

Still, nothing.

“Did…did Wells do this to you?”

Sutton looks back at me, his eyes darkening. “I’m fine,” he says, his hoarse voice telling me otherwise.

Desperate to give Sutton any ounce of the comfort and reassurance he constantly gives me, I wrap my arms around him, breathing him in. I hate the way his shirt doesn’t smell like him. It’s yet another thing dividingthisSutton from the one I know. My fingers press into his back, as if I can push life back into him. After too long, he returns the hug. But it’s timid, awkward. Like he’s trying to keep his distance even while I’m nestled right up to his chest.

When I speak, I keep my cheek against him, unwilling to look back up at those strange eyes. “You have to tell me what happened.”

“Laine,” Sutton says, voice catching. “I’m not going back to New York.”

30

SUTTON

Laine’s armsgo limp around me. She takes a few shaky steps back, staring up at me. Her eyes are set over shadowed bags similar to the ones I saw in the mirror this morning. Her black pupils dilate under knit brows. Those full lips downturn. I scan her face over and over again, trying to take in every detail of her while I still can, committing her to memory.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself.

My exhale is sharp through my nose, my jaw locked too tight for air to escape. “My dad is sick,” I finally reply, hoping Laine won’t ask for details.

But of course, she does. “You got a black eye because your dad is sick?”

My fists ball up at my sides. I do my best to separate the words from their meaning, to make them simple, just like my father did when he told me. “He has ALS.”

Laine’s nose wrinkles as she fights off the tears glistening in her eyes. “What… What’s his outlook?”

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