Page 48 of Sunshine

I throw myself into the distraction of cheer tryouts, but I know even in that gym I’m a mess. My tumbling is sloppy, my flying stiff. It’s enough that Coach West pulls me aside on Wednesday after I nearly kick another girl in the face mid-toss.

“Layla,” she hisses, narrow eyes sharp. “What the hell’s gotten into you? You’re better than this.” Her words both move me and destroy me. I may have made the varsity team last year, but Coach didn’t give me much one-on-one attention. Her style is to lead through the senior captains, so most of us don’t have a whole lot of interaction directly with her. I always assumed I flew under her radar as one of the youngest on the team, so for her to know me well enough to notice I’m off my game—it warms some of the cold numbness in my chest.

By the end of the week, there’s a layer of exhaustion that’s settled over the heartbreak. Coach gives us a similar speech as she did last year and my fate on this squad is at her mercy—I won’t find out if I lost my place until Monday.

Regan finds me after Coach releases us. “You in for tonight?”

I stare at her blankly. “In for what?”

“Connor’s party. According to David, he throws it every year.”

“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know . . . I’m not really in the mood, Ray.”

“Comeon,” she insists, her expression softening. “What better way to get over a heartbreak than to throw yourself into some fun?”

She has a point, which is how, four hours later, I find myself in Connor’s kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a plastic cup half full of fruit punch.

Just like last year, the crowd is heavy, and the music is so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. But after finding the bottle of liquor, I figured it was as good a time as any to see what all the fuss is about. I lift the bottle to my lips and take a greedy gulp at the same time Connor walks into the kitchen.

The whiskey burns the entire way down my throat, eliciting a wet cough that makes Connor laugh as I try to chase it down with the fruit punch. “Woah there, cowgirl. You’re not used to drinking the hard stuff, are you?”

My neck flushes hot from embarrassment, but I do my best to school my face into indifference. “So?”

He shrugs, a crooked smile climbing up the side of his face. “What’s the occasion?”

I wipe the back of my hand across my lips. “What do you mean?”

He nods to the bottle. “The whiskey. You celebrating something?”

If you only knew. I’m unsure how to answer, so I shake my head and twist the cap back on the bottle.

Connor studies me for a moment before he looks around the party. “Jason here with you?”

Again, I shake my head. “No. We—” I break off. I can’t seem to force myself to say it out loud.

But Connor must understand because he lets out a low “Oh. I’m sorry.”

I shrug, twisting the cap back off the bottle so I can take another swig. He watches me with curiosity as I attempt another large gulp of the amber liquid—I don’t cough this time, but my eyes still water from the inferno rushing down my throat. I look around the kitchen for Regan, but I don’t see her anywhere.

“It’s his loss, though,” Connor says.

“Yeah?” I ask. “How so?”

Connor’s eyes sweep down my body. “I mean,” he says. “Look at you.”

I’m sure Connor means well—he’s not a bad guy. But my body bristles at his words and I take a step back to put some space between us. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s not enough,” I say with a small smile. I don’t mean for it to come out like that; Jason said he wanted to focus on football and that it wasn’t about me. But it feels good to let out a little kernel of truth, that I feel like I’ve somehow failed. “I’m going to go find Regan,” I say, turning toward the living room with the bottle clutched in my hand.

The effects of the whiskey start to blur the edges of my vision, and I welcome the feeling as I move through the crowd of people, looking for Regan. I’m almost at the back door when I accidentally clip someone’s shoulder.

“Oops, sorry!” I shout over the booming music.

Wells.

His eyes narrow as soon as he sees that it’s me. “Layla?”

“In the flesh.” I hold out both arms as if to prove to him it’s me.

He spots the bottle in my hand. “What are you doing here?”

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