Page 13 of The Thought of You

“This one definitely deserves a larger size.” Grinning, she shows me the one from spirit week during our senior year. A few guys wear gold bandanas around their heads, and several girls are decked in black-and-gold shirts with the letters SCHS filled in with glitter.

It’s been ten years since this picture was taken, and this week, it’s all coming full circle.

With a sigh, Maren arranges the photos back into a neat pile on my coffee table, just as they were before she arrived. “Let’s get to work. I have an early morning.”

As the owner of a coffee truck, every morning is early for her. Even so, she’s here to help me this late in the evening. Giving up on rest and sleep equals true friendship, which is why I’ve already made a note to stop by her house tomorrow with a bouquet of air fresheners. She mentioned earlier that she’s run out of her favorite scents, so it’s only fair and proper for me to return the favor with a nice gesture of my own.

I hop up from the couch to follow her into the other room, but a glimpse of the top picture on the stack gives me pause. It’s the same picture from the bonfire, with Owen’s abs on display.

I was the one who snapped the shot.

It was the one time I’d gone to one of those parties, and since I’m not in the picture, there’s no proof of my presence. I made no impression on these people back then other than to be the one who organized and documented their fun.

And I’m still doing it.

As our senior class president, the opportunity of hosting the reunion ultimately falls on me. I’ve worked tirelessly all summer to get the Buchanan House ready for us. I’ve stalked online sites for sales on décor, I’ve gone back and forth with caterers on a menu until I was dizzy, and I’ve spent all week trying to bring it all together.

We’re under budget too.

I’ve done it all with little support from our class’s beloved VP—Owen Conrad.

But even if he were around to help, he’d only be in my way. Getting things done has been my thing since I was young. I’m good at it, and more than that, I enjoy this stuff as much as I do dance and Skittles.

In the kitchen, Maren pours two glasses of wine, and I make my way to the dining table, the bag of Skittles tightly clutched in my hand. “Thanks for coming over tonight,” I say as she hands me a glass. “And thanks for this.”

I savor a sip, and my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. It’s probably not as good and flavorful as the wines from faraway places like Napa Valley or Italy, but right now, it’s the best wine I’ve ever had.

It hits the spot like cold lemonade on a hot day.

Maren plugs in the glue gun, then holds up a black vest with a ribbon of gold sequins hanging off one end. “What is this?”

“Another unfinished project for my outfit tomorrow.” I sit in front of a pair of white shoes just begging me to bedazzle them for spirit week.

Tomorrow is black-and-gold day. Principal Weathers wanted to assign that day to Friday, but with the homecoming parade at one, and most students needing to wear dresses, cheerleading uniforms, and such, I convinced him our school colors deserve a whole day.

I point to the vest, which is my next order of business tonight, and say, “I ran around town in search of one like it, but it’s true what they say—why ask someone else to do what you can do better?”

“Totally.” She sips from her glass, nearly draining it, and I know she gets it. She’s also good at sewing, like me, but neither one of us knows how to knit, contrary to Owen’s buffoon-ish assumption about my friends and me.

With the kitchen table covered in a plastic tablecloth, I bring the untouched shoes over for us to decorate. She tests the glue gun, and I spread out a handful of sequins to stick to the shoes.

To my side, I tap my phone to play a song for us, then switch to my messages, where I find a text from my mother.

RAIN

Lunch on Friday? I’ll come over. I have fresh green beans from Kin’s garden I want you to try.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I release a rough exhale. I’m not surprised she asked me to lunch on a weekday—on the day of the homecoming parade, no less. It’s not the first time, and much to my chagrin, I don’t imagine it’ll be the last.

Rather than respect my life choices, she lectures me, claiming the tension in my body and the negativity in my aura are the products of me being trapped by “the system.”

My mother and her free spirit don’t confine themselves to a regimented work schedule, or to a single home address. According to her, the world—and beyond—is her home.

But there’s one important thing her text indicates. The fact that she’s inviting me to try green beans means she’ll be in town. Is she coming to the chili dinner on Friday night? I’d ask her, but what’s the point? Anytime she’s told me of her plans in the past, they’ve always changed at the last minute, so I stopped asking a long time ago.

I skim past her message without responding and locate the thread I need. “I texted Caroline to come over too, but she hasn’t responded.”

“She’s probably with Austin.”

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