Chapter 33

THIRTY-THREE

I’m approaching all of it with deliberate caution.

Not even so much consciously. It’s more that since I’m not going to let Sutton let me go, I’ve sort of realized that the task is going to be much easier if I don’t rock the boat too much.

If I don’t tell him I love him out loud, for example. Let’s face it, each and every time I’ve done it so far has ended with him breaking up with me, so I figure it’s just better to lock that crap up altogether.

Same goes for calling him my boyfriend out loud.

It’s just easier if I don’t.

There are some other words that I’ve vetoed.

Relationship.

Future.

Dating.

Couple.

Things like that. It’s just as a precaution. I mean, by all accounts we are in one, we have one, we’re doing it, and we are one, so it’s not really that important to say those things out loud.

I don’t need the words.

Just Sutton.

Things mostly go back to normal.

Mostly.

I’m a bit more tentative.

A bit more careful.

But mostly, things are back to normal.

Sex, for example, is definitely back to normal. Sex is easy. It always has been with Sutton. We fall into bed easily and everything clicks right back into place.

Maybe a bit more careful there too though, because of the words I don’t say. But mostly, it’s the same.

I stay the night. And the next. And then all the others after that. There’s not much discussion around me staying. It just sort of happens. And when I tentatively float the idea of going home for the night, Sutton simply quirks his brow and takes off his clothes. Or takes off my clothes. Or tells me to take off my clothes.

“It’s getting serious?” Jordan asks one Friday when Sutt and I are having dinner with them.

I glance toward the living room, where Sutton is battling it out with Theo in front of the TV, controllers in hands, exchanging mild insults. Laughing.

I turn back toward Jordan.

“Serious is not the right word,” I say. “He makes me laugh so much I don’t think serious is the word that applies here.”

Jordan sends me a curious look. “What would you call it then?”

“Real,” I say softly. “I think it’s getting real.”

I paint birds on his living room wall. It’s not intentional, which is a weird thing to say about something that is obviously executed with intent. It’s an idea. Something that pops into my head and spreads its roots through my brain until it’s anchored in place, and I can’t get rid of it.

I want to leave a mark.

Some kind of sign. Something physical that would take effort to get rid of.

Wren was here.

It marinates in my brain. This thought. This desire.

I buy acrylics and brushes.

There’s a bare white wall in the nook where Sutton’s dining table is. Right between the kitchen and a window. I zero in on that and walk around for a few days with that wall all over my brain. I’ve crossed out the verbal signs of me being here for the time being, but my fingers itch for something .

I give up eventually.

I paint birds on his living room wall early one morning when I can’t sleep. We went out last night with Steph, Quinn, and two of Steph’s friends—Jude and Blake—and stumbled into bed in the middle of the night, all hungry mouths and wandering hands.

Sutton fell asleep after with his head in the crook of my neck and his soft breaths on my skin.

I stayed up and thought about leaving a mark.

Eventually, I roll out of bed and pad into the living room. I get the paint and the brushes.

By the time Sutton stumbles out of bed sometime before noon, the once white wall is a mess of leaves and blooms and birds.

He wraps himself around me from behind and kisses the side of my neck.

“I should’ve asked you first,” I say.

He leans his chin on my shoulder. He’s silent for a long time. His arms tighten around me.

“It’s our home,” he says. “You never have to ask.”

It gets even more real.

When I get home, all the lights are off and everything’s quiet, but Sutton’s sneakers are lying by the wall like he’s tossed them off his feet.

“Sutt?” I call out after I’ve dropped my stuff on the bench and wandered farther into the living room.

“In here.”

I follow his voice into the bathroom.

He’s sitting in an empty bathtub, fully clothed. His head is dropped back, his eyes aimed at the ceiling. The only light is the faint glow from the street outside.

I go and crouch down next to the bath, covering the back of his hand with mine.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

He’s tense. Every line in his body is tense.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He chews on his words for a little bit before he lands on “Hiding.”

“From?”

“Myself,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna need you to do that thing where you don’t let me let you go.”

I have a lot of questions and no answers, but I try to prioritize.

I start by not letting him let me go.

Literally.

I climb into the tub and settle in between his legs, my back against his chest. I link my fingers with his and pull his hands against my chest.

We sit like that for a long time.

“I ran into my father today,” he says.

I have no idea what to say.

I squeeze his fingers.

“Every fucking time it happens, I think this city is too small for the both of us,” he continues tightly. “And then I feel like running.”

I make myself breathe.

“How come you didn’t?” I ask quietly.

He’s still rigid and tense behind me, but his words are soft.

“You put birds on my wall. And then I didn’t. There was a moment when I considered it. And then I started cycling through the possibilities. Where to go, right? Anywhere on the West Coast. Or maybe all the way across the ocean. New Zealand. But then my brain was all, ‘Yeah, but Wren has one more year of school left, so it’d be idiotic to ask him to transfer for that.’”

I lean my head back against his shoulder and look up at him.

“I would if it was really what you wanted. You know that, right?”

“Just… lie on top of me and keep me still?” he says with a smile that’s marginally closer to amused than tense.

“I can do that.”

So I press myself against him. Spread my fingers out on his arms and make myself as large as possible to cover as much of him as I can.

“He was with some woman,” he says after a little while.

I wait.

“It’s not the first time,” he continues. “He’s been married. After. Once. The divorce was quick. I went to see her before. I tried to tell her. She didn’t believe me.”

“That’s not on you,” I say.

“It feels like it is some days.”

“You can. I give you permission. Feel whatever you want. And then shake it off. Or cry it out. Or fuck it out. Whatever helps.”

He takes a few deep breaths, one right after another, his nose in my hair.

I melt against him just a bit more, if at all possible.

“I need you to know,” he says. “What you mean to me. I need to tell you. Right now. Because I need this day to be about something else. Something better.”

I nod wordlessly.

He takes my hand and links our fingers, then presses them against my chest, right where my heart is beating.

“I love you,” he says.

I take a deep breath and let it all out with a huge gush.

“I love you too.”

This time nobody runs.

Instead, he smiles against my cheek and nods.

“That’s good.”

And it is.

Endlessly, wonderfully good.

This is Wren, who loves Sutton.

And this is Sutton, who loves Wren.

It’s all so easy after all.