Page 89 of Sunshine

“Look at me,” Wells says, cupping my face in his hands. I turn my focus to the slope of his jaw and the column of his throat. He pulls my hand over his chest, over his heart. “Feel that?” he asks. I nod, the pounding against my palm leveling my own pulse. “That’s it,” he praises. “Now breathe.” He inhales deeply, his chest rising as it fills with air, and I close my eyes and do the same.

“No.” His hands are back on my face. “Look at me.” I do, and he breathes in again. This time, I focus on the golden flecks in his eyes as I pull air into my chest. Oxygen floods back through me, such a sweet relief, and I follow Wells’s lead as he exhales and takes in another breath.

“Good girl.” He smiles, kissing my cheek. “Keep going.”

For the next five minutes, we watch each other as I breathe, the panic inside of me lessening in intensity but never leaving.

“I’m scared,” I finally admit after my heart slows back to normal.

His brows pinch. “Of what?”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “Of losing you, too.”

He shakes his head vehemently, sliding his hands to my waist and pulling me in closer so that my hips areflush with his. “I’m not going anywhere, Layla,” he murmurs. “I’ll wait here forever if I have to.”

And when he leans in to capture my mouth, I’m enraptured by the feel of him all around me, enveloping me in so much love and care that I can’t possibly walk away from this for good. Not when he’s everything my heart craves, everything my soul needs tofeellike this again.

“I have to leave first thing in the morning,” I say as his fingers graze under my shirt.

“How about second thing?” he whispers, kissing me again, like our impending goodbye isn’t clawing at him the way it is me. But I know he feels it.

When we move to his room neither of us sleeps, lost in the weight of each other and our mutual fear of what tomorrow brings. And when the morning light finally shines through the window, he makes good on his promise to distract me for as long as he can before we finally rip ourselves from his bed.

On the way to the airport, I ask him to drop me off at the curb—I can’t bear to keep this going any longer. If he comes inside and walks me to the security checkpoint, I don’t trust myself to go through it. It’s obvious he wants to protest, but he holds himself back and relents.

For me.

His face is tight as he parks at the terminal, jumping out to grab my suitcase from the back. He meets me on the sidewalk and buries his face in the crook of my neck as a low, guttural sound escapes from somewhere in his chest.

I wind my fingers through his messy hair as my tears begin to fall. “We got this,” I whisper, holding him close. “We can do this, Wells.”

He pulls back to look at me, his eyes red-rimmed and lashesdamp, before disentangling himself from my arms. “Call me when you get there?” he asks as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Carhartt jacket.

“Promise,” I say, giving him one more smile before I turn to walk through the automatic doors.

And I cry the entire trip back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

FOUR MONTHS LATER

My appointment with Professor Zhang only takes twenty minutes.

I sit in the same worn leather chair I’ve sat in four times now, my shoulders vibrating with excitement as we plan out classes for my next semester at NYU. It’s hard to sit still, hard not to beg him to just sign off on the damn paperwork so I can move on with my plan.

He looks at me from the other side of the mahogany desk, his eyes bouncing back and forth between my face and the piece of paper in front of him. “Are you sure about this?” he asks once more in his thick northeastern accent.

I turn to my copy of the paper—the same schedule he’s looking at—and nod, certain. “Yes,” I confirm. “More than sure.”

His smile is friendly as he sits back in his leather chair, his tweed coat shifting over his chest. “Okay, then. You’re all set, Miss Hayes. I’ll check in with you at the start of the new yearand make sure things are going well—but, I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t be. You’re a gifted student, and you’re doing very well for yourself. Keep up the good work.”

I beam. “Thank you so much . . . for everything.” I reach out to shake his hand. And then I stand to leave, eager to get back to my shoebox of a dorm and keep moving all of this along, knowing what’s waiting for me at the end.

Outside, the afternoon air is warmer than usual, and the smell of coffee wafts from all the cafés that line this part of campus. The street is crowded with students navigating to their last finals of the semester and there’s a collective anticipation of summer break that I feel deep in my stomach. I finished my last final this morning—a two-hour assessment on the ethics and practice of investigative journalism—and now all I can think about is gettingoutof this city.

I hurry back to my building on the other side of campus, pushing the elevator button with a wave of impatience.Sixteen more hours, I think.Only sixteen more hours until I board that plane home.When the elevator still doesn’t chime, likely caught in the traffic of students coming and going to make it to class, I exhale a frustrated breath and beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time to the sixth floor.

By the time I reach it, I’m flushed and out of breath, but I don’t care. I have fourteen hours to pack up my life here and say goodbye to the friends that have turned into family. My stomach flips at the thought, knowing how close I am. I ache for the dust and spring wildflowers, for the thundering sound of running horses.

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