Page 107 of Lovefool

I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to introduce Ellaria to the girls. They got on without a hitch, thankfully, and all of them seem disturbingly happy to recount the transgressions of the past few days. Nothing big really happens in the small, fog-swept town of Maple Grove, so when the tides change and wash up a behemoth of a scandal, eager-eyed spectators come out of the woodworks.

It all plays out in my memory like a bad, fuzzy dream. The call with Ellaria, writing the article, the fight with Sutton. A part of me still wants to harbor guilt for my involvement, but the other part—the sensible one—is constantly reiterating that these steps were going to be taken by someone, someday, as long as Buford kept the gig up. I wouldn’t want to put anyone else in that situation, so in some sick, twisted acceptance, I guess I was the best candidate. The most important part is that I was able to salvage my relationship with my boyfriend.

Speaking of, I haven’t seen him at all today. Though I’d imagine that getting back into the swing of things after a stressful seventy-two hours of lies and deceit would leave anyone bedridden.

All we spoke about on the ride home was Buford’s suspension and the impending investigation. And the team, well, they thanked me for writing an unbiased article. I was almost convinced I wouldn’t be able to, but like Tamara said, a good journalist knows how to remain objective.

“Wait a second, you cricket-bombed Buford’s house?” Staten exclaims, jaw partway open.

“Legend says there’s still a survivor hidden in his walls to this day,” I joke, just as the last of my sentence is rived in half like an axe’s blade caught in the grain of firewood, and a large body careens into our not-so-private conversation.

Sutton comes up from behind me, wraps his arm around my body in a tight squeeze, and my brain pulls a hard right around a blind turn at the sudden uneven distribution of balance. His signature bergamot smell is the first thing that alerts me to his presence, and my instinctual drive to Krav Maga my silent attacker vanishes as my heart dismounts off my ribs in a happy little flip.

“I missed you,” he whispers in my ear, weighing me down as if he’s a giant mastiff flopping over its owner’s lap.

I laugh, turning around so I can gridlock with his tantalizingly brown eyes.

He lengthens to his full height, and I tip my head up. “We spent three hours on a bus together yesterday.”

His mouth softens into a smile. “That’s child’s play. I think we need to be stranded on a deserted island together for the foreseeable future.”

I contemplate the logistics. Nobody to bother us sounds nice. Surviving in the wilderness sounds…not so nice.

I rise to my tiptoes so I can twine my arms around his neck, my pulse fluttering with definitive wingbeats. “Won’t we, I don’t know, die?”

“Not if I can help it. I’m determined to give you the best extended vacation of your life. Room guaranteed. I’ll construct it out of bamboo trunks and palm leaves. It’ll be your very own slice of paradise. I’ll even hand-feed you the fruit I scavenge.”

“Deal.”

When I stumbled into this thing called life—hot off the assembly line with my fair share of defects—I never expected to find my soulmate at twenty-two. As fucked up as it is, Buford cheating on me was the best thing that could’ve possibly happened.

Sutton Whittaker snuck up on me—the girl with the hard exoskeleton and the equally tough insides—and was never once dissuaded from chasing after my heart. I didn’t know it at the time, but he had it from the moment he said, “Who the fuck are you?” A real sweet story to tell the kids one day.

“How are you feeling? About your job?” he asks, flipping the subject a whole three-sixty degrees.

“Actually, Tammy gave me a promotion for rising to the occasion. Editor in chief, just like I always dreamed about.”

“Trouble, that’s amazing!” Sutton praises.

“Hopefully it helps with my job search in the future.”

“I know it will. Any media outlet would be lucky to have you.”

“And I’ll support you in whatever career path you choose, whether that’s hockey or something else,” I tell him, brushing the tip of my nose with his, every insignificant worry dissolving like sugar granules in water.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this feeling—the feeling of being loved. Despite my flaws, despite my ill-considered choices, despite a past that doesn’t define who I am anymore.

Merit groans, but it’s good-natured. “Ugh, you guys are sickeningly adorable.”

My mouth nudges at Sutton’s, waiting patiently for his lips to part, and I save my friends the trauma by opting for a sweet, chaste kiss, warmth and affection tangling in my chest.

“I’ve never been this happy,” I whisper, clinging to the one and only person who’s weathered the storm with me and still chose to stay after the endless downpour and the structural damage and the emotional waterboarding.

Sutton is as steady as ever. Even more so, if that’s possible. All hard edges melted down in a forge, along with the resentment that’s been corroding him slowly but surely. Softness is a thing to be celebrated, not shunned.

Our breaths toy with one another—pluming against collagen—the prospect of another kiss promised like the monotonous rising and setting of the sun.

“And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never go another day without questioning how much I fucking love you.”