Page 76 of Sunshine

“Shake the Frost” by Tyler Childers starts to play, and the corners of his lips tug higher. One of the girls in the booth says his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear her. “Dance with me,” he says.

I laugh, shaking my head. “No.”

“No?” He makes a show of looking hurt. My shoulders tense in response. I’d almost forgotten what the effect of his approval felt like—or, in many cases, the lack of it. “What if I insist?”

Before I realize what’s happening, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him, using the momentum to swirl us right to the middle of the dance floor. “Wells!” I protest.

He turns to face me, winding an arm around my waist and pulling me close against him. “What?” he asks.

“We shouldn’t . . .” I hesitate, looking toward the bar where Jason’s giving an order to a stocky bartender with what looks like a barbed wire tattoo snaking up his arm.

“Shouldn’t what?” He takes my right hand into his left, his brown eyes sparking with mischief. “Dance?”

“You know what I mean,” I insist.

“Afraid I don’t,” he volleys. And then he begins to move.

If there was one thing I was sure about only a minute ago, it was that Wellsisn’ta two-step country dance kind of guy. But the easy confidence in his steps is shocking as much as it is intriguing.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?”

He smirks. “Why, you like it?”

I shrug, clearly impressed, and he huffs a breathy laugh that curls around my neck. “Seriously, where’d you learn to do this?” I press after he spins me in two tight circles.

This time, his smile is soft. “At home,” he says. “With my mom.”

I smile, picturing it. “How is your mom?”

His head dips low. He traded his old ball cap for his black cowboy hat before we left the dorms, and now it creates a partition between us and everyone else. “She’s good,” he says. “My dad’s back on the wagon, which helps.”

I’m struck by the casual honesty of it. Everyone knows Bud Bennett has suffered from an alcohol problem for his entire adult life—but this is the first time Wells has ever addressed it directly. At least with me. “How long?” I ask.

“’Bout two months.”

I’m reminded of Rhett’s interruption at church, of my mother’s words about the condition their father had been found in that weekend. I wonder if it’s what eventually propelled him back into sobriety. “That’s something!”

He pulls his head back to look at me, his smile growing. “Yeah.” He nods. “It is.” And then he pushes lightly against mywaist, spinning me away from him before he winds me back in for a dip that has me gasping.

His eyes flare at the sound.

“Oh my god,” I say, as a giggle bubbles out of my throat. “I didnotsee that coming.”

But his smile changes into something more forced than natural. And after pulling me to an upright position, he takes a firm step back.

“Thanks,” he says evenly. “For the dance.”

“But the song isn’t over . . . ?” It comes out more like a question than anything.

He shrugs. “You didn’t want to dance anyway.”

And then he leaves me standing alone on the dance floor as he makes his way back to the booth. My shoulders sag with uncertainty . . .Did I say something wrong?

When I get to the table, Wells is seated on one of the long bench seats talking animatedly with Colton and the girls. Jason waits for me with two beers in his hands.

He doesnotlook happy.

“You’re back,” I say, stating the obvious.

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