I hesitate before getting out.
“You coming?” Sutton asks gently.
I nod, but the knot in my stomach tightens. Something about this whole setup smells wrong.
Too polished. Too perfect.
And I’ve learned when people work this hard to look clean, it’s because they’re already covered in dirt.
The boutique smells like leather, cedarwood, and something faintly floral—probably one of those overpriced candles by the register. The floors are reclaimed wood, the walls lined with distressed shelves holding jeans, boots, and every kind of plaid known to man. It looks as if Pinterest threw up in here.
Sutton smiles at the woman behind the counter, who greets her like an old friend, then steers me toward a rack of denim.
“Alright,” she says, clapping her hands together. “We need to get you jeans that actually fit, boots that don’t look like they’re plotting to kill you, and a few shirts that won’t get you heatstroke by noon. As well as a few summer dresses and event gowns.”
I eye the price tag on the first pair of jeans and nearly choke. “I think I’d rather die in the boots.”
She laughs. “John said not to worry about cost.”
The way she says it makes me feel even worse. I swallow hard and shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “This feels… weird.”
“Because it is,” she admits, giving me a gentle look. “But you’re family now, whether you like it or not. And family takes care of each other.”
I want to tell her family—real family—doesn’t exist in my world. But I keep my mouth shut. There’s something about Sutton that makes it hard to snap. I know she means well.
Still, old instincts are hard to kill. My only family chose the needle over me. I’ve learned everything comes with a price and a string attached.
I trail behind her as she pulls clothes from racks with practiced ease. She doesn’t push when I barely give opinions. Only hands me options with a soft smile, filling her arms with denim and cotton, soft flannels, and to my horror, dresses.
After a while, I find myself in a dressing room, stripping off my sweat-soaked shirt and pulling on a fresh one. The fabric is soft. Too soft. It makes me itch in a way that has nothing to do with the material. Like I’m wearing someone else’s life.
“Everything okay in there?” Sutton calls through the door.
“Yeah,” I answer, voice flat. “Still alive.”
Her laugh is muffled. “Take your time.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at me looks like a stranger—dressed in crisp jeans, a flowy blouse, hair pulled into a messy knot.
For a second, I let myself imagine it: a version of me which belongs here. A version that wasn’t raised on fear and disappointment.
But it’s gone as fast as it comes.
I exhale sharply and change back into my own clothes.
By the time we check out, Sutton piles the bags into the arms of one of the ranch hands while the other walks a slow circle around the SUV, eyes sweeping the parking lot.
“Still expecting an ambush?” I ask, unable to keep the bite out of my voice.
Sutton’s mouth tightens. “It’s protocol.”
“Right. Protocol for what, exactly?”
Her eyes flick to mine, but she doesn’t answer as she opens the SUV door and gestures for me to climb in.
The drive back is quieter. Tension hums beneath the surface, the weight of unspoken truths pressing in from every angle.
I stare out the window, one hand resting on the shopping bags by my side and wonder how long I’ll be able to pretend this is normal.
