Page 157 of Now and Then

“Of course she does,” comes a loud voice from the hallway. Joe steps into the kitchen and wraps his arm around her shoulders. She looks particularly small under his embrace, eyes glistening at Joe’s obvious pride.

“Your dad would be so proud,” he says.

“Thanks, Joe.” Sutton’s voice catches.

Mr. Weeks exchanges a glance with his wife. “This”—he gestures around the house—“is exactly the kind of atmosphere we imagine for the bookstore.”

Sutton freezes for half a second. Then her whole face lights up. “Really?”

Mrs. Weeks nods. “It’s the kind of place people want to stay.”

Mr. Weeks wraps his hand around his wife’s waist and pulls her into his side. “After the holidays,” he says, “we’d really like to talk more about the Torn Pages project. I’m sure you’ll meet our daughter, Holly, sometime this evening.”

Across the room, Luke elbows me again. “You hear that?”

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. I’m so proud of Sutton. She’s animated and confident, explaining ideas and answering questions. Not second-guessing herself. She’s building the life she’s always wanted.

And it hits me all over again.

The house was never really the project.

Sutton was.

Luke takes a sip of his beer and nudges me with his elbow. “You’ve waited a long time for her.”

I glance toward the back of the house, where the yard sits hidden behind drawn curtains.

The back porch is complete, ready for Christmas morning.

I take another sip of beer and watch Sutton laugh with Joe and the Weeks as they talk design. If I’m not mistaken, I even hear Joe mention something about remodeling the bar.

For a long time, I thought loving Sutton meant being her anchor—holding her steady when the storm came.

But watching her now, I realize something.

She never needed someone to hold her in place.

She needed someone to be her lighthouse, someone willing to stand beside her in any storm . . .

And keep the light on.

35

Sutton

“It’s just you and me tonight, Don,” I say. Candlelight flickers along the marble countertops in our new kitchen as I twirl my glass around and around and around. The deep mahogany liquid spirals like my thoughts. I tap my phone screen. It’s three o’clock, and our families should be here any minute for Christmas Eve dinner.

Warm, smoky tequila hits my tongue. “Everything will be fine. I won’t ruin Christmas,” I tell the bottle, taking a slow sip and savoring the sweet notes of honey and cocoa.

This isn’t exactly how I pictured hosting my first holiday in our home, but here we are: me pep-talking alcohol.

Footsteps pad across the wood floor.

“You breaking up with Don again?” Hunter leans against the archway, deep-blue pearl snap fitted to perfection, eyes soft in that way that makes my stomach flip.

“Maybe,” I say, sliding the glass away. “He’s unreliable.”

Hunter crosses the kitchen, plucks the glass from my fingers, and takes a long sip. He hums in appreciation. “You doing okay in here?”