Page 8 of Sugar

“It’s our last movie night.”

Movies had always been a big thing for the OGs and us. When we were little, we would have a monthly girls’ day that involved lunch and a movie. Once Greer’s family moved into a house with a theater room and a projector outside, we’d started doing it there.

After we’d left for college, the frequency was reduced to during breaks—though we’d occasionally snuck in an extra night or two when one of us had needed it.

Tears burned my eyes. “I’ll be home for Thanksgiving before you know it. We’ll do our annualElfviewing to kick off the holiday season.”

She opened her mouth before closing it. I knew she wanted to point out that it wasn’t the same. That we wouldn’t always be able to come home.

That after that year, nothing would be the same again.

But like me, my mom was exhaustingly chipper. She wouldn’t ruin the night with tears.

There would be time enough for that later.

As I climbed from the car, the front door of the house swung open and my goddess of a best friend ran out, her light brown hair flying behind her. “You’re finally here!”

“We were just texting. I literally told you we were right around the corner.”

“I know, I know, but?—”

Her words were cut off when my mom got out and rolled her eyes. “Sorry we’re only ten minutesearly. I got caught up with Howie.”

It was innocent, but I still went for the dramatics as I put my palms to my ears. “Eww, Mom, TMI.”

My dad loved his practice—though my parents’ hushed whispers made me wonder if he was thinking about retirement. He claimed to be living the dream, but he loathed the paperwork involved. Rather than letting it build until the last minute, my mom went into the office to help him with it.

“We were working.” A mischievous smile curved her lips. “Although we do take breaks…”

“La la la,” I cried at an increasingly loud volume.

Ignoring me, she asked Greer, “Are you excited?”

“Very.” She lowered her voice until only I could hear her. “And not just for the morning.”

“What?” I asked.

“You’ll see. C’mon.” Grabbing my hand, she pulled me inside. She kept going, not stopping until we were in her huge kitchen.

The usual spread of pizza crusts and every topping known to man covered the island. There was nothing there that would explain her bouncing restlessness.

“Wow, so exciting,” I deadpanned. “You got pineapple for the pizza. Very edgy and controversial.”

“Patience.”

“What I’m known for.” I snagged a Diet Coke and rested my hip on the counter as I lifted an expectant brow. Her focus was locked on the closed doors that led to her dad’s home office.

“Is someone in there?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she whispered with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle.

“Is it a celebrity?”

With their stellar reputation, our dads saw their fair share of the Hollywood elite. Their secluded and heavily guarded practice was located far enough outside of LA that discretion was possible, but they both occasionally saw an extra famous—and demanding—patient in other locations. It wasn’t a big deal.

It definitely didn’t warrant her excitement unless it was someone hugely popular.

“No,” she said. “And not a patient.”

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