Kelly

JENSEN: I'm supposed to ask you where your punk ass is.

ME: Your girl?

JENSEN: Who else?

ME: You can tell Teddy to calm her tits. I'm out with Sully.

JENSEN: Number 1, don't talk about my girl's tits. Number 2, Sully? Really? Fuck, man, things not going good with that girl of yours?

I huff out a laugh picturing my friend voice-texting at our preferred table at Roxy's, but the laugh quickly transforms to a groan. I'd rather not think about that girl. It's the whole reason I fled to Maybury to hide out with the Andersons' foster brother.

TEDDY: Funny how both you and a certain blondie are MIA tonight.

ME: Sutton's not there?

TEDDY: Seems both of you are hiding. But the real question, my dear old friend, is why?

TEDDY: Are you going to dish or shall I ask Sutton?

ME: Butt out, Teddy.

TEDDY: Stop torturing yourself, Kell. Talk to J.

I turn my phone off and shove it into my pocket. Tonight is about forgetting. I just need to quiet my brain for one fucking night.

My eyes track the man crossing the dimly lit bar toward me, his tattooed arms on full display as he carries two shot glasses in one hand and two beer bottles in the other. He clunks the drinks down on the table in front of me, a bit of the amber liquid spilling out.

I eye the drinks. "Shots? Really, Sully?"

Sully tucks a stray curl that fell out of his man bun behind his ear, a shit-eating grin on his face. "You didn't come here to be a pussy. Drink up."

He hands me one of the shot glasses and clinks his against the one in my hand before tossing it back. I make the mistake of sniffing it. "Fuck," I grumble before downing it in one go. I'm already having regrets.

Sully sinks into the chair across from me, sipping from his beer bottle as his eyes scan the room. "So tell me again. Why exactly are you here?" He turns his attention to me. "I know it's not my sunny disposition."

"You very well know I didn't say since you keep asking every fifteen fucking minutes," I spit out.

His answering chuckle makes me want to kick his chair over...with him still in it. My face must say as much because he only laughs harder. "So it's obviously a girl that has your panties in a twist."

I grunt in reply, busying myself with taking a long pull of my beer. When he continues to stare at me, I relent. "What else could it be about?"

He raises his brow. "It wouldn't happen to be a certain off-limits blondie, would it?"

I fight the urge to flip him off. He may not be an Anderson by blood or name, but the fucker is just as nosey. Finally, I admit, "Would I be a scared punk hiding here with you if it weren't?"

He shakes his head as if the admission somehow disappoints him. "You're a fucking idiot, Ledger." He raises his beer bottle to me. "Good luck."

This time I do flip him off.

We're quiet for a few minutes as we drink and watch the crowd. The vibe is completely different than the small-town bars in Lake Hope, the energy level much higher than I prefer. Once upon a time, I loved this scene, and the admission makes me feel old. And, honestly, a bit lonely.

"You could always get under one," Sully finally breaks the silence. He points his beer bottle in the direction of a group of women huddled around a table. "One of those would do."

I glance briefly at the women. They're dressed in revealing clothes, and I know they are the type I'd normally go for—someone to enjoy for a bit until the novelty wears off and I politely send them on their way. But it's not what I want anymore. I shake my head. "Nah," I tell my friend.

"Nah?" He laughs.

"It wouldn't be fair to the girl since it wouldn't be her I'd be thinking about." The admission curdles my stomach and I take a long pull on my beer to wash it down. "Besides, on the very small chance that anything ever developed between me and Sutton, and she found out about me being 'under one', she'd be really fucking hurt and the last thing I want to do is hurt that girl."

Sully studies me for a few silent beats. "Are you sure that ship hasn't already sailed?"

When my only response is a glare, he continues. "Look, Kell. That girl has a bleeding fucking heart. She feels deep. Like really fucking deep. The fact that you're hiding out here with me tells me that you already know this, and you probably did something to fuck it up anyway."

I look away from his knowing face, fighting the urge to punch it. "I plead the fifth."

"Don't want to self-incriminate. I can respect that." He stands from his chair, gathering the empty shot glasses and beer bottles. "More shots it is then." He stalks across the room to the bar, and I groan, banging my head against the sticky table.

Fuck my life.

The phone in my pocket feels like a heavy weight, and I wage an inner dialogue on whether or not it'd be wise to power on my phone and send a quick text to my girl. Just an itty bitty one to see how she's doing. I'm craving a hit like an addict. It's been too many fucking days. What would I say, though? Oh, hi, remember when I kissed the hell out of you and I kinda died for a few seconds because the feel of you pressed against me was the best fucking thing to ever have happened to me?

Shit, I am good and fucked. So fucking fucked. Because I know Sully was right. Sutton feels every damn thing so deep. She's always been overly sensitive. And because I know this about her, I also know she's probably been as miserable as me these past few days.

Sully rescues me from my downward spiral, and possibly making a mistake in the form of drunk texts, when he reappears with our drinks.

"To bad decisions," he toasts before downing the shot.

I take my shot and chase it with a generous amount of beer, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth spreading through my limbs. I rarely get drunk, but tonight seems like the occasion to do so.

"Hey," I say, a memory suddenly popping into my head. "Remember that time we poured Ike's vodka into a gallon of orange juice, filling his vodka back up with water?"

God knows why the Andersons didn't lock up their alcohol. In a house with that many teenagers, Ike and Maxine should have been smarter.

Sully laughs. "Fuck, who can forget that epic night? Sally Thompson let me get to third base."

"Sally Thompson let everyone get to third base. Except J. I don't think he ever rounded any of her bases."

He guffaws. "Because he was always wound too tight."

I consider this. "Nah, he knows how to have fun. He just has a higher moral compass than us assholes."

He nods. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. He's a protector. It's in his genetic makeup. I'm not sure he could stop even if he wanted to."

"An all-around standup guy, that one." I'm only semi aware that my words feel funny in my mouth. I'm probably slurring but fuck it. This is where we are tonight, folks. I'm a few shots too late to care.

"Huh?" I ask when I realize Sully was talking to me, but I zoned out partway through.

He laughs. "Shit, Ledger. You're going to be sorry tomorrow. I was saying that the Andersons are important to you."

"Well, yeah. They're my chosen family," I admit without hesitation. When this earns me a funny look from my friend, I cock my head to study him. "They're important to you, too, but for some reason you hold them at arm's length. Always have. You even moved away to put physical distance between you."

"It's not like that," he denies, shaking his head. He goes to take a drink of his beer but then sets it down. "Ok, maybe it is like that, but not in the way you mean. Their house was always so chaotic and loud and welcoming." He makes a sour face on the last word as if the mere idea of a family being openly welcoming is still a foreign concept to him.

"You see," he says, now taking that drink of beer. "I grew up in situations where chaos and noise were a warning to get the fuck out of Dodge so you didn't get caught up in the crosshairs." He shrugs away the thought. "Maybe I'm still adjusting to non-hostile living situations." A small smile sneaks across his lips. "Do you know that Maxine calls me every Sunday. Without fail. And I always answer. Partly out of obligation. But mostly because I like having someone think about me."

He points a finger at me, and I wave him off, understanding that he's warning me to not use this information against him.

"What does she talk about?" I ask, playing with the label on my bottle, fighting the thoughts plaguing me. What would it feel like to be on the receiving end of Maxine Anderson's weekly calls?

"Mostly her kids. Not so much in a gossipy way. But more like she wants me to stay up to date with what's going on in their lives. Another way to pull me into the family, I suppose." He snickers. "I'm waiting to find out when Yoga on the Farm starts, but Sutton explicitly banned all the brothers from attending."

I throw my head back in laughter at this. "Sounds like her," I admit, a pang of sadness threatening to crack the warmth of the buzz.

"You know, Sully," I say a few moments later. "It's ok to let them in. They're far from perfect, but they'd do anything for their own; and you, motherfucker, are one lucky bastard to be considered one of theirs. I mean, you get to be on the sibling group chat. I hear it's a good time."

Sully grunts. "I've tried to exit that chat for years. They won't let me. They just keep adding me back in."

This makes me laugh. It's just so fitting. "Once an Anderson, always an Anderson."

I can feel Sully's eyes on me, a serious expression on his face. "You know that applies to you, too, right? You practically lived at the Anderson's. The very fact that they didn't throw you out should speak for itself."

When I don't respond, he continues. "J might be pissed for a bit, Kelly. The fucker can hold a grudge longer than most chicks. But he's a reasonable guy. And he knows you. Deep down he knows you. And eventually it'll right itself."

It's my turn to grunt. Averting my eyes, I down the rest of my beer, not ready to hear whatever message he's delivering to my alcohol-idled brain.

-

THE TINKLING OF THE BELLS EVERY TIME the door opens at the Cozy Corner Café grinds right into my head, upsetting the lingering headache from my hangover. The day's been rough, I'm not going to lie. I'm out of practice drinking like that, and I'm regretting trying to keep up with Sully last night.

After being a pitiful excuse of a human all day after returning home after I crashed at Sully's place, I decided I needed some real food. The greasier, the better. So here I sit on a stool at the counter, inwardly cussing out every patron that comes in and goes out.

The bells jangle again, and I duck my head as I struggle to stifle my groan. The sound of flip flops pattering across the floor feels like an echo in a cave. But it's the sound that follows that has my body sitting ramrod straight, a row of tingles shooting up my spine.

"Hey, stranger."

I turn to the body in my periphery, and I instantly buzz, a grin sneaking across my face before I can school it.

"Baby girl," I say in a voice that sounds an octave higher than usual, almost as if I gasped the words. I feel my cheeks heat, the reaction surprising and unsettling me. I've interacted with this girl a million times in my life and never have I ever bumbled like this.

She slides onto the stool next to me; and in the moment before she swivels to face me, I notice her neck. Her hair is normally down, her neck mostly hidden. But tonight her hair is up in some sort of claw clip, exposing that beautiful, slender column that is a perfect pedestal to that beautiful face.

Shit, I cuss myself. Knock it off. Don't be weird.

Facing me now, she rests her elbow on the counter, leaning her head in her hand as she directs her gaze at me.

"Your hair's up," I stupidly blurt out.

She laughs, patting her hair. "Yep."

Without permission from my brain, my hand reaches out to tuck some stray strands behind her ear. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup and her turquoise eyes stand out against her tanned skin. "I thought you got headaches."

She swivels slightly on the stool, our knees bumping, and I lightly grip her knees to steady her. We both stare at my hands before I remove them, and she finally answers. "My head doesn't hate these clips. I can sometimes get away with using them."

I nod, already distracted by studying any other new things I might have missed. She's dressed in black leggings and an oversized t-shirt that looks as old as she is. She only ever goes out like this if she's in a "give no fucks" mood, so I'm assuming she's feeling a similar way to me.

I raise my brow and ask, "Nursing a hangover that won't fuck off?"

She snickers. "What gave it away? Was it my homeless look? Or do I smell like I bathed in tequila?"

"You don't look homeless, baby girl. You look comfy. And fucking cute," I throw in because I can't resist. But it's not a lie. She looks really fucking cute. Comfy and cute. And cuddly.

"What about you?" she asks. "What's responsible for your hangover?"

"Sully. Fucking Sully is responsible for my hangover."

She laughs, her nose crinkling up in that adorable way it does. "Sully? Why, Kelly? Are you an idiot?"

"Must be," I admit, gruffly. "And, yes, I have regrets."

She laughs again, the sound a welcome counterpart to the loud door bells.

Just then a waiter, a gangly teenage boy who plays the part of wishing to be anywhere else well, sets my bag of food on the counter in front of me, presenting me with my bill. I hand the kid my card and instruct him to charge Sutton's food, too, completely ignoring her protests. Pivoting on the stool, my body angled toward the door, one hand gripping my food bag, I pause to look at her. "At least tomorrow is Sunday and you can breathe."

She looks puzzled at first but then nods. "Oh right. Sundays are for breathing. My favorite day."

I don't know what compels me to do it. Or, rather, doesn't prevent me from not doing it. But I lean down and place a soft kiss on the top of her head, the smell of her hair immediately washing over me, before I take a step back, followed by a few more. "See you, Sutton."

"Yeah," she says. Having turned in her seat to track my retreat, she's now facing the door. "See you."

The whole interaction was weird, like we were two completely different people than usual just now, and it doesn't sit well in my stomach. Why were we so off? I don't like it.

The odd feeling stays with me as I drive home. It's still lingering when I sit on my rocking chair on my deck. It sits in my stomach like a lump as I try to eat my burger and fries. It blocks my airways as I take a drink of beer, and I cough to choke it down. It's a haunting presence as I gaze out at all the houses lighting up my neighborhood. And it isn't until I'm chuckling as I concoct a ridiculous story about the neighbors directly behind me that the feeling starts to fade into the background a bit. And it isn't until I'm reaching for the phone before I can talk myself out of it to share the story with Sutton and I read her response that it flees completely.

ME: Story time. Neighbors behind me in big blue house with yappy dog.
ME: He's a gym teacher at the high school. She's the school nurse. High school sweethearts. But the wholesome couple are really swingers. They enjoy weekend swingers mixers, sometimes opting to engage in short-term thruples. Living their best lives.
ME: Until...she realizes she prefers one of the chicks from their latest thruple and they concoct a plan to steal the dude's inheritance from his dead grandma so they can move to Florida and live happily ever after.
SUTTON: Eh, could use some work. These aren't HEAs.
ME: HEA?
SUTTON: Happily ever after.
SUTTON: These stories are meant to be tragic and juicy.
SUTTON: Wife and new sidepiece chick get hit by a train enroute to Florida. Serves them right. The end.
ME: You're real twisted. You know that, right, baby girl?
SUTTON: Some might say brilliant. I agree with those people.
ME: I might agree with them too.

Lexi wakes from her nap on the deck, rising to her feet, immediately sinking into a deep downward dog stretch before shaking her body and pattering over to me. She nudges her wet nose against the hand holding my phone and I set it aside to pet her head. After a few minutes of this, she grows bored, sniffs my discarded to-go container with leftover fries and steals a few before sauntering off into the yard to do her business.

I pick my phone back up and peck at the keyboard before hitting send before I can overthink it.


ME: I know Sundays are your day to breathe, but what are your thoughts on Mondays?

SUTTON: Only the worst way to start your week. Why? Are you curious about Tuesdays too? Because I don't mind Tuesdays. I got no beef with Wednesdays either, except for the fact they're referred to as Hump Day. Fuck you, not everyone gets to hump on Wednesdays, thank you very not much. Thursdays are like the Christmas Eve of the typical work week. Soooo close to the day. Then you already know my thoughts on the rest of the days.

I laugh as I read her response, the sound loud in the dark night. Lexi comes running onto the deck as if to investigate the noise. Resting her head on my lap, she eyes me warily. I ignore her as I type on my phone.

ME: Jesus, Sutton. Does your brain ever hurt?

ME: Never mind. Don't answer that. Just tell me if you're busy Monday after work.

SUTTON: Long story short, yes, my brain does hurt. Awesomeness isn't free. And I might not be busy. Depends who's asking.

ME: I'm asking.

SUTTON: Suppose I could possibly be free. Depending.

ME: Bring your color swatches to the house after work.

SUTTON: Yes, sir.

ME: Sutton.

SUTTON: Kelly.

Jesus, I cuss as I down the rest of my beer. This is a bad idea. I make stupid decisions around this girl. But I can't help the smile that tips my lips. The same smile that stays with me as I round up my garbage and head back inside. That's still present as I tidy up my house from my day of laziness. That I haven't managed to shake off by the time I'm plugging in my phone at bedtime, and it buzzes in my hand. The smile only grows wider when I see who the text is from.

Shit, I whisper in my dark bedroom. I'm so fucked.

I crawl under the covers, one arm propped up behind my head, when I finally read the text.

SUTTON: I'll see you tomorrow, Kell. I'll bring supper again. Sweet dreams.

ME: Sleep tight, baby girl.