Page 70 of Sunshine

Iconsider myself a spiritual person, undoubtedly. There’s a general magic to life that continues to foster my belief in some higher power or higher truth. A Texas sunset in the fall is so beautiful it can bring you to your knees, and getting lost in nature is a sure comfort.

That said, I don’t consider myself to be religious. At least, it’s a truth I hold inside myself, because to actually let it out would be my great undoing as far as my mother is concerned. The concept is almost comical to me sinceshedidn’t seem very religious until she met Barry—but that’s not my judgment to make.

Even so, my family has attended the eight o’clock service at Blessed Harvest Church every single Sunday since Barry and my mother married, save for the one time in second grade when I was hit with the flu so bad I was allowed to stay home with my then-nanny, Brigitte. I’ve tried to get out of other services for various reasons but haven’t been successful since.

It’s not that I’m against the sermons—not exactly. I believe in much of what Pastor Brown imparts on our congregation, and I know it comes from a well-meaning place. It’s more that I feel surrounded by the stifling presence of hypocrites and gossip mongers who leave each service to spread the good “word” of town dirt with each other in the courtyard before heading home—my mother included.

When Jason and I started dating, I learned he went to the same service every week with his parents, too, but they usually attended the one at nine-thirty. It took a little convincing on his part, but soon the Moores shifted to the earlier service, and Jason and I found an ounce of freedom in getting to sit together on our own—usually somewhere toward the back.

Now that he’s gone, I’m forced to sit with my mother who chastises my posture and forces me to sing every hymn. Her expectation for Annie and I to be “good girls” only leads to resentment, because a performance by any eager parishioner hasnothingto do with the level of good they exude in their life, as proven by the die-hard congregants who now surround me in this pew.

“Focus, bug,” Mom murmurs from where she sits next to me, her string of pearls gliding along the floral dress she’s wearing as she leans toward me. She has this uncanny ability to correct me without ever tearing her focus away from Pastor Brown.

I sigh, adjusting my gaze away from old lady Maeve’s silver beehive hair and back toward the altar. We’re only halfway through the hour-long service—it never fails to feel absolutely endless.

A loud crash sounds from the back of the room, and the full congregation turns in tandem. A lone figurein a dusty cowboy hat stumbles backward into the nave from the lobby, a familiar black leather jacket smeared with dirt.

Rhett.

“Oh my word,” my mother whispers next to me as Barry groans out a sound of annoyance that matches others all around the room, and a soft murmuring ignites.

Rhett spins around, his face twisting into a burning anger unlike I’ve ever seen. It puts me on edge. “What!” he shouts. “What are you fuckers looking at, huh?!”

His words are slurred, and it’s clear that he’s drunk. He’s probably been at it all night if I had to guess. Pastor Brown’s voice sounds, a careful, “Are you okay, son?”

Rhett shoots a vicious glare at him. “I’m not your fucking son,” he spits. “You know who my father is.”

Pastor Brown simply nods, stone-faced. “Indeed I do.”

Rhett squares up. His eyes are bloodshot, and even as he straightens, he’s swaying on his feet. When he starts to march down the closest aisle like he’s going to do something with all that hostility, I shoot out of my seat on instinct.

“Layla,” Mom demands in a hushed voice, but I ignore her. I step right into Rhett’s path and throw my hands out to stop him.

“Hey,” I say gently. “What’s wrong, Rhett?”

His gray eyes slide to me, glassy and unfocused. “Get out of the way, Layla.”

I shake my head. “How about we go outside instead?” His chest heaves, probably with adrenaline, but he doesn’t say anything. So I brave a handful of steps forward until he’s just in reach, and then I wind my arm through his and carefully turn him around. I feel the sharp stares of every person in the room—it’s so quiet that I can hear Nosy Maeve clear her throat fromthe other side, but I ignore it. “What happened?” I ask Rhett quietly.

It’s enough of a distraction to loosen his shoulders. I keep my arm threaded through his, like this is nothing more than a casual walk between two people courting each other in some faraway kingdom. I know if I can get him back outside and away from all these people, we can avoid giving them all more to talk about.

He scrubs a hand over his face with his free hand, and I notice his knuckles are bloody and bruised. “It’s been a long night,” he says, his voice strained and gravelly like sandpaper. It’s clear he’s dehydrated; I can smell the stale liquor on his breath.

As soon as we clear the lobby and push through the stained-glass doors, the warm sun floods over our faces. I take a quick look around, but I don’t see his motorcycle anywhere in the parking lot—thank god he didn’t ride it here—so it’s safe to assume he walked. The ranch is a few miles out of town, but if I have to walk him all the way, I will. “I’m a good listener, you know.”

I feel him look at me, as if considering. Of all the Bennetts, I’m closest to Wells, and then probably Kasey from our time spent around the ranch last year. I’m around Rhett much more than Brooks or Sawyer—but I know him the least. He’s also the one who intimidates me the most. Right now, though, I just want to make sure he’s okay.

“Not interested,” he mutters dryly.

I nod, letting it drop as we walk arm in arm along the sidewalk. It’s quiet out—still early for a Sunday. Only half of the shops will open today, and most not before eleven. The gazebo comes into view and I can’t help but sneak a glance at Rhett.We all know the rumors, and it usually seems to trigger him, but right now he’s only focused on the road ahead.

The sound of a car approaches from behind us, and I find Gus behind the wheel of his white sedan, eyes glued to Rhett and me. It’s almost comical, the way he stares so intensely. Like he’s witnessing a crime.

“You don’t have to walk with me,” Rhett huffs out. He sounds dejected, and I can’t help the worry that creeps in.

“What do you mean?”

His laugh is without humor. “You don’t want to be seen with me.”

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