Page 32 of Riding the Sugar High

Though she remains perfectly silent, her eyes are louder than words. The way she keeps staring at the side of my face as if I’m the best person ever put on this planet, the gratefulness pouring out of her. I need her to quit it immediately, and she must perceive my discomfort because, without a word, she turns to her bag.

I watch her take out a pen, and after removing the cap, she strikes through one of the items of her list. I’m not sure why, as I don’t usually care about much, but I need to know which one. “What was that?”

“Kiss me until I can’t breathe.”

Oh, right. I feel heat creep up my neck, but before I can find something to say back, she brings pen to paper again and strikes through something else.

Again, it kills me not to know. “And this one?”

Her eyes meet mine as she sets pen and list back into her bag. “That,” she says with a playful tone, “is the second item I get to cross because of you, Logan. Thank you.”

Unbelievable. She found a way to thank me after all.

After a moment of silence, she asks, “You don’t have a TV, do you?”

“No,” I mumble, trying to push any thought of her list away. “No TV, no computer, no cellphone, no technology.”

“Wow.” Her eyes widen, but she quickly brushes off her judgmental expression and waves. “You know, back home, I have three TVs.”

“What—you live in a palace?”

“Just a two-bedroom.” She chuckles. “I also have two computers. But on the other hand, the French balcony with a view of the mall doesn’t compare to this.”

I look at the hills in the horizon, overly aware of her shoulder a few inches from mine. And is that perfume? Why does she always smell like fruit?

“Seriously, though. How does someone live without the internet?”

With a shrug, I give her my least friendly glare. “There aren’t a billion strangers calling me a psycho, so...so far so good.”

She swipes her finger on the screen of her phone and begins typing. “What if you need to look something up?”

“What do you mean?” I ask as I breathe in the smoke.

“Say you need to check where Bangladesh is.” She fidgets with the hem of her dress. “How do you do that with no internet?”

“Why the hell would I need to check where Bangladesh is?”

“To prove to someone that it’s next to Myanmar.”

I open my mouth, then close it. “I have an atlas.”

She raises both hands as if to declare defeat. “All set, then. My mistake. Are microwaves allowed?”

“When my ex moved out, she took her TV back. I never liked computers, and when I realized I also don’t like people, I threw my phone away.” I inhale, rolling my stiff shoulders back. “Now, please shut up, Barbie.”

She doesn’t say a word, and lighting up the joint again, I wait for her to leave. But she doesn’t. She keeps staring at me with those piercing eyes the same color as crystal clear waters.

I guess I hate to be stared at as much as I hate being talked to.

“What?” I hiss.

She huffs out a chuckle. “Why do you keep calling me that? Barbie?”

Brows arching, I throw a glance in her direction. “Blonde hair with pink tips. Blue eyes. Pink dress, pink heels.” I gesture vaguely at her. “Barbie.”

“Joke’s on you, cowboy,” she says with a long sigh. “I spent half my life wishing I could look like Barbie.”

“Well, there you go.”

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