Page 7 of Untruly With You

I was lucky to find any apartment I could afford on my own, even if that means my life is constrained to four hundred square feet. My micro apartment is small, but what it lacks in size it makes up for instuff. Sutton walks along the front wall of the room slowly, overwhelmed by the disorganization and clutter. Each step is hesitant, as if he will detonate a bomb with one wrong step. I swear his face pales when he looks at the whiteboard calendar on the wall, half finished, half covered with Post-it notes. It’s the perfect representation of the way my brain processes.

I take my coat off and throw it on one of my two barstools.

Sutton’s gaze moves to my bookshelf, the one my dad named The Hobby Graveyard. There’s an unfinished piece of embroidery, still on its hoop, a tackle box of bracelet beads, and film canisters on the top shelf.

When Sutton looks back at me, I shrug. “I like trying new things.” Having him here, looking at my belongings, feels more intimate than I anticipated, and my skin prickles with that realization. “Come on. No time to waste.”

With no couch and limited options, I sit on the edge of my bed. Sutton takes the open barstool.

For three hours, Sutton and I hardly look up from my homework. We read through the first two acts ofThe Tempest, and I’m struck by how naturally Sutton delivers the lines. Reading the play on paper makes my head spin, but hearing him read it out loud makes everything fall into place. He takes on a confident air, expressing exactly what I imagine the characters are feeling in every scene. It’s almost enough to keep my full attention, but I still end up tapping my fingers or twisting my rings around here or there to try to keep my hands occupied.

By eleven-thirty, all fragments of my attention span have shattered, and I collapse onto my bed belly-first, facing Sutton sitting on my desk chair. He couldn’t stand out from my room more if he tried. While everything around us is busy, colorful, and loud, Sutton is calming.

“Are you really from Montana?” I ask him, interrupting the monologue he was reading.

He nods.

“Are you really a cowboy?”

For the first time, Sutton smiles—reallysmiles—and it takes me off guard. Dimples dig into his cheeks, and his piercing eyes soften. “Wasa cowboy is a more fitting, I think.”

“Why aren’t you anymore?”

“Long story.”

“Make it short, then.”

Sutton straightens, his smile fading. “I never wanted to stay at the ranch forever.”

“Why not?”

“Family complications. Why were you and Ms. Carr arguing?”

“Family complications,” I mimic, smiling in hopes that it will lighten the mood. Sutton stays quiet, patiently waiting for more. “She hates that I am indecisive. That it is taking me six years to finish my degree. That I can’t commit to much of anything, at least in her eyes.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he says.

“It is. And really, it’s pretty ironic of her to be so judgmental, to callmea quitter.” At Sutton’s raised eyebrow, I add, “Long story.”

One side of his mouth lifts. “Make it short.”

“On the day of my high school graduation, my mom told me that she left my father. It came out of nowhere. They said they didn’t have a big fight or anything. They didn’t even try to make it work. Even though they were high school sweethearts, they apparently woke up one day and realized they weren’t in love.”

Sutton nods slowly. He clearly doesn’t know what to say to that story, because he changes the subject. “I hope I didn’t distract you from bidding on a real date tonight.”

“I was just there to cover it for the student paper.”

“You’re a writer?” he asks.

I shrug. “I guess so. I bounced between majors for a long time.Notbecause I’m a quitter, but because I wanted to try everything out. I loved chemistry and dance and statistics. Eventually, I got a job at the paper and realized that journalism was my ticket. When I’m interviewing people, writing their stories, I get to live through them.” I smile to myself. “I want to experience everything life has to offer. Since that’s impossible, experiencing things through the stories of others is the closest I can get.”

Sutton makes a little hum.

“Does that make sense?” I ask.

“Complete sense. It’s the same reason I want to be an editor.”

Even though my instinct drives me to want to speak, I follow Sutton’s style and stay silent, hoping it will prompt him to continue.

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