when I brought her home. Her home is small. To say it’s the size of our pool house would be generous estimate. It’s clean, though—compulsively so. Marie would give Liesel a run for her money.
I feel a discomforting current of energy as we walk through the house, following Marie and her piece of shit husband through the entry. Sugar’s shoulders are still raised and tight, face set into a carefully controlled expression. She looked so small in my house, dwarfed by the tall ceilings and wide corridors. Here, she should look bigger, more proportioned. Instead, she tucks her limbs in close to herself, like she’s trying not to accidentally brush up against the energy of the house. Like if she makes herself small enough, she can sneak through it unnoticed.
After a long, uncomfortable moment spent shifting our feet in the living room, Marie suggests that Sugar give me a tour.
She starts at the kitchen, sticking her head into the narrow space that’s already filled with people I don’t know. Listlessly, she points to a small bathroom that everyone in the house shares. “My room is upstairs. Do you want to see it?” she asks, gesturing to the staircase behind a small door.
I follow her up, taking deep breaths with every step, trying to loosen the anger welling up inside of me. The walls are so narrow that my shoulders brush against them. At the top is just a squat little room. It’s got a slanted ceiling, and two dormer windows tucked under the eaves.
The only place I can stand up straight without my head touching the ceiling is right in the middle of the room, but none of that matters. My eyes roam the room, greedily sucking in everything I can about Sugar. One wall is nothing but torn-out pages of magazines—stylized pictures of modeling shoots, nature, and interesting architecture. Next to the slim, twin-sized bed are shelves fitted with clothespins that have Polaroids clipped in place, close-ups of abstract textures and objects that aren’t directly identifiable, but still look neat. The shelves themselves are filled with random little trinkets; a small collection of smooth rocks, a blue ribbon for a school contest, a stack of old books.
“It’s like the size of your bathroom closet,” she says, running her finger over a small brown dresser, “and there’s no Liesel to dust every week, but—”
“But nothing,” I say, slightly annoyed. “You know I don’t give a shit about money.”
She snorts, at least seeming a little more like herself up here. “The only people who say that are people who already have money.”
“True,” I concede, “but I don’t judge you for it. Or your mom, or even that piece of shit she’s married to.” I judge him for just about everything else.
I nod to a photo tucked in the mirror of her and a few friends. In it, she’s probably still in middle school and already is working the dark eyeliner. Her hair is pink, and she’s wearing a jacket with fringe. Her mouth is twisted in a smirk and she looks so ridiculously badass that I have to grin. “If I’d met you back then, I would have been obsessed. Like, hounding you for a date every day.”
“So pretty much like now.” Insecurity flickers in her eyes. It’s been there since morning and I’ve done nothing to fix it.
I’m not sure I can.
“Pretty much.” I take a deep breath, and since I’m still fighting against what I know needs to be done, I can’t leave it like that. “Look, about this morning…”
“Sugar?” Her mom calls from downstairs. “You upstairs? Aunt Jane is cutting the cake.”
Her body tenses completely, shooting me an apologetic gaze. “We need to go. Aunt Jane is very serious about dessert.”
I deflate, even though I know it’s for the best. “So I’ve heard.”
We walk down the stairs and she finishes up her tour, jerking her thumb at her mom and Doug’s room. Across the hall, there’s a second bedroom that has the words ‘Man Cave’ burned into a wooden plaque hanging from the door.
“Ah,” Doug says, creeping up behind us, “best room in the house.”
Sugar somehow manages to go more still than she has been. Her hands fidget at her sides, like maybe she’s looking for something to cling to. Something like a knife.
If she’s planning on responding to Doug, it’s caught in her throat. It makes my own fists clench, just knowing that this girl beside me—this girl who I’ve never seen scared to let her own