Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
THEN
J ason broke up with me on the Thursday before my sophomore year started.
He was driving me home from the closest mall, an hour’s trek from two towns over, and as he slowed his Mustang to the blinking red lights at a railroad crossing, the words spilled out of him.
“I think I need to be alone for a while, Layla.”
The unexpectedness of it was so unnerving that my first instinct was to laugh. But then when I looked at him and saw his haunted expression, I realized he’d been holding on to this decision for long enough that it was eating him alive. “What?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I just . . . I really need to give this football season everything I have. It’s going to be one of the most important seasons of my life.”
It took Jason months to get over his team’s loss last year. He’d become a near recluse until spring break when Wells forced him to go on a boys-only camping trip somewhere on the coast. I don’t know what happened on that trip, but when the boys came back Jason was lighter and so much like his normal self, I’d been thankful for it.
We ended the school year strong . . . or, so I thought. In April, he took me to his junior prom, and it was one of the most romantic nights of my life. He twirled me around the dance floor, never once complaining or trying to sneak away with his friends. He made me feel like the most beautiful girl in Texas, and it was then that I realized I loved him.
Over the summer, he went on three official visits to colleges that are courting him to play for their teams, and somewhere along the way, he admitted his anxiety has been at an all-time high again. The pressure to perform can claw into him so deep, and I know he’s terrified of losing any opportunity that comes his way.
It doesn’t help that his parents have also increased the expectations they’re putting on him, as if all that matters right now is his ability to clinch a football scholarship. According to them, a scholarship will only be earned if he helps the Mustangs win state this year. And Jason believes his chance in the NFL is based on a school believing in him enough to offer him a full ride.
It’s a mounting domino effect of pressure, and the crux of it all weighs on his coming senior season.
Still, though, the excuse of his anxiety nags at me. It might hold the weight of some of his truth, but I’ve been careful to temper my neediness over the last year, making sure I don’t ever ask too much of him. I can’t recall a time that I’ve ever whined about him choosing football over me, so how has it suddenly become a push and pull between the game he loves and the girl he claims to love?
I wish I could say the breakup doesn’t wreck me, but it does. It consumes me the entire weekend before school starts, and the haze of it doesn’t lift an inch.
I throw myself into the distraction of cheer tryouts, but I know even in that gym I’m a mess. My tumbling is sloppy, my flying stiff. It’s enough that Coach West pulls me aside on Wednesday after I nearly kick another girl in the face mid-toss.
“Layla,” she hisses, narrow eyes sharp. “What the hell’s gotten into you? You’re better than this.” Her words both move me and destroy me. I may have made the varsity team last year, but Coach didn’t give me much one-on-one attention. Her style is to lead through the senior captains, so most of us don’t have a whole lot of interaction directly with her. I always assumed I flew under her radar as one of the youngest on the team, so for her to know me well enough to notice I’m off my game—it warms some of the cold numbness in my chest.
By the end of the week, there’s a layer of exhaustion that’s settled over the heartbreak. Coach gives us a similar speech as she did last year and my fate on this squad is at her mercy—I won’t find out if I lost my place until Monday.
Regan finds me after Coach releases us. “You in for tonight?”
I stare at her blankly. “In for what?”
“Connor’s party. According to David, he throws it every year.”
“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know . . . I’m not really in the mood, Ray. ”
“Come on ,” she insists, her expression softening. “What better way to get over a heartbreak than to throw yourself into some fun?”
She has a point, which is how, four hours later, I find myself in Connor’s kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a plastic cup half full of fruit punch.
Just like last year, the crowd is heavy, and the music is so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. But after finding the bottle of liquor, I figured it was as good a time as any to see what all the fuss is about. I lift the bottle to my lips and take a greedy gulp at the same time Connor walks into the kitchen.
The whiskey burns the entire way down my throat, eliciting a wet cough that makes Connor laugh as I try to chase it down with the fruit punch. “Woah there, cowgirl. You’re not used to drinking the hard stuff, are you?”
My neck flushes hot from embarrassment, but I do my best to school my face into indifference. “So?”
He shrugs, a crooked smile climbing up the side of his face. “What’s the occasion?”
I wipe the back of my hand across my lips. “What do you mean?”
He nods to the bottle. “The whiskey. You celebrating something?”
If you only knew . I’m unsure how to answer, so I shake my head and twist the cap back on the bottle.
Connor studies me for a moment before he looks around the party. “Jason here with you?”
Again, I shake my head. “No. We—” I break off. I can’t seem to force myself to say it out loud.
But Connor must understand because he lets out a low “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I shrug, twisting the cap back off the bottle so I can take another swig. He watches me with curiosity as I attempt another large gulp of the amber liquid—I don’t cough this time, but my eyes still water from the inferno rushing down my throat. I look around the kitchen for Regan, but I don’t see her anywhere.
“It’s his loss, though,” Connor says.
“Yeah?” I ask. “How so?”
Connor’s eyes sweep down my body. “I mean,” he says. “Look at you.”
I’m sure Connor means well—he’s not a bad guy. But my body bristles at his words and I take a step back to put some space between us. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s not enough,” I say with a small smile. I don’t mean for it to come out like that; Jason said he wanted to focus on football and that it wasn’t about me. But it feels good to let out a little kernel of truth, that I feel like I’ve somehow failed. “I’m going to go find Regan,” I say, turning toward the living room with the bottle clutched in my hand.
The effects of the whiskey start to blur the edges of my vision, and I welcome the feeling as I move through the crowd of people, looking for Regan. I’m almost at the back door when I accidentally clip someone’s shoulder.
“Oops, sorry!” I shout over the booming music.
Wells.
His eyes narrow as soon as he sees that it’s me. “Layla?”
“In the flesh.” I hold out both arms as if to prove to him it’s me.
He spots the bottle in my hand. “What are you doing here?”
I drop my hands to my sides. “Trying to distract myself,” I say honestly. I haven’t seen Wells since Jason and I broke up, but I know he knows about it. How could he not?
He rolls his lips and reaches for the bottle. “Maybe we should get you home,” he tries.
I pull it away. “What? I don’t want to go home, we just got here.”
“We?”
I nod. “I came with Regan. Which reminds me . . .” I start toward the back door again.
Wells juts an arm out in front of me and anchors himself along the side of my body, dipping his mouth close to my ear. “Layla, how much have you had to drink?”
I turn to face him, noting the flecks of gold in the brown of his eyes from the nearby kitchen light. Beautiful , I think. “I don’t know,” I answer. “What does it matter?”
“Wells!” Connor shouts from the kitchen. “Glad you came through, my man. Want a beer?”
A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Is Jason here, too?” I ask shakily.
He shakes his head. “No . . . he was at the ranch earlier though. He’s pretty messed up.”
“About me or about football?” I ask, arching a brow.
Wells sighs, and I feel the cool wintergreen of his breath dance along my cheek. “I don’t like this,” he says, eyes dropping to the bottle.
I simply shrug and push past him, making my way out the door into the warm, sticky night air.
I finally spot Regan over by the pool with Lizzie, Erin, and Brad and make a beeline toward them. “There you are,” Regan says when she sees me. She eyes the whiskey warily. “Where’d you get that?”
“Kitchen.” I grin. “Want some?” I hold it out for her to take, but she shakes her head.
“I’ll take it,” Lizzie says, and I hand it to her, watching as she takes a drink from it like it’s nothing. She hands it off to Erin who does the same.
“Brad’s driving.” Erin smirks as she hands it back to me, and I take another long pull.
“Who’s driving you ?” Lizzie zeros in on me, and then her eyes widen at something over my shoulder.
“Yeah, sunshine, who’s driving you?”
I turn around to find Wells behind me, glaring at us. This time, I take a good look at him, cataloging the black T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest, the dark jeans adorned with a bright silver buckle, and the dirty brown boots on his feet. His usual Wild Coyote hat sits backward on his head, the backstrap resting just above his brow. His lips are pressed together tight, and he doesn’t look the slightest bit amused. “I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t people just usually end up staying the night?” I remember it was Jason’s plan at Margot’s last year.
His jaw rolls. “You are not sleeping here.”
“Why do you care?” I ask before taking another swig of the whiskey. By now, my mouth is almost fully numb from the alcohol, so the liquor goes down easily.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shifting on his feet. “Can you please put that down?”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve already had half the damn bottle!” he snaps.
I look down at the bottle in my hand and sure enough, the amber liquid only reaches the middle of the black label on the front. “Seriously, what does it matter, Wells? God knows you know what it’s like to want to let loose.”
“Oh, let loose?” He repeats in an incredulous tone. “Is that what you’re doing?” I shrug again, and he huffs out a breath. “Look, I know you’re going through some shit right now, but trust me when I say that numbing it out with alcohol will make it worse.”
I stare at him blankly, not understanding why he’s so hell-bent on ruining this for me. Doesn’t he understand that my heart is shattered? Is it so wrong for me to enjoy the effects of some fucking whiskey?
“Hey, Wells!” Connor calls from across the yard, and Wells’s jaw tightens with impatience. But he doesn’t look away from me.
“Please just let me?—”
He doesn’t have an opportunity to finish his sentence because in the span of mere seconds, I’ve gone from irritated to viciously nauseous. I jackknife at the waist with a low groan, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m puking in the bush next to me.
Regan gasps as Lizzie lets out a whiney “Ewwwww.” But I can hardly get a breath down before I heave again.
“Oh shit, is she okay?” I hear Connor ask.
“I’ve got it,” Wells mutters as he pulls my hair back with light fingers.
“Dude, she can’t puke in my backyard.”
“I said I’ve got it,” Wells growls.
Connor sighs and walks away, mumbling something about getting the hose. “Shit,” Regan says from behind me. “I’ll text David, he’s supposed to get here soon. I’ll ask if he can take us home.”
“How did you two get here?” Wells asks, voice heated with frustration.
“We walked from my house,” Regan explains shyly. “It’s only a few blocks away.”
I wretch again, the vile liquid spilling out of my mouth. It burns just as much on the way up as it did on the way down, and I have to cough through the fire.
“I’ll take her home,” Wells announces, his fingers cool as they smooth along my temple. “Brad, can you go find some water for her, please?”
“On it,” Brad replies.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper. I never imagined the night ending with Wells hunched around me as I threw up in a hydrangea bush. I try to focus on individual leaves to stop the ground from spinning, but it only makes me dizzier. He doesn’t respond, but his fingers continue to dance on my skin, and I give myself over to the relief it brings.
“Here,” I hear Brad say a few minutes later. Thank god , he must have found water.
“Thanks,” Wells says. “Okay Layla, can you make it out front to my truck?”
I nod and climb up to my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Shame curls tightly in my throat—this is so embarrassing. Wells keeps his hand on my shoulder, a soft pressure encouraging me forward. I turn to Regan, who looks a little awestruck. “I’m sorry,” I say again as a tear escapes down my cheek. I really hope I didn’t ruin her night, too.
She shakes her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just get some sleep, and I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree.
Wells’s truck is parked a couple of houses down along the curb, and when we reach it, he straightens me so I’m facing him. He scans my face, and that heaviness washes over me again for putting him in this position.
“How’s the stomach?” he asks tentatively, twisting the top off the bottle of water and handing it to me.
“Um.” I take a long drink. “Not great, but I think I’m okay right now.”
“Okay enough for you to make it through the drive to your house?”
I nod, and he pulls open the passenger-side door. I climb onto the worn seat and he reaches to buckle me in. “Why are you doing this?” I ask as he pulls the lap belt over my waist.
His gaze jumps to meet mine. “Doing what?”
“Helping me,” I say.
His eyes bounce back and forth between mine, but he doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he pulls himself out of the truck and shuts the door between us.
Okay . . . so much for that.
When he gets in on his side, I keep my focus on a mailbox outside my window. It’s wooden, carved in the shape of a bird, and it makes me wish I could fly away from here. That I could escape this night, escape this week and this town and everyone in it.
Connor lives on the other side of town from me, but Wells makes quick work of navigating us to my house. It’s ten o’clock, which means my mom and Barry have probably gone upstairs into their room for the night. Annie’s bedtime is eight, so I’m hoping I can quietly sneak in without anybody noticing me.
This is exactly why I always say no to drinking: I know my mom will have my head if she finds out. And I don’t blame her. I’ve had a few sips here and there out of curiosity, but not enough to ever feel anything. I still don’t feel like I’m ready, and spending the last year hanging out with upperclassmen doesn’t mean that feeling just goes away.
I already regret my actions tonight, but being rejected by Jason hurts in a way I’ve never felt before, and I don’t know how else to dull that ache.
“How are you doing?” Wells asks quietly as he pulls the truck up along the front of my house, studying the dark windows in the front.
“I’ve been better,” I say through a sigh. If only I could make the trees stop spinning around us.
Wells grunts, and it sounds like he’s irritated. I deserve it , I think. Look at the mess I’m making. He pushes out of his door and rounds the hood to my side to let me out. I almost stumble as I climb down, but his warm hand steadies me, and I find myself leaning into his touch.
I’m surprised when he walks me all the way to my front door like that. “This is as far as I go,” he says warily, releasing my arm.
I guess it probably makes him a little nervous to bring me home in a state like this. None of this is his fault. “I’m really sorry,” I say again. When he finally looks at me, his familiar brown eyes are attentive. I have to squint one of mine closed to keep from seeing four of them.
“You’re too good for this shit,” he finally says back.
I huff out a laugh. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.”
I can only stare at him as the shock of his earnestness pulls a fresh wave of tears to the surface. “I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” I force out, my face twisting around a low sob.
Wells moves closer to me, determination slicing through his brow. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says firmly. “Trust me.”
“Then why?” I ask, desperate for a real answer. “Why is it too much for him to be with me?”
Wells hesitates, jaw clenching tight as if he’s holding something back. I’d give anything to know what it is. “You know what I think?” he finally asks.
“What?” I rub the pads of my fingers under my damp eyes.
He moves toward me again, and it’s only now that I realize how close he’s gotten. I watch his throat work around a swallow, and my eyes trail up his deep olive skin until I have to tip my head back. “I think you’re way too fucking good for him anyway.”
Something low and instinctual pulses deep inside me, like a beacon signaling danger. His dark eyes roam along my face, and I revel in the feeling of being seen so honestly, even if it all feels like too much. It’s the kind of look that means something, and I don’t know how to grapple with the fact that it’s Wells on the other end of it.
“I think I should get inside,” I whisper. My tongue feels thick against the roof of my mouth.
His eyes flare brightly before they dim, and he pulls his gaze away. “Okay.” He gives a quick nod. “Drink another glass of water before you go to bed.”
“Sure,” I concede, though I’m not sure I feel like risking the noise.
He takes a deep breath before he says, “Take care of yourself, sunshine.”
And then he walks back toward his truck.