I try the counting thing again.
I breathe.
As if the bridge is an invisible line, the instant we arrive on the other side, Sugar’s urgent voice rings out, breaking my concentration. “Pull over.”
“What?”
She pitches forward, hand on the dash. “Pull over. Right here, just…” She inhales, jaw clenching, and oh shit. “Pull over, please just pull the fuck over.”
I hit the brake, shooting out an arm protectively before easing the SUV onto the shoulder. She’s out the door before it even completely stops, bending at the waist and losing her breakfast.
I fumble out of my seatbelt, but she holds out a hand, stopping me as she heaves again. I crane forward to watch her, frozen with indecision. It’s not long though before she straightens, pushing her fingertips under her eyes, wiping at the wetness that’s collected there. I clumsily open the glove compartment, pulling out tissues and wet wipes.
Stupidly, I ask, “Are you okay?”
Sure, she looks fucking peachy, vomiting her guts out on the side of the road. Real fucking bright.
When she turns back to the car, she looks paler than usual, taking four small paces back to the SUV. She closes the door with a soft click, staring straight ahead.
“So, that happened.” When she takes the tissues and wipes from me, her hands are unsteady.
Distracted enough from the static of my anger to make a shitty attempt at levity, I try, “My cooking was that bad, huh?”
She fists a tissue, holding it up to her mouth. “I think it’s just… nerves.”
“Look,” I start, feeling it beginning to build again. “I won’t let Heston fuck with you. You shouldn’t—”
“Heston?” She gives me a confused look, and it suddenly occurs to me that this has nothing to do with him. It’s a startling revelation—like how could the earth possibly go on spinning when my brother is out there, ruining everything? For a second, it makes no sense to me. How could anything be worse than what happened back in that kitchen? The math doesn’t add up. Obviously, everything is about me and my bullshit.
Fuck, maybe I actually am self-centered.
“You’re nervous about being back home,” I realize, feeling like a goddamn moron.
“Being home.” She says this in a daze, like she’s testing the words in her mouth, trying to make them fit. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Grimacing, I twist, digging around in the back seat for a bottle of water. It’s cold from being out here all night, and I watch her press it to her forehead. She hasn’t told me much about her life here. I know her dad was killed in action. I know he left her that Mustang. I know her mom remarried. I know Toby Fuckface exists.
And I know she’s absolutely fucking covered in scars.
But she hasn’t said yet how she got them.
Not like it takes a genius, anyway. The ones on her back are from being whipped. The ones on her thighs… those took me longer to suss out, but I have one exactly like it on the outside of my bicep—the result of a fight outside the Nerd two years ago.
It’s a cigarette burn.
If I had to guess, whatever—whoever—gave her those scars is still wandering around this place.
Softly, I say, “Hey,” and press a hand to her cheek, forcing her eyes to mine. “You know I won’t let anyone hurt you. That’s what this is about, right? I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you—”
She flinches away, face blank. “Let’s just go. Okay? Like you said before, let’s get it over with, and then we can go home.”
I watch her carefully, not missing that she considers Preston her home now. It’s a precarious thing, and I should know. Preston is a fleeting shelter that has its own scars and pangs. People like me and her, we call it home, but it never can be.
Not really.
“Is this the place?” I ask, nodding at the wrought iron archway of the town cemetery entrance. Between the bridge and here, I’ve managed to talk myself into, at the very least, pretending everything is normal. At least for her. It still feels stilted and awkward, pulling this façade over all the frenetic anger that’s trapped beneath.
“Yeah,” she breathes, gazing out her window.
She seems content to pretend, too.
I slow the car and pull up the narrow drive. The cemetery is huge, probably the final resting place of every resident the Briar Cliffs has ever seen. Down the winding road that cuts through the gravestones, a few cars are parked off in the distance.
Sugar swallows and says, “That should be them.” I ease the car up behind a white pickup truck and park. Just before I open the door, she says, “My mom makes all of us do this memorial thing. No one likes it but her. It gets all of us tense, and my mother’s husband, he…” She trails off, jaw going taut.
I let my hand drop from the handle. “He what?”
She chews out her words. “He can be a little abrasive. Just… do me a favor and ignore him, okay? That’s what I do.”
I nod, feeling like there’s something she’s not saying, but if she can let me pretend, then I can at least extend the same courtesy to her. We step out of the car, and even though it’s warmer than it was yesterday, Sugar still wraps her arms around herself.
A woman bearing a striking resemblance to her starts toward us. “Baby,” the woman cries, pulling Sugar into a tight hug, her weathered hand rubbing at her back. “You look so good! You’ve put a little meat on your bones, haven’t you?”
Sugar’s smile is tight and rusty. “The food at school is good.”
“Should be, for how expensive it is.” She brushes the hair off Sugar’s cheeks, and I notice her flinch. Jesus Christ, she really hadn’t been lying. She’s not even comfortable with her mother’s touch. “I’m so glad you made it. Any trouble with the weather?”
“No, not really,” Sugar says, eyes darting back over to where the rest of the guests stand near the tombstones. She swallows, asking blandly, “How are you?”
“Good,” her mom says with a rattling exhale. “You know, getting all of this together was a little hectic. Your Aunt Jane kept trying to interfere, but you know how she is. I let her handle dessert, so she backed off.” She looks at me, like she’s just registering that I’m here, and then back at her daughter.
“Mom, this is…” she glances at me, and even the flash of panic in her eyes is a comforting sight. She hasn’t shown one ounce of emotion since crossing the fucking bridge.
I extend my hand and grin. Easier to pretend when it’s just putting on some charm. Sugar will see it for the ‘bullshit artifice’ it is, but these people won’t have a clue. “Sebastian Wilcox. I’m a friend of Sugar’s from school. Pleased to meet you.”
“Sebastian,” she repeats, shaking my hand and arching her eyebrow at her daughter. “It’s lovely to meet you, too. Honestly, I was worried about Sugar making new friends so late in the school year.”
“No need to worry,” I assure her, dipping my hands into my pockets. “Your daughter has won over just about everyone at Preston.”
“Is that so?” a man asks, striding up behind Sugar’s mother. He rests an arm over her shoulder possessively, eyes fixed on Sugar. “Thought maybe you decided not to show up.”