I think back to when I first noticed her at the Tipsy Moose last week, staring at me so hard the hairs on my neck rose. It became a game where I would pretend to be getting a drink from the waitress or playing darts but was actually watching her. She sat in a back booth wearing that black coat and a knit hat with her ponytail coming out of the top. Her expression was part earnest, part calculating, and while the earnestness isn’t something I usually see in a girl who eyeballs me, the calculation aspect is. That night, with her hair up and those big glasses on, I didn’t see the resemblance. Maybe something tugged at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was about her.
Then when I walked into the Kappa house and felt a prickling sensation as my eyes found hers behind that column, her long blonde hair pulled back in a headband, draped over her slender shoulders…something hummed.
She looks like Willow.
It’s just the hair, same color, same style, I tell myself, but I’m lying. It’s the face too, the patrician features, from the hollows of her high cheekbones to the way her brows arch over her eyes.
I scrub at my hair, racking my brain for differences.
First off, she doesn’t sound like Willow. Willow’s voice was soft with dulcet tones, pleasing to everyone, and she used it to her advantage, while Sugar’s is husky with a drawl, not exactly a Southern accent yet distinctly different from the Midwest. Also, Willow was a wisp of a girl I teased would fit in my pocket while Sugar is tall with lush curves and an ass—
Stop.
The thought of her running away from me, the idea that she thought this was over—not one single girl has ever done that before.
I know—I know I’m not done with her yet.
Stalking back to my bedroom, I grab my necklace and slip it over my neck. I pull out the legal pad of yellow paper from my nightstand. Grabbing a pen, I lean back on the pillows and prepare to write one of my letters. I wrote them almost every week the first year after Willow’s death, but I’ve slacked off. My head has been elsewhere, focused on school and getting that national championship. I’ve picked it back up since my episode because…well, it’s a way to deal.
Willow,
Another nightmare. These dreams of you…I hate them. They tear me up inside. I think it’s you from the grave, reminding me to not forget you. I don’t know, fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a man with a silver tongue and writing is not my forte, and just writing these words to you doesn’t convey the many, many times I think about you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I screwed up and ruined everything. I don’t even deserve the things I do have…hockey, my dad, my brother…and you have nothing. I want you to know I won’t forget you. I swear to make this life worth what you lost.
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