Page 2 of Now and Then

“Something like that.” I turn my focus to my bracelets.

My junior year of high school, I started going with Dad when he did his realty work. He let me trail behind him through showings, where he pointed out crown molding and bay windows like they were hidden treasures. I brought my sketchbook and filled it with drawings of room layouts, kitchen designs, and even, on occasion, a backyard.

Dad started talking about me joining his realty business. Then he started planning on it.

Somehow, without me really noticing, I blinked, and we were the Bradley Team—a father-daughter power duo who could sell a tree to a forest. We were unstoppable.

Then he died, and everything changed.

My phone buzzes next to me. I swear it never stops buzzing with phone calls, texts, and emails. I have this urge sometimes to throw it into a river, but that’s definitely not something the put-together, can-handle-anything Sutton who everyone knows would do.

I enter my password but get an error code. I try again. And again. On the fourth attempt, I finally unlock my screen. With a rapid swipe, the email disappears, and I pull up my text messages. I see “Wildflowers,” the name for the chat with my best friends. My heart grows heavy. I’m not in the mood to play sunny-side up Sutton tonight.

Navy: I’m bored. Want to hang out?

Greer: Yep. Luke’s on shift, so I’m in.

For a second, I consider not responding, but I know better. We may have known each other for only a few months, but I know how my friends work. They’ll text nonstop, or worse, they’ll come looking for me. I love them like sisters, but tonight, I don’t want to be found. Closing one eye to focus on the letters starting to swim in front of me, I relent and respond.

Me: Sorry, I’ve got a date with Don.

Greer: A date? You didn’t tell us you had a date.

Navy: Sutton’s like a vault. She doesn’t tell us shit.

Greer: Wait, Don as in DON Don?? Are you drunk?

“Not yet,” I mumble aloud. Mystery Man side-eyes me, so I give him a thumbs up. He shakes his head and manages a laugh but quickly returns to staring a hole into the counter.

Navy: She’s not drunk, G. Sutton never gets drunk.

Me: Why do you think that?

Navy: You’d never let alcohol make you out of control.

I toss the phone onto the counter, a little harder than intended, startling Mystery Man. I smile sheepishly, and he gives me a small, easy smile in return.

Navy’s right. Currently, I’m not the Sutton everyone knows. One by one, I tug all the threads of me, frayed and fluttering, and wind them back up onto their neat little spool.

Suddenly, the bar door flies open, the incoming breeze blowing a few red strands of hair that have fallen from my perfectly coiffed bun. A gold light illuminates the doorway, casting a man and woman in a hazy silhouette. Hairs prickle on the back of my neck.

I don’t need to see his face.

My body always knows when he’s around. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to suppress the butterflies that always fly up around him.

“You know those two?” Mystery Man looks toward the pair at the bar entrance.

“Yeah, I know them.” I scrunch down on the barstool and prop a menu in front of me, hoping he won’t see me. I’m not in the mood for butterflies tonight. They put a real damper on my wallowing.

Joe lowers the menu from my face. “You ordering food, Sutton?” His smile spreads from ear to ear as his eyes drift to the man at the door. “Maybe for two?”

Joe’s always been too observant, even for a bartender. A few weeks ago, I made the mistake of using him as a pseudo-therapist, confiding in him everything that had happened in Colorado. Well, almost everything.

“Not for two.” I snap the menu back in front of me. “I mean, yeah, sure.” My tone is softer now. “I’ll order for me.” I scan the menu trying to get the letters to organize themselves into actual words. “I’ll have, um . . .” Tequila thrums below the surface of my skin.

“The wings are good,” Mystery Man says. “I’ll share an order with you.”

Braving being seen, I tilt down the corner of the menu to look at Mystery Man. I close one eye to get him to stop moving. He’s removed his baseball hat, so I can actually see what was beneath its shadowed brim. He’s got soft, deep-set wrinkles near the corners of his eyes and dark hair. A few grays pepper his short beard, so he’s obviously older than me, but not by much.