His wife. Not Sugar’s mother.
“Thanks for having me,” I tell her, even though I wasn’t technically invited.
“The chaplain wants to get started,” Doug says, glancing at his watch, mustache twitching with the glare he shoots Sugar. “We’re already running late.”
“Doug’s right,” Marie says, quickly. “Let’s get started.”
They walk off, but Sugar hangs back, looking up at me. I raise an eyebrow, asking, “He always like that?” even though I know now.
I know.
She nods stiffly. “My mom’s husband. Brace for it: he’s always right.”
I realize now that she never calls him her stepfather, just her mom’s husband. We walk up the small hill, and I notice Sugar’s hands are tucked tight in her pockets. She’d introduced me as a friend—not her boyfriend. Maybe she’d take this easier than I thought. With each step closer to the small group of people, her shoulders tense. I watch as the wall that I’d taken weeks to tear down slowly builds back up.
“Where’s the Mustang?” Doug asks abruptly, looking over our heads at my mother’s SUV. “Don’t tell me. That piece of junk broke down.”
“It’s just getting some work done,” she replies, voice as abrasive as the look he gives her. “That’s why Sebastian offered to drive me. The SUV seemed safer with this weather, anyway.”
Doug eyes me, taking in my clothes and my car. I want to ask him how he could let his stepdaughter drive off in a hunk of junk in that condition on her own, but I swallow it back. Someone who’s done what I suspect he’s done to Sugar probably couldn’t fucking care less.
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Marie says, oblivious to the tension, or maybe in spite of it. “Ice so late in the year. Your father would have been so amused. You know how much he loved the cold weather and snow. Especially after basic training at Fort Benning. Said he’d never experienced that kind of heat and humidity in his life and never wanted to again.”
I’m introduced to Sugar’s Aunt Jane and a few other people, including a few older guys in uniform. Sugar’s fine with everyone, mostly, even though she’s tense—except Doug. It’s so goddamn obvious, how can these people not know? How can they not see?
It’s not a big group and the event is entirely informal. There’s an American flag folded over the headstone and people take turns saying nice memories about Sugar’s dad. From all accounts, he sounds like a good guy and a bit of a bad ass, earning awards and accolades from the military for his service and bravery.
For all that I pay close attention to the little glimpse into Sugar’s life, I keep one eye on Doug at all times. He’s tall, probably has an inch on me, even. He’s a big guy, obviously a laborer. The longer I look at him, the more I think of it—this big, grown ass man doing those things to someone as small as Sugar—and I practically bite a fucking hole in my tongue to stop myself from saying something.
It just gets really fucking difficult not to bash his goddamn face in.
I bide my time, though. Doug keeps his mouth conspicuously shut, his expression blank. More than once, I see him check the time on his watch. I want to ask him if he’s got somewhere else to be. What’s the problem, Doug? Worried about missing the game?
I keep my comments to myself.
As we approach the grave site, an eerie feeling of déjà vu rolls over me. I glance around, knowing I haven’t been here before, but everything from the placement of the headstone to the American flags feels familiar. Then it hits me. She’d sent me this photo the day we hooked up in the photography lab. Go figure. I was so focused on my dick, I didn’t connect the significance.
“Sugar,” Marie says, “Do you have anything you want to say?”
“Um…” A pained expression pinches her face. Her fingers are pressed against her chest where I know the dog tags are laying against her skin. “Not today,” she says quietly. Her mother looks disappointed but doesn’t push.
Doug coughs and gives her a pointed glare. “Nothing?” he asks. “You can’t think of one thing to say to your father on a day like today? Maybe a ‘thank you for your service’? Thank you for providing for me and my mother? Thank you for sacrificing yourself for this country?”
“Doug,” Marie says quietly, glancing around at the others. Everyone watches on awkwardly. “You know Sugar mourns in her own way. It’s fine.”
He shakes his head like he’s been personally affronted. I glance down at Sugar and although her face is set like marble, her cheeks bloom red under the cold. I start to place my hand on her lower back but stop myself, curling my fingers into a fist.
It’s hard to focus on anything else after that. Not the flowers or the nice words from the chaplain. I watch Doug, studying his movements, his disposition. His shoulders are broad. There’s an impatience rolling off of him—not dissimilar to my own—but there’s something else. An air of superiority. The kind that hasn’t been earned, but still claimed. Fuck, the way it makes my blood simmer, thinking of those hands hurting my girl. I wonder if he beats his wife, too. A guy like that? Probably the only way he can feel like a real man.
I’m so tense with it that by the time the final prayer comes, my muscles are stiff and aching. Marie predictably invites everyone back to the house for lunch, an offer everyone seems willing to take.
Sugar is quiet on the way to the car, quieter still once we’re inside. I pause before cranking the engine, trying to tamp down the rage that’s trapped in my chest. When I notice him staring back at my car, eyes narrowed, I can’t help but grind out, “What the fuck is wrong with that guy?”
She follows my gaze through the windshield, instantly swinging her eyes away. “He’s just trying to get a rise out of me.”
“Trying to get a rise out of you?” I take the keys out of the ignition, gripping them too tight in my hand. “He’s the one, isn’t he.”
She doesn’t even look surprised that I figured it out. She just rests her elbow on the door, fingers digging into her temple. “Sebastian, please, just—”