Page 12 of The Thought of You

The wind decided to rearrange my hanging line—again.

A pair of leggings and a few socks decorate a rose bush in my backyard like the most unique Christmas tree in all of Georgia.

I rush down the steps of my deck and delicately untangle them from the branches, wary of any flying critters. The last time I gathered my clothes from the line I’ve draped across my deck, a bee zipped out of my black dress and gave me a scare.

I skim the rest of the yard to ensure I’ve gotten them all, and with a huff, I mutter, “This cannot be my long-term fate.”

I had no intention of going this long without a proper dryer, either, but once again, I missed Judd. He came by to fix it, as promised, but I wasn’t around to let him into my house. I delivered a box of his favorite donuts to him as an apology with a note to beg him to come back soon.

Judd’s usually busy with his auto shop, where my friend Austin works, but Judd is also rather handy in unclogging a vent hose. I’d find a YouTube video and do it myself, but when Judd mentioned over the phone that it might need to be replaced altogether, I washed my hands of the issue.

I’m good, but I’m not fix-a-damaged-dryer good.

But I haven’t been home much over the last few days, so I still have no dryer, which is why I’m now completing a scavenger hunt around my yard for my clean clothes.

They were clean, anyway.

I lay the rescued items across the top of my loaded laundry basket, hoist it onto my hip, and head back inside.

I’ve just set the basket on the floor at the foot of my bed when the front doorbell rings.

With extra pep in my step, I race out into the hall, through the living room, and yank the door open.

“Your wish is my command.” Maren holds up a brown bag in one hand and a wine bottle in the other.

“I only asked for a glue gun.” My lips twitch.

“Yes, but since I’ve known you for most of my life, I figured you could use some Skittles and wine.”

“Bless you.” My mouth instantly salivates. I imagine this is how dogs feel in the presence of juicy meat or peanut butter.

As she enters my living room, she asks over her shoulder, “How bad has this week been for you?”

“Not bad. It’s been great. Full of opportunities and fun.” Some might call their items on a to-do list tasks or chores, but I refer to them as opportunities—rungs on a ladder to success.

“You’re stressed.” My best friend sets the goodies down, and I help myself to the contents of the bag.

“When am I not stressed?”

“I’m starting to think that while the rest of us need water to survive, you’re gulping back lists and calendars to thrive.” Next to the coffee table, Maren reaches a hand toward the stack of photos and gasps. “Oh my God. What are these?”

“They’re for our reunion Saturday. I’m going to put a few copies on each table so people can reminisce. They can also take them home, since I have multiple of each. They’re kind of like nostalgic party favors.” I point to a separate stack and say, “Those are ones of Caroline, you, and me.”

She skims through the pile and holds one up. “Oh, my pageant days with Caroline.”

“Your hair was a fire hazard,” I playfully tease as I take the picture from her.

In it, we’re around twelve, and the circumference of Maren’s hair is bigger than a beach umbrella. The curls are glued together with an ungodly amount of hairspray. I stand between the two in the picture, my jeans and T-shirt remarkably plain next to their sparkling dresses. Their coordinating puffy sleeves hide part of my face on either side, but our matching smiles are wide and excited.

The three of us remained close, even after Caroline moved to New York ten years ago. She’s in town for the class reunion, and even though I had plans to enjoy many a stress-free girls’ nights with her and Maren, I have not had the time I expected I would, not with all the last-minute arrangements to be made for homecoming and our big reunion this weekend.

Maren continues sifting through the photos while I rummage into a Skittles bag and scoop up a handful. “You should’ve printed this one in a much larger size.” She presents a picture from a legendary bonfire, which features many classmates sticking out their tongues. Owen is front and center with his shirt stretched over his head.

I roll my eyes. “I could not, in good conscience, draw any more attention to Owen with a larger print.”

“I’m surprised you printed it at all.”

I furrow my brows. Why did I? “It’s a memory, that’s all,” I say, but my voice is faint.

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