Page 9 of Sunshine

I imagine Jason and I would have come in here someday, long into our future, as we fought against some irritatingly warm summer night in our small first home together. Jason would throw his arm around my shoulders, holding me close as we ordered the coldest beer they had. But now it’s nothingmore than a daydream—a sharp, painful realization that the future I always imagined would never unfold.

Forcing myself back into the present, I wonder if maybe this was the only place that could hold so many people on such short notice. Lord knows the whole town will show up for Jason, as they did for his funeral. Everyone in Saddlebrook Falls loved him, thanks to his success on the field every Friday night and the success of his father as mayor. The Moores were practically town royalty.

I take a measured breath, finally lifting my gaze to take in everyone already here, and my eyes immediately snag on a man sitting at the bar. He’s wearing a black collared shirt with the buttons undone at the neck. His hair is tousled, like he’s been winding his fingers through it all day. Thick clumps of it fall across his brow, and his eyes . . . Even from here I can see the unyielding pain they carry.

But there’s a flicker of . . . something, when he turns his head and those eyes find mine.

Wells.

I haven’t seen him in about a year. He looks . . . different. Older. Like his edges have been sharpened, his boyish features honed into the shape of a man.

Wells has always been a force, standing well over six feet tall with a body like a brick house. It’s what made him a powerhouse on the football field—he’s the best offensive tackle to ever represent our team, slamming against the brute force of the defense to protect his quarterback with a wild, untamed power.

He never let anyone get past him. Never let anyone touch Jason.

A sigh spills out of my lungs as I stop walking. I didn’t seehim this afternoon—had he been there? There’s no way he missed his best friend’s funeral, right? I resume my steps, slowly making my way toward him, noticing the way the corners of his mouth fall as I approach.

“Wells,” I say, watching as he takes a long pull on the bottle of beer he’s holding on to for dear life. A black cowboy hat rests atop of the bar next to him.

He turns to look at me again, the red glow from a nearby neon light reflecting in his brown eyes. God, the effect is damning—he’s liquid smoke. “Layla,” he says back, his voice gruff and throaty.

“I didn’t see you earlier.”

“Yeah?” he grumbles. “Well, I was there.”

He sounds annoyed. Like, of all the things he’s dealing with today, he doesn’t want me to be one of them. An ache pulses through my chest at his biting tone. It’s old and familiar—a wound from a past life. After being so wholly numb for the past few days, I’m surprised by it.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” I try.

He grunts, his eyes falling to the mouth of his bottle. “Yeah. Not since New Year’s.”

That’s right. Last year, the three of us drove out to the beach and made a bonfire to celebrate. We got drunk on PBR and a bottle of whiskey and slept under the stars. My mother about had my head for it.

His eyes move to my cheek and I reach a hand up. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I feel the dampness beneath my fingertip. I’ve cried so much in the last three days, I almost don’t know what it’s like not to. “Shit,” he says, handing me a napkin.

“So,” I continue, as if I’m not a broken fucking mess, “how have you been?”

He narrows his eyes at me like I’ve asked a ridiculous question. And I suppose I have, but seeing Wells here—it feels like something I can hold on to. Something of Jason’s. Something from . . . before. And now that I have it, I don’t want to let go.

He turns his gaze to focus straight ahead of where he sits, and I find myself cataloging the side of his face. It’s only now, from this new angle, that I see the faint purple shadows beneath his eyes that match my own, the days’ worth of stubble along his cheek. He looks like he hasn’t slept since . . . well, since.

“Kasey, get me a shot,” he calls out to the man behind the bar, and I look over. Sure enough, it’s Wells’s older brother.

Kasey gives Wells a hard look. “I think you’ve had enough today.”

Wells scoffs. “I don’t give a shit what you think. Pour me a fucking shot.”

Kasey frowns but relents. He pours a finger into a lowball glass and slides it in front of Wells. His eyes are kind when he slides his gaze to me. “Layla, it’s good to see you, sweetheart. You want one?”

Wells scoffs again. “Layla doesn’t know how to drink whiskey.”

Flashes of passing the bottle around the fire swim in my head. Wells said the same thing then, and I’d tried to prove him wrong—until I was bent over puking into the ocean, shoulders trembling from the force of it.

I ignore him, nodding my head. “Yes please.” I watch as Kasey pours a second shot then places it on the bar for me. “Thank you,” I say, before I pick it up and down the whole thing.

Wells stares at me for a long moment before he picks up his own glass, spilling the contents into his mouth. His throat works as he swallows. “Layla,” he starts again. “We don’t have to pretend to like each other now, okay? I know we tried for Jason, but . . .” He scrubs his hand over his face. “We don’t have to anymore.”

I feel the insult like a knife to the chest. Wells and I didn’t exactly have a conventional friendship; like oil and water, we never mixed well. But I do care about him, and he damn well knows it. Just like I know he cares about me.

---