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A few minutes later, with Pax’s directions in mind, I’m making my way across town toward the Suttons’ place. I take my time, collecting my thoughts and practicing my apology while cursing Walker and his stupid list.
I’m shit at making friends. Okay, that’s not true. I’m not reducing Pax to tears every time we hang out, so I can’t be that bad. Maybe I’m just shit at girls. Why would Walker pick someone so pretty and hardworking and smart to be my friend? That seems counterproductive. Obviously, my inevitable crush on herwould make me act like a fucking idiot. There’s no other explanation for why my boot is constantly stuffed in my mouth around her: I keep trying to swoop in and play savior when she very clearly does not want to be saved.
Eventually, I find my way in front of the olive-green trailer Pax described. I pull next to a tired-looking Ford pickup and hesitate. Winnie’s car isn’t here, and I’m second-guessing whether I have the right place before I see movement behind a beige-and-white gingham curtain on the front door and see a familiar set of braids. The door flings open, and Garrett steps out on the stoop, waving wildly.
Silver lining: at least one of the Sutton girls doesn’t hate me.
I release my seat belt and reach for the barn coat before stepping out into the cooling evening air.
“Hey, Braids,” I say, using my new nickname for her.
“Hi, Case! What’re you doing here?”
I raise the coat, grateful for the excuse, and offer it to Garrett. “Winnie forgot her jacket at work. But I see she’s not here, so—”
Garrett steps away from my offering and instead opens the door, beckoning me. “Come on in! She’s supposed to be home soon. You can wait for her.”
Right. I’m sure Winnie will love me being here in her home, uninvited. I bite back my sigh and follow her sister in, my curiosity overruling my need to not piss off the eldest Sutton. Besides, I’m already in deep. Might as well make it count.
The small home is warm and cozy. I expected it to be… different. More desolate maybe? Or cramped. I immediately feel like a dick and decide to check my privilege at the door. Absolutely nothing about Winnie or her sister—or even her brother, for that matter—has given me reason to judge them by their presumed lack of wealth. Christine’s snide remarks from Pax’sparty a month ago are still fresh in my mind, and I feel my face get hot at the memory.
The reality is different. The paneled walls are painted a soft, neutral color and the carpets are thin, but tidy and clear. The kitchen is small, with old laminate on the floor and generic cabinetry, but every surface is gleaming and spotless. There’re candid pictures of the three Sutton kids everywhere, and while the furniture is definitely worn, it’s covered in soft-looking pillows and throw blankets.
I inhale a deep, reassuring breath.Winnie.Everything feels like Winnie. Neat, practical, warm. I swallow hard at the implication. This is her home. She’s made it a home. I have a bedroom I barely think about, but Winnie has an entire home.
Her brother is sitting on the couch, inquisitive expression on his face, his phone all but forgotten in his hands.
“Hey. It’s Jesse, right?” I cross the room and hold out a hand. “I’m Case.”
“Yeah. I remember. You gave me your beer.” Right. Shit. Let’s add that to the list of disappointing things I’ve done to a member of the Sutton family. “You’re friends with Pax,” he continues, not noticing my inner turmoil.
I nod. “I just left him. He told me how to get this to your sister,” I say, holding up the excuse barn coat.
“He’s a good guy,” Jesse says, sounding grown. A smile presses against the corners of my lips when he stands to his full height, flexing his gangly limbs. “Winnie’s not here right now.”
It’s obvious he’s taking his measure of me, and I don’t mind. In fact, I’m sort of relieved. From all the grief this kid’s given his big sister, I expected him to be a selfish asshole. He might be that, but it’s clear he does care. Fuck’s sake,someoneneeds to.
“Braids mentioned that. I was going to drop this off, but sheinsisted I wait.” I search around awkwardly for something to say. “This is a nice place you have here.”
“Winnie,” Garrett says as explanation, confirming what I’d already guessed. “Once she started working at your ranch, she saved up a bunch of money and did a full remodel. Well, aesthetically, anyway.” I chuckle at her wistful expression and five-dollar word, though I suppose for a mini-genius, it’s more like a fifty-cent word. “Want to see our room?” she asks, already tugging my hand. “You can’t come in. It’s a rule. But you can look from the door. I cleaned it because it’s Friday, and if I clean my side of our room on Fridays, Winnie and I get to have a movie date with popcorn and M&Ms, and I get to pick the film.”
I spend a full minute oohing and aahing at the gold and pink décor of Garrett and Winnie’s room, impressed at their commitment to the theme. Sorry,aesthetic. I’m not a ten-year-old girl, but I think if I were, I would be pretty infatuated. I make a conscious effort to avoid studying the less glittery half of the tiny room. Too much, anyway. My eyes might linger on her simple floral bedspread and the imprint left behind on the pillow when its owner woke up this morning. Butthat’s it.
“And who is this?” A deep, mild voice comes from a short hallway off the kitchen, startling me from my reverie.
“Daddy! It’s Case Michaels. He rides bulls! And owns the ranch Winnie works at!”
Mr. Sutton is tall, dark-haired, and lanky with pale features and deep bags under his eyes. He looks freshly cleaned up, so I guess he must have just woken up for work. I make my way across the kitchen and hold out my hand.
“Hello, Mr. Sutton. I’m sorry to intrude. I came to return Winnie’s jacket. She left it behind today, and I thought she might need it this weekend.”
He takes my hand briefly and then searches the living space. “Where is she?” he asks, as if it’s only now occurred to him she’s not home.
Guilt creeps up my throat, but before I can confess anything, Jesse answers, “She just texted. She had something come up but is grabbing a couple of pizzas and will be home soon.”
Mr. Sutton glances at the clock and runs a tired hand through his hair. “Cutting it close,” he mutters.
It takes me a beat, but I realize he means about dinner. He was waiting for her to bring him dinner before work, and my stomach squirms uncomfortably.
