Page 4 of Something Like Sugar (Pine Forest Something #2)

“I can’t do it, Dad,” I tell him, a tear tracing down my cheek, even though I should have no tears left to cry.

Crying doesn’t care what you think, though.

It takes hold of you when you feel the most depleted.

Even when you’ve got nothing left to give, the tears find a way to pull that last bit of salt out of you.

I’m never sure if they’re reminding us that we’re still alive, despite how surreal pain may be, or if it’s God’s way of telling us that we’re of salt and water just like the rest of it.

We’re of Earth and we’re whole, even when we’re falling apart.

“If there’s one thing I’m most proud of, dear girl, it’s the way your eyes fill with curiosity, even in the quietest moments. One could get lost for lifetimes wondering what you’ve been imagining up there.”

“I can’t be without you.” I sob.

Not gracefully, not like a dancer. Like the child I am when I think of losing my daddy.

“You can, Shaker, and very soon, you will. You need to be okay with that,” he tells me softly, squeezing my hand from his deathbed. The only one he’ll ever lie in again before it’s just velvet insides and wooden slabs holding his body.

“I can’t.” I look down at my hands and see I’m still clutching onto the card from the flowers.

I hold it out to Dad, shifting gears because I can’t face this.

The morbid thought creeps over me again.

How am I supposed to face life when he’s gone, if I can’t face the mere thought of it now?

“It sounds like this man is in love with you, Shana.” Dad scans the card.

“But it’s creepy, right? He’s watching ? And the tears thing ? It’s strange.”

“Oh, come now. What is strange? ‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you—Is that not strange?’ Much ‘Ado About Nothing.”

“Dad! Seriously, I love a good Billy quote, but that doesn’t excuse the stalker vibes and depressing plant that looks like it was grown in the literal ashes of Edgar Allan Poe. It’s so droopy.”

“It’s also your favorite color.” He points to my purple converse, and I scoff at his omnipotence.

Self-assured old fart always knows everything.

“You’re just like your mother.” He smiles again, sighing heavily.

“She didn’t know how special she was, and I mean inside and out.

Boy, when she volunteered at the aquarium, and those creatures seemed to communicate with her…

I’d stop and stare all day long. Give this man a bit of grace, Shaker.

Love makes people do crazy things. He likely sees it too, what I did. ”

“What was that?” This might be the only chance I get to ask him again.

About my mother.

About love.

Dad tucks the card into my hand and pats it closed.

I should have known he wouldn’t give me an easy answer. Always a riddle. Still, I can’t help but smile. It’s so very Dad , and I love him for it. I rub away more tears as he closes his eyes, scanning his brain for a perfectly scripted response like always.

Before long, his lips turn up, and he opens his eyes to meet mine. “ Beauty within itself should not be wasted: fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime, rot and consume themselves in little time. Venus and Adonis.”

“And that means?” I say, frustrated. I mean, it’s not like I even know who this guy is.

He could be anyone. “Even if I didn’t want to ‘rot and consume myself’ as you so graciously put it, this isn’t the sixties.

You can’t just meet a guy at the sock hop and assume he’s not a dateline serial killer with a human skin fetish these days. ”

There’s also no sock hop.

Dad drifts back to sleep, so I lower his bed and tuck the covers snugly around his body. When I feel like he’s got everything he needs in arm’s reach, and his call bell is available, I switch off the lamp and make my way to the door.

I stop by the Sugar Plum plant on my way out and take a moment to really think about it.

Who the hell sent this? Who was watching me dance?

Only one answer makes sense.

Letters, words, heartbreak.

Only one man saw me cry.

There’s only one man in my life with a history of secret note sending, and while he never admitted it outright, I know.

I had an inkling the gifts appearing through the years were from him, my secret admirer.

My best friend’s older brother.

It was sweet.

Until it stopped.

The last one came the eve of my college move-in, a shattered bedroom window and a letter taped to a rock. I supposed my silent watcher was angry I’d be leaving, but rather than reveal himself—or his feelings for me—he gave up.

Broken promises have been folded in my music box for a decade.

Dustin Campbell will never act on how he feels. Maybe in every other part of his life, sure.

I’m just not worth fighting for.

So what? Now he feels sorry for me, too?

In my room, I peel the spandex leo from my body and stand in front of the fan to cool from the range of emotions that plague me.

I slip into an oversized shirt and flop onto my bed. I open my phone to a few texts from Dev with pictures from Cowboys Paradise.

I roll my eyes at the man whose number she got for me.

I can practically hear: “I met your future hubby!”

Nope. Not for me.

Not that the guy she met wasn’t good looking, it’s just that husbands… boyfriends …aren’t what I need right now. I’m looking for something specific.

The step before the special someone.

A sex coach.

And I’m not going to find one in Pine Forest where I can’t even go to the grocery store without running into the same obstetrician who birthed half my graduating class.

That droopy stalker plant is living proof I understand nothing about the male species.

I’m certain, now more than ever, that my best friend’s brother, the very same one with a Flinger model down his throat only yesterday, is the person who sent me those flowers today.

The card still burns a hole in my hoodie pocket.

“ Dry your tears, sweet vision.”

An old corkboard picture of me and Devyn at the lake flutters beneath the air conditioning vent.

“ You look good in board shorts. A vision.”

Irony stings.

Notes. Secrets.

I’ve lost too many pieces of my heart for one lifetime, and I won’t lose more because he feels sorry for me.

Not when he’ll never give me the whole of his.

I’ve tried.

I thumb the folds of the note, muscle memories of paper footballs from my past taunting me more than the blonde’s kiss.

I don’t need his plants or his pity.

I pull up the app store, and I download Flinger.