Page 58 of Sunshine

“What did you mean, then?”

“Just . . .” He trails off, his eyes dropping to my mouth before quickly changing course to the left, somewhere in the trees. “It’s hard to explain.” His eyes flash back to me before he turns around, kneeling again with his arms out wide. “Please get on,” he asks again.

This time I give in. I step forward until my shins brush his jeans and press my palms to the tops of his shoulders, pulling myself up and wrapping my thighs around his waist. His leather belt digs into my skin and I shift to get more comfortable as his hands wrap beneath my knees. He straightens, and I wind my arms around his neck, keeping my hold on him as loose as possible so I don’t choke him.

He doesn’t say a word as he turns back to the hill and starts to descend.

He takes each step carefully, giving no indication that my added weight makes any of this harder for him. It only takes minutes before we reach the bottom, where the thick cluster of trees overhead makes it harder for the sun’s warmth to break through. There’s a steady humming I worry might be a nearby wasp nest until I see the river over Wells’s shoulder.

After stepping through the worst of the tangled brush, he bends to let me back down. I try to slide down gracefully until my feet touch the ground, but the hem of my linen shorts snags on his belt and the material rides up to expose the skin where my leg meets my hip. I quickly yank it back down, smoothing it out just as he turns around to face me.

“A river?” I ask.

His smile is small, his dark brown eyes soft and sincere. “A river,” he confirms. “Unfortunately,nota mall.”

I almost laugh. A heady warmth slices through my anxious heart, and I don’t understand it, how he somehow always leads me back to a sense of comfort. Maybe it’s a trauma bond as we both grapple with the loss of Jason. Or maybe . . . maybe he’s always been able to do this for people, and I just didn’t realize.

In the years that I’ve known him, our friendship has oscillated between hot and cold and—at times—fading into nonexistence. I only wish it could have felt this sincere when the world wasn’t falling apart.

“What is this place?” I ask, because there’s no way he simply guessed this river was here.

“My grandfather took me fishing here when I was younger,” he answers, casting his eyes back toward the moving water. “He’s the only one I’ve ever been here with. I don’t think anyone else knows it’s here.”

His answer catches me off guard. “No one?”

He shakes his head. “I was pretty young my first time here. Maybe six or seven? Things were chaotic at home, and as the youngest I always felt lost in the shuffle. Grandpa must have noticed because he brought me here one weekend to camp and promised me this spot was mine, that he wouldn’t bring any of the others.”

I try to picture a young Wells, eager to see the world, to understand it. Four older brothers and a busy ranch operation that probably made him feel invisible.

“Anyway, it’s nottechnicallymine—the ranch belongs to all of us. But he kept his promise. I’ve never brought anyone here, either.”

“Wait,” I say, looking up at him. “This is part of the ranch?”

He nods. “That dirt road we turned down is ours.”

“Wow,” I breathe, impressed. I knew the Bennetts’ ranch was big, but I didn’t realize it wasthisbig. We’re miles and miles from where the main house must be. He looks down at me, the corner of his mouth quirking. “You never brought Jason?”

“Nope.”

“I’m surprised.”

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know . . . maybe it’s selfish, but I’ve never had a lot that I could call wholly mine,” he says. “And Jason . . . I don’t know,” he repeats. The tops of his ears tinge pink as he looks away.

“What?” I press.

He looks back at me, a quiet resolve settling over his brow. “He had so much.”

Four simple words, and yet I recognize the deep confession in them. He watches me, bracing for my response, but I’m honestly not sure what to say because . . . he’s right. Jason seemed to have everything: supportive parents, the natural gift of sharp athleticism, a community that supported and loved him. From the outside looking in, he lived a charmed life.

I look back toward the water, the truth of what this place means to Wells settling around us. Something wholly his. Sacred and secret. For him to bringmehere . . .

“Are you ready to talk about it now?” he asks quietly.

I turn back to face him and find an intensity in his gaze—the full weight of his attention like a hook beneath my skin.

“It’s just . . . everyone loves Jason,” I start. “Everyone loves him so much, and I don’t know how to keep absorbing thatevery time I leave my house. Because I loved him too, but I’m also really fuckingmadat him, and I don’t know how to hold that anger.”

Wells keeps his expression neutral as he looks at me, giving me the space and patience to continue when I’m ready.

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