Page 18 of Sunshine

But I think a laugh does bubble out of my mouth, because Wells’s face twists into confusion.

“You were always the ladies’ man,” I say abruptly.

His brows knit together as his head rears back. His eyes narrow on me, like he’s examining me under a microscope. “What?”

I shrug. None of this matters. “You were the one who had a new girl on your arm every week. Maybe Jason learned some of your tricks.”

I watch as the insult lands and his anger takes hold. It’s a relief, honestly. At least it’s familiar. “Layla, what the fuck?”

My gaze drops to the floor in front of me as my eyes burn with a new wave of tears. “I want to go home.” I feel like I’m bleeding out, like the contents of my heart are puddling on the floor at my feet. I’m not sure I can take anything more tonight—especially not here. Not with him.

Wells doesn’t move for a long time, and the silence is deafening. But then I hear him inhale softly through his nose. “It’s late, Layla. Why don’t you just stay here tonight?” My eyes snap up to find his, and I can see how hard he’s trying to rein in his frustration. His cheeks are tinged pink and his jaw works in tandem with the hard look he throws me. “You can take the bed.”

I shake my head as I stand, knowing how bad of an idea it is. The fact that he’s even asking is beyond insane. “No, I—I can’t, Wells. It would be . . .” I don’t know how to finish the thought. It would be what? Inappropriate? To whom, Jason? My skin tightens around my body, unyielding in the way it squeezes me like a vise.

Jason is dead.

And it turns out he wasn’t exactly considerate in his actions when he was alive.

“Why do you want me to?” I dare to ask. I don’t even mean for the question to come out, but I’m so beyond exhausted I can’t think straight.

Wells takes a step closer, his hand closing around my arm. I think it’s meant to be reassuring, but his fingers are pressed tight against my flesh, as if he’s anchoring himself to me as much as I have to him tonight. “Because it’s cold,” he says simply. “Because you’re tired. You’ve had a terrible fucking day and an even shittier night. And because . . .” He pauses. “Because I want you to.” His deep brown eyes search mine, and I realize he’s nervous. “Take the bed, sunshine. I’ll sleep out here. We can figure the rest out in the morning.”

We.

As if this is ours to figure out.

I want to keep pushing back, but a thought stops me—if I go home, I have to face my mother. I have no doubt someone has already told her that her daughter threw up on some poor crying girl’s shoes. If I stay here, I can avoid talking about any of this. At least until the morning.

And Wells . . . he’s always been keen-eyed with me. It might be a temporary relief to share space with someone who actually understands the storm within my heart.

“Why do you call me that?” It’s not the first time I’ve asked, but he’s always avoided the question. I’m not sure what prompts me to try again now.

The smallest smile curls his lips, but it’s weighed down with sadness. “You still don’t know?” he asks, not unkind.

I shake my head. “No.”

His eyes fall to the collar of his jacket that hangs around my shoulders before skimming up my neck. “Hm,” he rumbles before he looks at me again. “Let’s save that for another time. Come on, I’ll get you settled.” He drops his hand away from my arm and moves toward a narrow hallway.

I consider my options for only a handful of heartbeats.

And then I follow him into the dark.

CHAPTER NINE

THEN

Football season in Saddlebrook Falls is a near holy experience. Come rain or shine, the town shows up every Friday night to support their beloved Mustangs. Whether it’s on our home turf or an away game, you can always count on a red wave in the stands to cheer on our varsity boys. Signs are posted on the doors and windows of businesses to note their closures—usually with a firm nudge to passersby that they, too, should be at the game.

There’s even a Saddlebrook Falls spirit committee that coordinates the logistics for things like rideshares for people to attend away games, a volunteer sign-up to bring snacks and drinks to those away games (because everyone refuses to spend their hard-earned dollars on another school’s concessions), and even to detail what’s been deemed the “mascot lottery,” which . . . is exactly what it sounds like. The list of eager participants who hope to be the Mustang mascot each Friday night hasgrown so long there’s no possible way that each person will have a chance to wear the suit, so there’s a weekly draw at Mustang’s Pizza to identify the lucky tribute.

Ideally, the volunteers for the mascot should be young and nimble and chock-full of energy—but in our town, even old man Gerry’s name is in that pot, even though last time his name was drawn he nearly needed hip surgery, thanks to all his gyrating on the sidelines. Still, his dedication to our beloved Mustangs knows no bounds, and he’s confirmed that as long as he’s still standing, he will support our boys.

Tonight’s the first game day of the season, and it’s taking place on our turf. The buzz for this game against the Tierra Vista Titans, one of our biggest rivals in the statewide division, has been next level. I peek out from behind the bleachers to see a bursting crowd in the stands, their excitement and hunger for a win palpable in the warm evening air. The nerves in my stomach set in as a handful of other girls join me in looking.

“You feel that?” asks Margot, one of the juniors.

“It’s wild,” Lizzie murmurs. David stands next to her, nodding as he wraps an arm around her.

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