Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NOW
W e drive down an old country road for almost thirty minutes in utter silence as Wells chews gum with the dedication of a chain smoker, replacing the spent piece in his mouth with a new one three times along the way. If he’s nervous, it’s hard to tell. There’s still no real sign he doesn’t want me in his truck, but it does little to quiet the steady hum of nerves that swell inside me.
Finally, he slows to turn down a dirt road. It’s not well-maintained—there are tall weeds and old roots that he carefully navigates through—but he seems to know where he’s going. After winding through a tunnel of low-hanging trees whose branches brush against the windshield as we pass, the road opens up to a clearing of wild grass.
A meadow.
We drive through it to the other side before Wells stops and shifts the truck to park. I look around, surprised that we’re stopping here, but ahead of us is a copse of trees so dense there’s no way he’d be able to steer the truck through it.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Come on,” he says, then gets out and waits for me, keeping his gaze forward on what’s ahead.
Stepping down into the tall grass in my sandals, I shuffle through it until I’m standing next to him. A breeze kicks up, pushing my hair off my shoulder and igniting a riot of goosebumps along the back of my neck. Thank god I had the forethought to tug on my jacket earlier. My shoes, however . . .
“It’s a bit of a hike,” he says. And then he stalks forward, walking through the grass like it’s nothing. I suppose it is nothing for him in his boots. But I don’t complain.
I’m the one who asked for this.
I do my best to stay close enough to follow the small path he’s creating with the disturbance of his long strides. He’s right that it’s a bit of a hike, but it’s mostly flat and the cool weather helps to keep it bearable.
It must be twenty minutes before the ground beneath us begins to dip, a steep hill of overgrown trees and brush so thick there’s no clear path through. Wells pauses to turn around and face me, lowering his gaze to my shoes. He looks back up at me with an unreadable expression.
“I wasn’t expecting to traipse through the Forbidden Forest today,” I say in defense of my gem-studded Steve Maddens.
He snorts before turning back around, bending his knees, and kneeling low in front of me. “Come on,” he says.
“Uh, come where?”
He gives a pointed look over his shoulder before clearing his throat. “Climb on.”
I finally realize what he’s asking. “No thanks,” I protest, shaking my head as if he can see me. “I can make it.” I sidestep around him to march on, but he reaches out to wrap a warm hand around my wrist. His calloused palm glides against my skin and the shock of the contact is a current up my spine.
He pulls me back to face him, his eyes a kaleidoscope of browns and golds in the spotted light of the sun. “You’re not making it ten feet in those poor excuses for footwear.”
I scoff, making a show of looking offended even though this feels like the first easy breath I’ve taken since getting into his truck. “I’ve gotten all the way here with them, haven’t I?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and it’s a bone-deep relief. “Because you’ve been walking in the path I set like an eager little bear cub,” he jabs.
“ Again , I didn’t realize we’d end up in the middle of literal uncharted territory.”
He shifts his weight onto one foot, his smile fading. His expression grows irritated, but I can tell he’s trying to hide it. “You told me to take you anywhere.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “It could have been the bowling alley. Or the mall.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me for thinking you needed an escape from town and not a fucking shopping trip,” he says. “There’s clearly something going on, and I’m trying to help.”
His words pierce me right in the chest because that’s exactly what I asked of him.
I think you should find someone else to be there for you.
I let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” I say. “For even coming to you after . . . after you asked me not to.”
His face softens. “Layla, you can always ask me for help. That’s not what I meant.” He swipes a thumb against the wrist he’s still holding before pulling his hand back.
“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, not a 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 not technically mine—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 was this big. 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 bring me here . . .
“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 that every time I leave my house. Because I loved him too, but I’m also really fucking mad at 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.
“I tried to do what you asked, Wells. I’ve tried to open up to other people, to find someone who understands what I’m going through, but nobody else gets it. You’re the only one I feel like I can breathe around because I can be honest about the full spectrum of my feelings. I can tell you how sad I am, and how much I miss him. But also how furious and fucking devastated I am.
“Even if Jason felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, even if he was feeling really fucking lonely . . . he had us , Wells. He had us, and we were so damn good to him, you know? So forgiving and supportive. You didn’t even want to play football, yet you gave all that time and energy to stand by him while he worked to reach his dreams.
“I know that him having us might not have been enough to erase the pain he was going through. He was suffering, and we may not have understood the full extent of it.” The tears spill over freely now, but I can’t stop. I have to get this out. “But dammit, Wells, we were there for him as much as we knew how to be. You can’t blame yourself for falling short with something you had no idea about . . . Jason had us, and he still held it all in. He didn’t give us a chance to do anything different, and—” I catch my breath just as a sob breaks through, my chest splintering apart right down the middle.
Wells steps forward, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pulling me in close to his chest. Still, I have to finish. “It’s not our fault,” I whisper into his gray shirt, now spotted with my tears. “It’s not our fault.”
“Shh,” he soothes, a strong hand winding into my hair as he cradles my head, tucking me under his chin as my shoulders shake violently. His other palm sweeps down my back. “Layla,” he breathes, and it cracks through me.
“I’m just . . .” I say through the fresh onslaught of tears. “I’m so mad, Wells. I’m so mad at him for making me feel like I wasn’t good enough to help him.” And there is it, my deepest shame. For as much as I tried to put my own needs aside to prioritize Jason and what he needed, it still wasn’t enough.
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I know, sunshine.”
I pull back from his chest, tilting up to face him. His eyes are sad, his lips twisted. But the way he looks at me . . . like I’m something precious and treasured to be careful with and cared for.
It’s too much.
“Stop,” I say, watching his brows pull together as the word wraps around him. His hands stop their movement along my body, but he doesn’t yield his hold on me.
“What?” he asks.
The features of his face become nothing but a blur through watery eyes. “Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.
But he just shakes his head. “I can’t.”
And . . . oh . It feels like another confession. An aching reminder of a past life, a dark night and a crying girl on her doorstep, desperate to be enough.
A boy who may have wanted something that wasn’t his to have.
I blink through my tears, feeling them glide down my cheek as I watch his mouth part. He hesitates, eyes glimmering with a spark of something electric and new, and then he says it again: “I can’t stop.”
My heart pounds thunderously in my chest, matching the rhythm of his. His eyes drop down to my mouth, only inches from his own, as the air between us heats with our shared breath. “Oh,” is all I can think to say before I reach up to press my fingertips against the rough stubble of his chin, dragging them lightly down the column of his throat.
The hand he holds against my back drifts down my spine before rising again to settle between my shoulder blades. On instinct, I arch into him, and when he lets out a low groan I revel in the sound.
“Layla,” he whispers, his voice unsteady as his other hand skates against my cheek. I close my eyes, savoring the feeling of him right here, his warm and tender presence, a soft landing for every emotion pouring out of me.
How long? How long have you been looking at me like this?
I open my eyes again as he presses another kiss against my skin, just above my brow. His lips stay rooted there as he says, “I’m sorry.” And then he pulls back.
“For what?” I ask, suddenly cold from the loss of him.
He takes a deep breath, shoulders sagging with its release. “I shouldn’t . . .” he starts, then scrubs a hand across his jaw as his eyes pin me in place. “I shouldn’t tell you things like that.”
I can only stare at him until he finally breaks first, turning to face the rushing water beyond. A breeze kicks up, cold and biting as it winds through the rustling trees, like a bucket of ice thrown onto the heat of a moment, hell-bent on snuffing it out.
I wipe at my cheeks, feeling exhausted and yet . . . there’s something alive building in my chest, crackling through the hollow corners that’ve ensnared me for weeks. I want to sink into the feeling, to be consumed by it.
Another gust blows through us, and a big fat rain droplet plops on my forehead.
“Oh shit,” Wells says as he catches the movement of the water down my temple. The sky flashes with lightning, and then completely opens up.
It’s a hard and unyielding downpour that soaks us both in seconds.
“Oh shit ,” Wells says again, awestruck as he looks up at the sky. I mirror him to look up too, but my sandals lose their battle with the now wet and slippery mud beneath me and I lose my balance, falling right on my ass.
A deep, roaring laugh spills out of me, so fierce it shakes my entire body. “Layla!” Wells shouts through the rain. He’s on me in seconds, wiping water away from my face so he can get a better look at me. When he realizes I’m laughing his shoulders sag in relief, and then a smile blooms from his face. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I nod. “More than okay.” It’s true—I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Years, even.
He stands and holds a hand out to help me get to my feet. The whole right side of my body is covered in mud and the sight of it sends me into another fit of laughter. But it dies when my eyes meet Wells’s.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.
Small droplets cluster in his thick lashes. But he doesn’t answer.
“Tell me,” I demand softly.
“Because,” he finally says. “Somebody needs to take care of you. And . . . I want it to be me. I told you that you should find somebody else to lean on because I’m not sure I know how to stop myself from wanting you the way I do—the way I always have. I don’t even think I fully comprehend how fucked it is for me to say that to you, Layla.”
My mouth parts as the truth of his words crashes through me, but he continues before I can form a coherent thought. “Being around you is all I think about, and it’s the last thing I should be asking you to make room for right now. But dammit, I want to be the one to hold you when you cry. I want to be the one you fall apart with. I want to spend the entire day figuring out how I can make you smile, because when you do it’s like a drug, and I get so fucking high from it.”
Lightning flashes again as the full weight of his words sinks into my heart. The realization of how much Wells wants , of how much he must have held himself back for so many years, careful to protect his friendship with Jason. How he’s finally telling me here, in the only place he feels like he has any ownership.
I know Wells loves his family, but between Rhett and his father, there’s plenty of drama to be overshadowed by. And Brooks has kids now . . . I can’t help but wonder if there’s been room for Wells in any of it, for the things he wants and needs. I don’t think he’d have the heart to ask.
But he’s doing it now, with me.
I step toward him until our bodies are flush. And then I reach up on tiptoes and press my mouth to his.