Page 7 of Sugar
Though away was a bit of an exaggeration. Coastal University was just outside of Los Angeles. Barely an hour from home.
Unsurprisingly, more tears slid down her cheeks. “But everything is different this time.”
She wasn’t wrong about that, either.
I’d assumed senior year of college would feel like senior year of high school. Fewer classes. More partying. Excitement and anticipation and the thrill of the impending future.
But it wasn’t just more years of schooling that hovered on the horizon. Once I graduated, there would be no more classes. No campus housing. No set schedule to dictate my days.
Real life loomed ahead. It was so much more monumental.
And terrifying.
Unknowingly echoing my own panic, Mom continued. “Once you graduate, you won’t be moving back in during the summer and breaks. You’ll be off on your own. A baby bird, flying from the nest.”
“In this economy? Mom, we’ll be lucky if I don’t live in my old treehouse for the rest of my life.”
She gave a soft laugh. “You know you’re always welcome, but that won’t happen. You’ll be too busy taking over the world while you leave us in your rearview mirror.”
Mom shared my flair for the dramatic, but that wasn’t what the conversation was. She wasn’t being passive-aggressive, and it wasn’t a one-way ticket on an all-inclusive guilt trip. It was pride that mixed with the bittersweet sadness in her voice.
As much as I loved and appreciated it, her confidence in me did nothing to grow my own. Instead, it added to my turmoil over the daunting future.
I quickly swallowed it down as she turned into the gated community.
Wren and Dina moving into John’s house had broken the bond keeping everyone on the same street. Greer’s family had moved a few short months after before upgrading twice more after that. Only my parents remained in the same house, though I wondered how long it would be before they put it on the market. Even if I had to live with them for another year or ten, we didn’t need the large family home with a treehouse in the backyard.
I was betting it was sentimental attachment holding them in place, but they deserved to be somewhere with more luxury and less upkeep. So long as they had room for me in a guest room, attic, or even crawl space, I would be fine.
Mom punched in the security code and waited for the wrought iron bars to slide open. Once they did, she drove through, easily navigating the winding roads as though she was driving to herown home—which wasn’t far from the truth. She pulled into the long driveway and took her reserved spot.
Literally.
There were customized driveaway bricks labeling spots for my mom and Wren’s. Our house had plaques for the other two. Not to be outdone, Wren’s house had anchored aluminum signs that looked right out of a parking lot, except they werebedazzled.
The OGs were that serious about their friendship, and that extra about life.
Staring out at the massive mansion that’d been like another home to both of us for years, I tried to memorize all the little details I rarely paid attention to.
The garden that took up half the lawn.
The angled windows on the first level that couldn’t open but were architecturally gorgeous in their uselessness.
The loose brick that was haphazardly stuck back into place after Wren, Greer, and I had attempted to drunkenly scale the house to sneak in after a kegger gone wrong—or right, depending.
For a wild moment, I nearly begged my mom to drive to Wren’s house. I desperately wanted to see it, too. To reminisce about the hours spent swimming when we should’ve been studying. To remember oursmallget-together at the end of junior year that’d turned into a rager within minutes. And how John had whisked Dina away for an overnight awayandhired a cleaning company to cover for us.
To notice all the tiny details and refresh the faded memories that seemed so much more vital at that moment.
Which was stupid.
I wasn’t disappearing forever. Neither were the houses.
I kept reminding myself of that until the elephant got off my chest, and I could speak without my voice wobbling. “Ready?”
“Uh-huh,” she choked out.
“Mom.”
