Page 73 of Untruly With You

Hey, Ophelia! My trip got cut short. Thankfully, I got all my interviews done. But if you’d like to meet in person in the city, I’m available.

Her response comes quick.

Great! Let’s meet over brunch tomorrow.

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that will be so busy with writing and editing I won’t have a chance to worry about anything—or anyone—else.

Though I would love to dive right into work, I can actually smell the stress and post-travel woes on me. First things first.

Even the guest bathroom at the Davis ranch house had a full tub, double sink, and an enormous window overlooking green fields. I try to ignore that as I shower in my bathroom, which is roughly the size of a coat closet. The narrow medicine cabinet’s mirror fogs up from steam, but I don’t wipe it away, unwilling to see who will stare back at me.

Once back in the main room, I almost double-back at the sight of it. Has my apartment always looked this wild? It’s as if I’m seeing it with fresh eyes. Posters, art, and pictures hang along the walls, no rhyme or reason to any of them. Junkpiles on every surface—books, clothes, shoes, remnants of my short-lived hobbies, unidentified charging cords from one thing or another. Before I realize it, I’m ripping the clutter away from the walls, revealing more of the white paint than I’ve seen in years. Once I’ve cleared the walls, I get to work on everything else, tossing anything that could possibly be distracting into a terrifying heap. When I’m done, I’m left with a space that looks more like a cubicle than an apartment.

With a clean slate, I type furiously for hours, forcing myself to stay on task. Write, read, edit, repeat. On and on until the daylight fades from my tiny window, and a knock pulls me from my focus.

I almost don’t answer it, but two familiar voices call my name on the other side. When I work up the will to answer the door, I’m greeted by unconvincing smiles.

Dad whistles, slow and low. “What happened in here, kid?”

“What?” I ask, only half-listening.

“You tore everything down,” Mom mutters.

I look up at them then and am met with wide eyes and tense shoulders. I exhale sharply through my nose. “It’s time for me to be responsible. You’ve both been telling me that for, what, my entire life now?”

“Tearing your room apart isn’t exactly what we had in mind,” Dad says, walking in and sitting on the edge of my bed with a bag of takeout in one hand.

Mom gives me a sideways hug. “We want you to have goals and work toward them, sure.” She pauses to gesture around my room. “That doesn’t mean you have to change who you are. You’re colorful and…full of life. And if that means your room gets a bit cluttered, so be it.”

I don’t respond.

My parents exchange glances, and Dad is the first to breakthe silence, his words cautious, a long pause between each. “We talked to Sutton.”

My stomach lurches, but I force my face to stay neutral.

“He didn’t say much,” Mom says. “Mostly, he talked about being worried about you. He wanted to be sure you made it home safe, that you were doing okay. He also said that he messed up. And whatever he did, he feels terrible about it.”

When it’s obvious I won’t be responding to that, Dad asks directly, “What exactlydidhappen?”

I try to fight my word-vomit, but as soon as I open my mouth, it all comes out. I tell them about meeting Sutton’s family, and the wedding prep, and the bachelorette party. The interviews, and the town, and the ranch. I even tell them about the night at the lake, leaving the details out, obviously. And finally, my voice faltering, I tell my parents about Hank’s diagnosis and Sutton’s decision that he no longer wants to be with me, not as a charade. And certainly not for real.

“I thought he really…” I pause, unable to say the true word on my mind. “I thought he really caredfor me. I thought what we had was genuine.” I roll my eyes at myself. “But he doesn’t want me around. I’m a distraction. Too unpredictable to depend on. I—I lost my best friend,” I choke out.

“Lainey,” Mom begins, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “you've been through so much in the past week. Going from friends to…more, to ending things.”

Dad chimes in, his tone equally gentle, “We know how much you care about Sutton and how much he cares about you. But when people make decisions when they're under pressure, they rarely make the right ones.”

“We've been hoping for a long time that you two would finally figure out what we already knew,” Mom adds with a small smile.

I straighten, wiping away a tear that managed to escape. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? He said he didn't want me in his life anymore.”

My parents share another glance, and Mom says, “We saw the connection between you and Sutton over the past few months. We've watched you two grow together. You were always having fun, laughing, helping each other. What you had…well, it seemed real to me.”

34

SUTTON

After a morningfull of studying Dad’s healthcare plan and running errands in Missoula for the ranch, I return to the house to find Frankie sitting on the guest bed. Her golden curls are in a wild, unkempt crown around her head, and her eyes pierce through me. The joyful, bubbly demeanor she generally carries is nowhere to be seen.

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