I met someone…
I mark through that, scratching it out until the words are blacked out completely.
I chew on the top of the pen, my mind turning to Sugar.
Who is she? What makes her tick? How can I see her again?
At that thought, my pulse jumps up and I heave out an exhalation, recounting last night, the fast, raw sex. She was all I could see and smell and taste, and as soon as she walked away from me, I knew I had to have her again.
I shake myself and look back down at the letter.
My heart is yours and always will be. I love you. Forever, Z
I fold the paper into a square and set it inside the rectangular gold-painted wooden container I’ve had since I was a kid. Just a trinket from my childhood, it’s the size of a shoebox and battered from use. A picture of us is at the bottom of the pile and I pull it up, running my hands over it. Willow’s beautiful in a sundress standing between Reece and myself, her mouth curved up in a secret smile, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. Veronica’s in a tiny yellow bikini with her bright red hair shining in the background as she lounges by the pool; she probably got pissed later when she realized she missed out on a photo opportunity. Flowers bloom around us, reminding me of the pool party hosted by my parents. I had just gotten my driver’s license and spent the day rubbing it in because they all had a year to go before they turned sixteen. This was a singular moment that summer, when everything was green—when everything was golden.
Life was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
I study Reece’s face, taking in the minute distance between his hand and Willow’s, and I can see how he yearned to reach out and take hers.
I shove it all back inside the nightstand drawer and slam it shut.
I’ve done all the reminiscing I can handle right now.
Pulling open my chest of drawers, I dig around and pull out what I need to go running: black compression tights and an Under Armour long-sleeved shirt. I grab my Hawthorne black and gold windproof jacket and zip it up. Once my running gloves and shoes are on, I bolt out of the room.
The den and kitchen are dead silent, Eric and Reece still asleep. Good.
I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and suck it down. Long John Silver pops an eye open and spies me from her perch on the back of the couch.
“You catch any mice?”
She stretches.
“Lazy cat.”
She gives me a glare and trots to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder and yelling at me.
“Give me a minute.”
I grab her cat food from the pantry, fill up her bowl, and get her fresh water.
Solid white except for a black patch over her right eye—which is shut and scarred from a fight—she showed up at our back door about a year ago, skinny, full of fleas, and limping. One ear was torn off and the eye was swollen shut. Hell, she could barely move except to lie on our back deck and give me a half-assed hiss when I brought her a can of tuna. I didn’t know anything about cats—my family has spaniels—but one look at her and I knew I had to take her to the vet.
Two hundred and fifty dollars later, he gave me the address of the local animal shelter, but when I took her inside, got one look at the rows and rows of cats and kittens in cages that lined the walls, I walked right back out.
Reece and I own the three-bedroom house we live in, a gift from my dad my freshman year, and figured the place was plenty big enough for the four of us.
“Going for a long run. Hold down the fort while I’m out.”
She gives me side-eye from the food bowl.
“Ah, I know you love me, baby girl.”
Grabbing the duffle bag I put together last night, I walk out the door and stand on the stoop, breathing in the cold early morning air of Sparrow Lake, a suburb outside the Twin Cities where I grew up. The sun hasn’t peeked over the horizon yet, and since it’s still dark, I slip on a reflective vest.
Running—it clears my head, keeps me sane, and gives me fucking clarity, especially since nothing else seems to settle the demons in my mind.
I used to run a few times a week, but since the panic attack, I make it happen every single morning, sometimes just for twenty minutes and sometimes longer, depending on how much shit I need to work out in my head.
I inhale several deep breaths and punch into the air, centering myself and focusing on my body. The rhythm of my feet, the movement of my arms wipes out everything, much like being on the ice does, except with running, I don’t have to think about game strategy or how I’m going to get the puck in the net.
Most of all, I don’t have to worry about fucking up and revealing my secrets to the whole world.
I breathe in a lungful of cold air and take off for the street.
8
Sugar
Happy Monday, I mutter as my alarm goes off at five o’clock. Time to get the donuts—literally. It’s my job on Mondays to bring in breakfast for the crew who’s cleaning the club from top to bottom from the weekend, plus run a few errands for Mara. Blowing out a breath, I get up and grab a towel for the shower. My movements are a bit sluggish since I tossed and turned all night with weird dreams. There was one in particular where I sat in my poetry classroom with a very naked and very sexy Zack Morgan as my professor.
I come out of the bathroom, not bothering to be quiet since Julia never came home. I imagine she’s tucked up tight in a football player’s dorm room right now.
I look around for my clothes from last night. Everything is littered on the floor where I tossed it as I came in and crashed. My eyes flare. There’s only one thing missing: my coat. I let out a cry of frustration and tears well when I picture it on the floor at the Kappa house getting trampled by stilettos and sneakers, or even worse, picked up and put on by someone. That coat cost me over a hundred dollars on sale. I blow out a breath and plop on my bed, staring up at the yellow-stained ceiling and the chipped paint on the walls. Not only did I lose my coat, I’m living in dormitory hell while Bennett is basking in an apartment with a fresh coat of paint—that I helped with—and a nice, toasty heating system. There’s probably a groupie curled up next to him right now.
I’m still muttering to myself when I put my hair up in a high ponytail a few minutes later. I pull on a bright pink knitted cap with a hole at the top that lets my hair hang out. After my tortoiseshell glasses are on, I throw on leggings and a Dunder Mifflin sweatshirt. On my way out the door, I walk past my desk, see the waitlist letter from Vanderbilt Law, and grimace.
I replay an old childhood fantasy where I’m driving down to Davenport, Alabama, in my super expensive white Mercedes, dressed in a slick business lady pantsuit with a huge I told you so smile on my face. I pull up the mossy tree-lined drive, get out of my beautiful car, and approach the big plantation-style house.
I knock, and someone comes to the door.
Maybe it’s one of my half-siblings. Maybe it’s his wife. Maybe it’s him, my father.
Regardless, the person is blown away by my stylish self and invites me in.
But I don’t take one step into that big shiny house with the Southern Living front porch.
No sir.
I just smile and tell them how great my life is. I show them my fancy law degree and tell them how wonderful I turned out despite the gutter I dragged myself out of.
My hands clench.
“You are enough just the way you are,” I mutter, repeating my mama’s words, but today it rings untrue and I exhale.
Torturing myself, I pick up the letter to put it away, but before I tuck it between my textbooks on the bookshelf, I unfold the paper and skim over it.
After careful consideration, the selection committee is unable to offer you admission at this time, but we would like to offer you a spot on our waitlist. We realize this is a disappointment, but there were many students with promise who we were unable to admit. It is important you know we do not rank students on our waitlist, and we strongly encourage you to apply to other institutions…
Warmest Regards, William R. Fitzgerald, Dean of Admissions
“Blah, blah, blah,” I say bitterly to no one, and instead of putting the letter away, I wad it up in a tight ball and throw it in the trash. I have a copy of it in an email anyway. Ugh.
I take another look in the mirror and blanch at my paleness. I need more sleep. With a groan, I pilfer through my makeup bag and swipe on my favorite lipstick, Cabernet Crisis. Seems fitting.
I did have crazy sex with a hockey player last night…
“That was a complete lapse in judgment, and I’m going to pretend it never happened,” I say to my reflection. I blot my lips. “And you really need to stop talking to yourself. People are going to think you’re crazy.”
There’s a small bruise on the right side of my neck, and my heart pounds, going back to last night and how…spectacular it was.
“Forget him. Trouble all day long, Sugar. His nickname is the Heartbreaker—don’t forget that.” I dab concealer on the hickey and brush powder on top.
Slinging my crossbody on, I open the dorm room door, and a Hawthorne duffle bag that was hanging on the outside of the doorknob falls to the floor.
My first thought is Julia somehow left some clothes out and forgot to bring them in, but then I remember it wasn’t here last night and she isn’t home yet.
Squatting down, I unzip the bag and gasp when I see my black North Face. I hold it up like a dance partner and do a twirl. “Coat, who brought you home?”