Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOW
M y eyes snap open as my body tenses. All I can hear is the pounding of my pulse in my ears as I work to figure out what pulled me out of sleep. It takes me far too many breaths to remember where I am and what happened last night.
To remember what my life has turned into.
But when it all comes rearing back to the surface, it breaks me apart all over again, crushing against my bones and blood until my insides are a jumbled mess. Like the destruction after the meanest hurricane. The numb haze I’ve carried for days has finally given in against the current of my torment, and I have to stifle a shuddering breath from the impact.
As I force slow and deep breaths into my lungs as Wells instructed last night, I look around the bedroom I’m in. The king-sized bed takes up a majority of the space, and the walls are a chestnut wood-paneling with black-and-white photos of horses scattered about. There’s a dark dresser with gold knobs against the wall to my left, a beautifully carved mirror attached to it.
I sit up, finding my reflection. Despite having just woken up from one of the deepest sleeps I can remember, I look like shit. My eyes are still bruised from exhaustion, and my hair is a tangled mess of curls and knots. I try not to get too caught up in the fact that I’m burrowed in Wells’s bed—the last place in the world I ever thought I’d be. I can’t help the panic that claws at me. Old, familiar pangs of anxiety rise through my limbs, and I just want to disappear until I’m a weightless, empty thing of the shadows.
A door opens on the other side of the wall, and I hear Wells’s quiet voice. “What?” He sounds tired.
I realize I must have woken up from a knock at the door, and the panic inside of me sinks its claws deeper.
“Just wanted to check in on you,” another voice says with a steady and hopeful tone. It’s Kasey, and in an instant I’m tearing myself out of the bed. “I don’t know what the hell happened last night, but it didn’t look good and you left real damn fast.”
“Yeah . . . it’s complicated.”
“Sure seemed like it.”
There’s a long pause before Wells finally speaks again. “I’m good, Kasey. But thanks for?—”
“Wells,” Kasey cuts him off. “You can’t face all of this alone, brother. You can’t just lock yourself in there and get drunk and expect that any of this will get better.” Wells scoffs, and I hear the squeak of the swinging of the door before a loud thump sounds. “Wells, dammit, at least let me come in for a little while. I know there’s a coffee pot in there. Just give me twenty minutes and I’ll leave.”
“It’s not a good time,” Wells responds lightly, but I can hear the fear in his tone. Fear about the implications of Kasey finding me here, knowing that I’ve spent the night. I inch the flannel comforter back over the bed and try to destroy any evidence that I was ever in it.
“You have someone in there, Wells?” Oh shit oh shit . I freeze, my hand on my heart.
“Get the fuck out of here, Kasey,” Wells demands coolly.
“Jesus fuck , Wells. Don’t tell me she’s in there.” My heart drops into my stomach.
There’s a shuffle before the door shuts, and I realize Wells has pushed the conversation outside. I use the opportunity to escape inside the small bathroom across the hall, shutting and locking the door behind me.
Sinking to the floor, I cover my face with my hands and try not to let the tears fall. I should have never come here, should have demanded that Wells bring me home last night. I’m not naive to what this might look like and, even despite Jason’s infidelity, I’m not prepared for the level of town gossip or scrutiny it would bring.
Five minutes pass before I hear the front door open again, a single pair of feet padding along the hardwood floor. “Layla?” Wells calls from the other side of the bathroom door.
I force my emotion down my throat as I stand to unlock it, swinging it open to find him on the other side. His hair is a mess, sticking up at all angles. A worn black T-shirt stretches across his chest and a pair of gray sweats hang loosely from his waist all the way down to his feet. The sight of Wells in sweatpants sends a jolt through my chest, and my heart beats erratically. I’ve never seen him look so . . . casual . . . and it feels wrong. I look back up to his face, to those tired eyes. “Is he gone?”
He nods once, his jaw jumping as he opens his mouth to answer. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know he would come here.”
“Did you tell him I was here?”
“He took a guess,” he says, and I flinch. He must notice, because words keep coming, assured and determined. “Layla, it’s okay . . . I told him you came here to talk, that you need a friend. He knows it was nothing like . . . like that .”
“I need a friend?” I scoff. “You think you’re my friend, Wells?” I don’t recognize my own hostility, but I can’t stop it from spouting out. The pressure is mounting inside of my chest, and I feel like I might rip apart at the seams with one wrong move.
His brows dip low, a deep divot slicing between them. “I’m trying to be here for you,” is all he says back.
I force a breath. “I’m sorry, I—I just don’t think staying was a good idea. I need to get home before someone else finds me here.” Kasey might keep it to himself, but would Brooks? Would Rhett? I look up to find Wells nearly despondent, and the realization pulses uncomfortably that he’s suffering too, that his suffering exists well outside of my own.
He’s just lost his best friend. It’s a miracle he’s even capable of trying to support me at all, that he’s not the one falling apart with guilt over their last interaction—when he was defending me . And here I am acting like he’s somehow responsible for my pain. My eyes shutter and I whisper, “I’m sorry, Wells.”
The hard lines around his eyes grow softer, and he looks down at the floor, at the wool socks he wears on his feet. “Me too.”
I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest. “Look, I know you mean well. And . . . thank you, for giving me the truth last night. I think I just need some time to figure out how to process all of this.”
He nods again. “I understand.” His eyes find mine again. “Give me a second to change, and I’ll take you home.”
It only takes a few minutes for Wells to throw on jeans and a heavy work coat as I wait for him in the living room. The cabin is small and there’s only one bedroom, so I trace my finger along the back of the couch and try to ignore the sounds of clothing shuffling from the other side of the thin wall.
As we make our way out the door, he insists that I wear his black Carhartt jacket again. It’s a chilly morning, though I have to hold myself back from arguing that I’ve been living in much colder weather for months. The forty-something degree temperature is a relief from the blizzards and windchill factor in New York, but it does nothing to thaw the ice in my heart. I make quick work of shrugging into it before I hurry and climb into his truck, praying no one else is out on the ranch to see me.
The drive back to my house is quiet as I stare out the window, taking in the familiar roads and buildings. The Bennett family ranch sprawls out in the countryside along the northern border of Saddlebrook Falls, and we have to drive through the center of town to get down to my neighborhood on the other side. My gaze snags on Mustang’s Pizza, where I spent so many nights hanging out with Jason and our friends after football games, celebrating a win. And then on the treeline behind the gazebo that sits right at the entrance to the park, where Jason and I snuck away so many times just to have a few quiet moments to ourselves, usually spent making out where no one could see us.
It feels like another life, lived by someone else completely. As I sit shotgun in Wells’s truck, eyes glued to the glass between me and the town I grew up in, I almost can’t remember what it feels like to be that girl, so young and alive. I don’t think I’ve felt that way since Jason left for college three-and-a-half years ago.
Soon Wells pulls up alongside the curb in front of my house, a bright yellow two-story that I’ve lived in nearly my whole life—since Mom married Barry and our life got “back on track.” He shuts off the engine and looks out his own window, working through something that has him clenching his teeth. “You know,” he starts on a croak before squeezing his eyes shut and mumbling a low curse. He’s uncomfortable, that much is obvious. But then he looks at me, his eyes clear, and continues. “The cabin’s always open to you,” he forces out, “if you need it. I can move back to the big house . . . you can have it all to yourself.” His gaze jumps back to the house over my shoulder, like he knows the fight I’m about to walk into.
“Wells, you realize the optics of me staying at the ranch only days after the death of my boyfriend and your best friend, right? How can you think that’s a good idea?”
His eyes harden in frustration. “I’m trying to help . . . trying to give you some fucking support here. Jason royally fucked a lot of things up when it came to you, and you shouldn’t have to process through it all alone.” His eyes flick back to the house before he adds, “Or with your mother.”
I snort, and he sighs. It’s no secret how tightly wound Mom gets when it comes to my life and my decisions—Wells was close enough to experience a few harrowing encounters between us. His whiskey eyes find mine again. “Besides, the Layla Hayes I know wouldn’t give a shit about optics or what anyone else in this town thought about her choices.”
His words splinter something inside of me and I force my gaze out my window to hide the emotion. Wells doesn’t know that version of me has been buried for a while now. “I just . . . I don’t know what to do with any of this. And the last thing I want is to make it worse. People are already going to have a field day about Emma, you know.” Saying her name sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
A warm hand covers my own, squeezing gently. “I’m here for you,” he says in a low voice. “For anything you might need. Let me be here for you.”
I chance a look at him and find him watching me in earnest, his vulnerability on full display, and I can’t bear it a second longer. Pulling my hand away from his, I push open the door and climb out with a mumbled, “Thanks.” I drag my feet up the front walkway to the porch and look back to catch Wells’s gaze through the window, watching as he shakes his head and rolls his truck away from the curb.
And then I let out a deep sigh of relief.
But that relief is short-lived because I open the door to find my mother waiting for me inside the foyer. Her gaze is sharp as she cuts me with it. “What is Wells Bennett doing dropping you off after you failed to come home last night?”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, drop it.”
But there’s that look in her eye, like she’s readying for battle. “Does it have anything to do with the scene you caused last night? Puking on some poor girl, Layla?” She tilts her head as she looks me up and down. “You were drunk, weren’t you?”
The bone-deep urge to pick up the porcelain vase at my side and smash it against the wall nearly overcomes me. “No, I wasn’t drunk,” I grind out. “That ‘poor girl’ was Jason’s other girlfriend, the one he’s been cheating on me with at school for the past month.”
The blow lands how I expect it to. Mom’s beautifully arched brows rise in shock as her mouth drops open. “ What ?!” she exclaims. “How is that possible?” She attempts to gather herself, clutching at her chest as she thinks through the implication of it all. “Jason would never do that to you . . . there must be some mistake.”
I close my eyes, willing the tears to stand down. The crushing chaos in my chest I felt when I woke up this morning is quietly disappearing as I feel myself slip back into an icy numbness. “No mistake. Wells confirmed it.”
Silence falls between us, and I open my eyes to her heavy stare. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, how Lynette Perkins—the woman who’s raised me with the single expectation that I find a good man to marry and have lots of children with—might feel now. Eventually, she lets out a sad sigh. “I’m so sorry, bug. I can’t imagine the heartbreak you must be feeling on top of everything else. But I promise you, this will pass. You’re still young, sweetheart—you’ll find a man who will treat you right and give you everything you deserve?—”
“I can give myself what I deserve,” I interrupt. “I don’t need a man to be happy, Mom . . . I’m not you .” I hear the gasp she sucks in, but I’ve already torn my gaze away from her to stomp up the stairs. As soon as I make it into the confines of my room, I slam my door shut and sink to the floor as silent sobs rack my body.