The Difference Between Getting and Needing

f o u r t e e n

cold feet turned into cold weather,
we had love, now it don't m a t t e r . . .

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"I'm sorry."

A voice came from behind me that I couldn't mistake for anyone else's but Sutton's.

The plate I was scrubbing at the sink in the kitchen nearly slipped from my fingers at the sound. It was hushed, but I was sure I heard it. Aside from seeing Gus, it was the literal last thing I expected to happen tonight.

My whole body jerked around, still holding the dish in one hand and a sponge in the other. Suds went flying.

Sure enough, Sutton was standing right before my eyes. Her chic lilac blouse that was only accented with lace inserts and shell buttons now had stray bubbles scattered along the front of it. Instead of predictably stabbing me with one look, the corners of her lips surprisingly quirked upwards.

"Huh?" I grunted. It was the only response I could manage to get out.

"At the party," she airily chuckled, "For how I screamed at you."

My dumbfounded expression remained. "What?"

Sutton crossed her arms over her slightly soapy shirt, scoffing, "You know what I'm talking about."

"Oh." I pretended to have a sudden realization. I was testing her to see if she'd give me a more heartfelt apology. It was worth a shot. "When you almost bit off my head for 'sabotaging' your party?"

"Yes," she said, tentative like she didn't want to admit that as her eyes darted away from mine.

I hummed.

When I turned back around to finish up the dishes, Sutton let out a childish whine. Evidently, she was unhappy with where this conversation was going, which made sense. The girl hardly ever saw a day where things didn't go her way.

I wasn't sure what she expected of me. Drop to the floor, kiss her feet, and praise her? Brush off everything she's put me through for this wedding and say "it's okay"? Ignore the fact that she publicly gave me the reprimanding of the century all because of an honest mistake?

I'd admit I was a People Pleaser. Anyone in my life knew I seldom said no. My life occupation should have been the guy that poured concrete on rough roads – smoothing everything over in order to make everyone happy.

I wasn't proud to be a doormat (often confused with an angel or saint), but that was just me. I had been that way all my life and I didn't know if I could ever change it. For a fleeting moment, I felt like trying it out. It couldn't hurt, though I knew it wouldn't last long and Sutton wasn't going down without a fight. One that she'd inevitably win.

She was next to me then, leaning a hand against the counter with the other on her hip from what I could see in my peripheral vision. "Come on, Bayla. You know that party was stressful for me. I was under a lot of pressure," she started off with the excuses, silvery-toned and close to convincing. If I wasn't her sister, I would've believed it.

"Yeah, because the rest of us weren't stressed out. Just you," I uttered without even looking at her.

I was too focused on not shattering my mom's vintage, priceless tableware she saved for special occasions that I was trying to wash in peace. The more Sutton spoke, the tighter my grip got.

"As the bride, I think I get a free pass on being the most stressed."

I couldn't help but let the fork in my hands fall. The clang it made against the stainless steel sink had my mom hollering from the other room in question of what it was.