Page 151 of Now and Then

“Well,” I whisper, kissing him again, softer this time, “get used to her.”

33

Sutton

Sunday always feels slower than the rest of the week, but today, the house seems determined to stretch the day even further. Soft winter light spills through the front windows, catching dust in the air while Hunter moves around the kitchen behind me. A slow country song plays softly in the background, both of us humming along as we make lunch.

I lean against the counter, watching him juggle a spatula, a soda pop, and the stubborn cast still wrapped around his wrist, like he’s trying to prove what a badass he is.

Yesterday still hums quietly under my skin. Easton’s offer. The possibility of something new. Instead of feeling overwhelmed and trying to map out my five-year business plan, I’ve been savoring the excitement.

Is this what it feels like to make a life-altering decision and immediately know it was the right thing to do?

Apparently so.

I feel calm. Certain. And a little like I’ve got the sun shining out of my chest.

I feel that way about Easton’s offer.

But I also feel that way about therapy.

Mom gave me the contact information for her therapist—Libby. In the end, I decided not to invade Mom’s space, but reached out anyway to see if Libby might know someone else taking new patients.

I didn’t expect a response until Monday, so I’m pleasantly surprised when my phone buzzes with a new voicemail. I read the message transcript. Her co-therapist, Jill, had a cancellation for the Tuesday after Christmas if I’m available, and she also wants to know if I’d prefer to meet in person or virtually. My stomach drops, but not out of fear. Anticipation. As hard as I know it’ll be, it’s far past time for someone to help me untangle all the things I buried in my heart all those years ago.

“Who’s that?” Hunter asks and shovels a giant bite of potato chips into his mouth.

“Just a voicemail.” I flip my phone over on the counter.

Yesterday, we spent the rest of the afternoon pouring over the contract and tossing around ideas for the future. Eventually, the panic over the open house kicked in, and I cleaned, polished, and Windex-ed every available surface in the house again, while Hunter disappeared out back to try to finish the yard.

It was a good day, and I didn’t want to bring the mood down with another round of my trauma. But looking at his handsome face now, I know it’s time I told him. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

His fork stops halfway to his mouth. Eyes lock on me. “Should I be worried?”

“No, you don’t have to be worried,” I say. “Nothing’s wrong. I actually think something might finally be right.”

He sets his fork down and reaches for my hands, but doesn’t interrupt.

“Mom and I talked a lot,” I say. “About everything. Dad. The breakup. The baby. Me. Us.”

His thumb stills against my knuckles. “And?”

I take a breath and pull my hands from his.

I can do this part on my own.

“I’m going to start therapy.”

For a moment, he just looks at me. Then his shoulders relax. “What made you decide that?” he asks gently.

“It’s actually something my mom said.” I sit back, warming my hands on my coffee mug. “She said she started therapy when she realized she had been depending on me for her healing more than she should have. And I think . . .” My throat tightens. “I think I’ve done the same with you.”

“Sutton, no, you—”

I place my fingers over his lips. “Yes, baby, I have.”

His eyes soften, and he places his hand over mine.