Page 17 of Lovefool

“I’m so sorry, Sutton,” I blurt out. “I didn’t mean to stand you up. I got arrested Friday for protesting on campus grounds, and then my mom bailed me out and she was pissed, and then I had to clean the entire house as a punishment, and then⁠—”

He blinks a few times. “Hold on, you were arrested?”

I can’t help but feel embarrassed that I even put myself in that situation knowing I had plans that night. This apology had to happen eventually, but I hadn’t considered how it would affect Sutton’s perception of me.

To be fair, we did meet when I was doing something recklessly stupid and borderline illegal.

Heat pools in my cheeks as my throat works with a weak swallow. “I never would’ve stood you up on purpose. I even DMed you on Instagram, but I never heard back. I was excited to meet you that night. I was just being reckless and impulsive, and my big, fat mouth landed me behind bars.”

Instead of going all Terminator on me—not that Sutton gives off that vibe—concern steeps in the hard-set features of his face, and his gaze searches mine for any noticeable crack in my impenetrable mask—any sliver of truth that my tongue refuses to divulge.

“Shit, I haven’t had the chance to check my socials.”

As much as Sutton calms the storm inside of me, he doesn’t deserve to be pulled into my mess. The brontide that’s always a snap away, the fluctuating mood swings. Perhaps the world did me a favor by placing me in time-out—perhaps it did Sutton a favor.

Following regular Sutton fashion (which I’m picking up pretty quickly), he’s more concerned with the schematics of my stay rather than the heartache of my vanishing act. “Are you hurt?”

His gloved hands magnetize to my arms immediately, and he begins inspecting my body like I’d have physical bruising rather than a million paper cuts on my soul.

I try to wiggle out of his iron-tight grasp. “I’m fine.”

Alleviate his worry, Lake.

“This has happened before,” I quickly tack on, except my well-intentioned tidbit of information only makes his grip tighter.

Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.

Sutton stares deeply into my eyes, as if he believes it’s possible to peel back my hard outer shell layer by layer. I suppose he can’t fathom getting in trouble with the law. That boy has a golden moral compass, and mine is more like a poor man’s version of a casino wheel. Sutton would have to do something astronomically horrible to land himself in jail.

“You should have called me. I would have come.”

“It’s fine. My mom picked me up.”

“It’s not fine.”

While his concern is appreciated, it’s kind of unnerving. Nobody’s ever given a shit about me besides my mom. And Ellaria. But regaling my well-intentioned friend with tales from the holding cell would send her into a spiral. She doesn’t do well with conflict, or the law. When I got incarcerated the first time (for a brief overnight stay), Buford was out partying with his friends and didn’t even bother to ask if I was okay after the whole ordeal.

“I mean, it’s not my first choice, but Drunk Dina usually has some fun stories to tell,” I joke, which doesn’t, in fact, lighten the mood.

Sutton is just standing there—with an adorable crease between his eyebrows—and his eyes darken to a shade I’ve never seen before. It’s a drastic hue shift, and it would be terrifying if I wasn’t aware of the intent behind it. A muscle in his jaw feathers, as if he’s actively navigating how to best approach my pathetic employment of a coping mechanism.

However, instead of pelting a barrage of questions at me with no ceasefire, he only vocalizes one. “But you’re okay, right?”

It’s a simple question with a simple answer. Physically? Yes. Mentally? Uh, mentally, I’m face down in the gutter somewhere after a bender with no recollection of the night before and only a Mardi Gras bead necklace to show for it.

I can’t scare Sutton away. I’ve already made one terrible choice, and contrary to popular belief, I like him a lot. He’ll definitely run for the hills if I start offloading my baggage onto him. Plus, I need to think about my ambitions in the long run. Curating a peaceful workplace environment while I’m interning at Hockey Camp 101 is crucial to the success of the articles. So, it’s in everyone’s best interest if I save the tragic backstory for my therapist.

“I’m okay. I was in and out of there fairly quickly,” I tell him.

He doesn’t look very convinced, and he gives me a once-over that I wish was under a sexier context. It’s like he’s trying to sound a containment breach and wiggle his way into my airtight security. Nobody gets past Biohazard Level 4 without clearance.

With a sigh, I present my arms to him, turning them over so he can assess the extent of the nonexistent damage. “See? Fresh as a daisy. You have nothing to worry about, Sutton. It won’t happen again.”

Shadows cling to the beautifully sculpted angles of his face, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice that sounds like it’s been filed down by weary reminiscence, slowly dulled to a point where it loses its vitality.

I inch closer to him, grabbing his hand and interlocking it with mine. The glove is a clunky barrier, but it’s the gesture that brings color back to his face.

I pout. “You’re too young for worry lines.”