Page 45 of Sunshine

“How’d you sleep?”

I shrug. “Really good, I think. I hardly remember even going to bed.”

He arches a brow. “Well, it was kind of a tough night.”

“Yeah . . . thanks for that,” I say, and I mean it. “I cried all over your shirt.”

His smile widens. “Trust me, I’m not offended.”

I laugh, shifting on my feet.

And then I realize I’m not wearing any pants.

My head falls as I visually assess this new and confounding update, and I see that I’m wearing an oversized Wild Coyote T-shirt that falls mid-thigh. Then I remember.

“Here,” he says, picking up my bag. “I’ll bring this to the bathroom.”

I throw a hand out to stop him, pressing an open palm softly against his chest. “No, it’s okay,” I say. “I don’t think I have the energy for my usual before-bed routine. I’m just going to sleep in my clothes.”

Wells’s brow dips as he lowers the bag back to the ground. “You can’t go to sleep in jeans, Layla.” But the look I give him must be convincing enough, because he relents. “Here then.” He pulls out a dark green shirt from the top of his bag and holds it out for me. “Wear this.”

“Oh,” I say now. “I, um . . .” I look back up at Wells and find his focus caught on my legs. “I’m sorry,” I rush out as I dart away, face burning with embarrassment. “I need to give this back to you!” I march toward the bathroom, praying last night’s clothes are still where I left them. I shut the door behind me with a soft thud.

“I’m just going to run a coffee to Kasey,” I hear him call from the hallway. “I’ll be back in five.”

“Sounds good!” I shout, doing what I can to getoutof this shirt. The back of my hand hits the wall with a loudwhack, and I hear boots shuffle closer.

“You okay?” Wells asks. His voice echoes like it’s mere inches away from the door.

“Fine! Just . . . hit my hand.” I tug on myownshirt from where I found it folded and stacked on my jeans.

“Okay,” he says. And then I hear him move away as he leaves the room. The metal door clicks shut, and I let out an exhale.

By the time he comes back in a few minutes later, I’m seated at the foot of the freshly made bed with my bag ready and waiting at my feet. “Hi,” I say cheerfully, doing my best to stamp away any awkwardness that sharing a bed or wearing his shirt might produce. I take a long sip of the coffee he left behind for me and try not to make a face at how bitter it is.

His eyes bounce to mine, warm and yet . . . distant. “Hey. Kasey’s ready to go whenever we are.”

“I’m ready.” I nod.

“Okay.” He scoops up my bag and I stand to follow him out the door, but just as he reaches for the handle he pauses, turning around.

“I think you should find someone to be there for you,” he says quickly, as if he’s rehearsed the line all morning.

“What?” I ask, my brain working to assign meaning to the words.

“I think,” he repeats, slower and a bit more carefully, “you should find someone to be there for you. And I’m not sure that it should be me.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“Because I . . .” He pauses, eyes falling to the ground. “I don’t think I can be what you need. Not right now, at least. And I-I need some time. To deal with everything.”

Just like that, the wounds reopen.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, confused. “I shouldn’t have gotten so emotional?—”

“No,” he interjects, eyes rising back to mine. A morning sunbeam lights up half his face, and I notice how tired he still looks, and I’m worried it’s partly because of me. “I’m not saying that, Layla. But I think we’re both going through a lot right now, and it’s all really heavy andhardand . . . I think it might be better if we processed it apart.”

I nod, hoping he can’t see the shame burning bright beneath my skin. “Yeah, okay,” I agree, even though the sentiment carves new fissures in my already fractured heart. “I totally get what you mean.”

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