“Yes,” I say.
He does love me. I know it. I’ve told Sutton he loves me, so why it hits me so hard right now is anybody’s guess.
But it does.
He loves me.
We’re quiet after that.
Jordan holds the donuts out for me once again, and almost out of reflex, I take one. And since I already have it, I eat it.
And all the while, little scraps of this conversation keep circling in my head. They start in my brain and travel down my spine, spreading out inside me.
He loves me.
They collect the jagged shards and pieces of me and tape them back together, carefully and patiently.
He loves me.
The lump that’s been lodged in my throat goes down alongside the pieces of strawberry donut.
He loves me.
But.
You can’t fix people. I can’t fix him. I can’t make Sutton better. I can’t make him forget.
I’d say I wish I could go back. To that moment before I told him I loved him. But that’s not really true either. Not anymore.
Having him for now would never be enough. Not when I want everything and for real.
It’s a conviction.
A knowing.
It settles in my bones and bloodstream.
I have to stand my ground.
And weather the storm.
THIRTY
Sutton Holland has always thought that if there was one thing he’s good at, it’s pretending.
He has a lifetime of practice under his belt, after all. As far as acting like everything is normal goes, he’s been putting up Oscar worthy performances for years. He’s like a fucking Meryl Streep.
If you always have to hide everything… well, you get really fucking good at pretending. To the point where it’s difficult to distinguish the act from reality.
Even if the audience is just you.
And yet… it’s different now.
Pretending used to come naturally.
At least before, it felt still like him living his life, just putting a favorable spin on the truth. Now he feels like an understudy. Somebody who was never meant to take on the role. A body double. And he expects the director to step onstage any moment now and call the whole thing off. So he can go back to his real life.
The one with Wren.