Page 37 of P.S. I Miss You

“Nope. Only child,” I say.

“So they spoiled the hell out of you.” He states it like it’s an undisputed fact.

“Not at all.” If he only knew. “They made me work for things. I had a job the day I turned sixteen. And growing up, when all my friends would have six-figure birthday parties with celebrity guest appearances, mine would be in Gram’s backyard with close friends and family. Maybe a face painter or balloon animal guy, but nothing extravagant. My parents definitely live in their own little bubble and trust me, they know how to vacation like a couple of filthy rich Americans, but they’re not flashy people. They’re not obnoxious.”

“That’s … that’s actually refreshing to hear.”

“You’re shocked.”

He turns to me, but only for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I am.”

I glance out the passenger window and realize out here, I can see every single star against a canvas of night, like everything is suddenly becoming clearer.

“Can I ask you something?” I turn his way and he shrugs. “Where’s your mom? Why doesn’t she have your brother?”

His full lips merge and his nostrils flare, and I immediately regret asking.

“Gone.”

Folding my hands in my lap, I stay quiet. I don’t pry. If that’s all he wants to give me, then I won’t push it. It’s none of my business, even if the nagging curiosity in me is screaming to ask more questions.

“She left when Tuck was two,” he volunteers. “Just up and left. Didn’t want to be a mom anymore, I guess. Or it was just too hard with Tuck not being able to hear and trying to teach him sign language while trying to learn it herself. Who knows. Anyway, she was working at a bank. Had a client who came in all the time. He asked her out. He had money. He was her ticket out. And she took it and ran with it.”

“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” Some quick math tells me he would’ve been about fifteen when his mom left.

“Yeah, well, she’s a horrible person. We’re all better off without her.” He checks his rearview mirror as a car approaches and passes us.

I try to picture a teenage Sutter. I try to imagine the deep abandonment she threaded into his young heart by walking out on them, his father taking to the bottle to cope, Sutter taking over the raising of Tucker and learning sign language, and having no support system of any kind, at least not in his immediate family.

No wonder he’s so coldhearted.

We only feel what we’ve been taught to feel.

Sutter slows as we approach an intersection ahead with a blinking yellow light and a sign that says, “Welcome to Valle del Sol.” Three minutes later, he pulls into a small trailer court, parking outside a pale blue trailer with a small, junk-covered wooden porch on the side.

“Stay in here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sutter leaves me with that before climbing out.

As I watch him go inside like some fearless hero in an action movie doing what needs to be done because no one else can, my body is flooded with a strange warmth. I don’t know what it means. And I don’t know if I want to know what it means.

Even if his kisses are fire and his touch is dynamite and he’s starting to grow on me the more I peel back those layers … I don’t suspect he’d ever let me in. His heart is too damaged. Wrapped in scar tissue and padlocked for good measure.

Less than five minutes later, Sutter and his little brother emerge, a backpack slung over Tucker’s left shoulder. His eyes lift and meet mine from the other side of the windshield and he gives a small wave.

The ride home is quiet, but my thoughts are loud.

It’s late when we get home, almost midnight, and I head upstairs to change and find Murphy. When I get back, I see the two brothers having a silent conversation in the living room. Tucker sighs, hands on his hips, as his big brother signs something about sleeping on the couch.

Tucker signs back that the couch gave him a backache last time. Sutter tells him to man up. Tucker’s movements are harder, his expression pinched. He really doesn’t want to sleep on the couch.

“He can have my bed,” I intervene. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Sutter tells me. “He’s slept on the couch a hundred times before.”

I know it’s not my place, but I can’t help myself. “He had a rough night and if he needs a good night’s rest, I’m more than happy to give up my bed.”

Sutter pinches the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes.

We’re all exhausted.

“Please?” Tucker signs to his brother.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sutter says.

“Obviously.” Murphy squirms out of my arms, and I let him down, following after he scampers to the back door. When I come back a few minutes later, Tucker is gone—in my room, I assume—and Sutter is sitting on the sofa.

---