My hands cling to the sink.

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 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.