Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THEN
I consider myself a spiritual person, undoubtedly. There’s a general magic to life that continues to foster my belief in some higher power or higher truth. A Texas sunset in the fall is so beautiful it can bring you to your knees, and getting lost in nature is a sure comfort.
That said, I don’t consider myself to be religious. At least, it’s a truth I hold inside myself, because to actually let it out would be my great undoing as far as my mother is concerned. The concept is almost comical to me since she didn’t seem very religious until she met Barry—but that’s not my judgment to make.
Even so, my family has attended the eight o’clock service at Blessed Harvest Church every single Sunday since Barry and my mother married, save for the one time in second grade when I was hit with the flu so bad I was allowed to stay home with my then-nanny, Brigitte. I’ve tried to get out of other services for various reasons but haven’t been successful since.
It’s not that I’m against the sermons—not exactly. I believe in much of what Pastor Brown imparts on our congregation, and I know it comes from a well-meaning place. It’s more that I feel surrounded by the stifling presence of hypocrites and gossip mongers who leave each service to spread the good “word” of town dirt with each other in the courtyard before heading home—my mother included.
When Jason and I started dating, I learned he went to the same service every week with his parents, too, but they usually attended the one at nine-thirty. It took a little convincing on his part, but soon the Moores shifted to the earlier service, and Jason and I found an ounce of freedom in getting to sit together on our own—usually somewhere toward the back.
Now that he’s gone, I’m forced to sit with my mother who chastises my posture and forces me to sing every hymn. Her expectation for Annie and I to be “good girls” only leads to resentment, because a performance by any eager parishioner has nothing to do with the level of good they exude in their life, as proven by the die-hard congregants who now surround me in this pew.
“Focus, bug,” Mom murmurs from where she sits next to me, her string of pearls gliding along the floral dress she’s wearing as she leans toward me. She has this uncanny ability to correct me without ever tearing her focus away from Pastor Brown.
I sigh, adjusting my gaze away from old lady Maeve’s silver beehive hair and back toward the altar. We’re only halfway through the hour-long service—it never fails to feel absolutely endless.
A loud crash sounds from the back of the room, and the full congregation turns in tandem. A lone figure in a dusty cowboy hat stumbles backward into the nave from the lobby, a familiar black leather jacket smeared with dirt.
Rhett.
“Oh my word,” my mother whispers next to me as Barry groans out a sound of annoyance that matches others all around the room, and a soft murmuring ignites.
Rhett spins around, his face twisting into a burning anger unlike I’ve ever seen. It puts me on edge. “What!” he shouts. “What are you fuckers looking at, huh?!”
His words are slurred, and it’s clear that he’s drunk. He’s probably been at it all night if I had to guess. Pastor Brown’s voice sounds, a careful, “Are you okay, son?”
Rhett shoots a vicious glare at him. “I’m not your fucking son,” he spits. “You know who my father is.”
Pastor Brown simply nods, stone-faced. “Indeed I do.”
Rhett squares up. His eyes are bloodshot, and even as he straightens, he’s swaying on his feet. When he starts to march down the closest aisle like he’s going to do something with all that hostility, I shoot out of my seat on instinct.
“ Layla ,” Mom demands in a hushed voice, but I ignore her. I step right into Rhett’s path and throw my hands out to stop him.
“Hey,” I say gently. “What’s wrong, Rhett?”
His gray eyes slide to me, glassy and unfocused. “Get out of the way, Layla.”
I shake my head. “How about we go outside instead?” His chest heaves, probably with adrenaline, but he doesn’t say anything. So I brave a handful of steps forward until he’s just in reach, and then I wind my arm through his and carefully turn him around. I feel the sharp stares of every person in the room—it’s so quiet that I can hear Nosy Maeve clear her throat from the other side, but I ignore it. “What happened?” I ask Rhett quietly.
It’s enough of a distraction to loosen his shoulders. I keep my arm threaded through his, like this is nothing more than a casual walk between two people courting each other in some faraway kingdom. I know if I can get him back outside and away from all these people, we can avoid giving them all more to talk about.
He scrubs a hand over his face with his free hand, and I notice his knuckles are bloody and bruised. “It’s been a long night,” he says, his voice strained and gravelly like sandpaper. It’s clear he’s dehydrated; I can smell the stale liquor on his breath.
As soon as we clear the lobby and push through the stained-glass doors, the warm sun floods over our faces. I take a quick look around, but I don’t see his motorcycle anywhere in the parking lot—thank god he didn’t ride it here—so it’s safe to assume he walked. The ranch is a few miles out of town, but if I have to walk him all the way, I will. “I’m a good listener, you know.”
I feel him look at me, as if considering. Of all the Bennetts, I’m closest to Wells, and then probably Kasey from our time spent around the ranch last year. I’m around Rhett much more than Brooks or Sawyer—but I know him the least. He’s also the one who intimidates me the most. Right now, though, I just want to make sure he’s okay.
“Not interested,” he mutters dryly.
I nod, letting it drop as we walk arm in arm along the sidewalk. It’s quiet out—still early for a Sunday. Only half of the shops will open today, and most not before eleven. The gazebo comes into view and I can’t help but sneak a glance at Rhett. We all know the rumors, and it usually seems to trigger him, but right now he’s only focused on the road ahead.
The sound of a car approaches from behind us, and I find Gus behind the wheel of his white sedan, eyes glued to Rhett and me. It’s almost comical, the way he stares so intensely. Like he’s witnessing a crime.
“You don’t have to walk with me,” Rhett huffs out. He sounds dejected, and I can’t help the worry that creeps in.
“What do you mean?”
His laugh is without humor. “You don’t want to be seen with me.”
“Says who?”
He looks at me, unconvinced. His eyes—even glazed from a night spent drinking—hold so much depth it’s hard to look away.
Rhett’s always been an asshole. He wears it like a badge of honor, something to be proud of. I’ve always thought it was all a bit attention-seeking, despite the obvious commitment to bully everyone away from him. But right now, I see the familiar traces of hurt and longing for something more , something better . And I realize, maybe he isn’t as scary as he tries to be.
“No one wants to be caught associating with me, sweetheart. But you already know that, don’t you?”
I shrug, thinking carefully about my next words. “I think people are pretty unfair in their thoughts toward your family,” I clarify. “But I also think you don’t help the situation.”
He smirks. “Is that right?”
“Well . . . you’re a bit of a troublemaker, you know.”
He laughs again, and this time it sounds more genuine. “Yeah, I know.”
“Maybe you could try . . . not being one?” I suggest .
“I could,” he agrees. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“Is that why you do it? For fun?”
He nearly trips over a patch of uneven concrete, leaning into me for balance. I look up at him, finding his expression has grown softer. He seems to have lost most of the fight in him, and it’s a relief. Intervening at church was impulsive, but if Rhett really wanted to cause damage to something or, god forbid, someone, I’m not sure I’d be able to stop him.
His slate eyes catch mine. “None of this is ever fun, Layla.” And there it is again, that detached melancholy. It knocks something loose in my chest, a kernel of unease that Rhett might need more help than an escort home. I think he needs a friend.
I wish Wells was home so I could encourage him to be a source of comfort. I make a mental note to bring it up to Jason next time we talk.
The sound of another car pulls our focus back to the street, and I recognize Kasey’s black pickup. “Oh goody,” Rhett mutters, his mask of indifference slipping back on.
Kasey pulls over and rolls the window down. “Where the fuck have you been, Rhett?” he demands.
“For fuck’s sake, Kase. I don’t need you up my ass all the time.”
Kasey scoffs. “Look at you, drunk on a Sunday morning. And you wonder why I have to be up your ass?” He shakes his head. “I’m getting real sick of your shit. Bigger things are going on in the world than you and your fucking tantrums.”
Rhett rolls his eyes, and all traces of their earlier depth are gone. “Thanks for the chit-chat,” he says coolly, and pulls away from my side.
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling awkward to be witnessing all of this. “No problem,” I say.
Rhett swings open the passenger door and gets in as Kasey mouths a quick Thank you over his shoulder. As soon as the door slams shut, Kasey peels the truck away from the curb and they take off toward the ranch.
I stare after them until they’re nothing more than a black dot on the horizon of the open countryside ahead.
Back at the church, I decide not to go in—I don’t want to cause another distraction, and there are only a few minutes left of the service anyway. Instead, I sit on a bench in the front courtyard and wait, lost in thought about the Bennetts and Rhett and the possibility that he’s not actually a bad guy. That he’s just suffering, and misunderstood.
When the service lets out, my mother is one of the first out of the building, traces of both panic and annoyance marring her beautiful face. “Layla,” she breathes out when she sees me sitting here.
I stand and walk to meet her. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just trying to . . .”
“I don’t want you near that family anymore, you hear me?” she interjects. “With Jason and . . . his friend gone, there’s no reason for you to interact with any of them.”
I frown. “There’s nothing wrong with the Bennetts,” I say firmly. “I don’t understand what the big deal is.”
She sighs, a strand of her long brown hair blowing away from her face. “You know Bud Bennett was found passed out drunk in his wheelchair in the middle of the road in front of their god-awful bar yesterday morning?” she asks. “They’re dangerous people—all of them. A bunch of law-bending alcoholics who don’t care about anyone else. And you’re too sweet of a young lady to get mixed up with them. I should have put my foot down a long time ago, but I’m doing it now.” She straightens her spine before laying the final blow. “No more Bennetts, Layla—tell me you understand.”
She seems genuinely worried that I’ll be tainted just by being around them, as if their family is a disease to carve out of our environment. I can’t help but think of Mrs. Bennett and her warm smile. Of Brooks and Melody and their beautiful boys, of Kasey and his dedication to the rescue horses and his patience in teaching me how to care for Lucky. Of Wells and his ability to always know how to help me, even when our friendship is on shaky ground.
“I don’t understand,” I say honestly. “Don’t you think they deserve some of the same grace you like to pray for?” Her cheeks flush as her eyes widen in shock. You’d think I slapped her.
“There you are,” Barry says as he comes up behind her, Annie’s hand held in his. “You rushed out of there so quickly.” His smile is nervous as he looks back and forth between us.
“We were just taking a moment to pray for the Bennett family,” I say, my gaze still locked on my mother. “Weren’t we?”
Her tight lips rise in a smile so forced it looks painful. “Yes,” she says after a beat. “Of course.”
I nod, satisfied.
And then I turn to walk to the car.