Page 14 of The Thought of You

I lift my head, my eyebrows shooting into my hairline. “Oh?”

She shrugs. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together this week.”

Maren takes minimalism to a frustrating level when it comes to her expressions. The fact that she’s so nonchalant about this flabbergasting bit of news could be because it’s not shocking or interesting at all.

On the other hand, it could still be epic gossip, but Maren’s pursed lips are sworn to secrecy.

Could she know something? I’ve barely seen Caroline all week, and when I have, I’ve been flustered and preoccupied. I’ve practically redecorated the Buchanan House three times in an attempt to get it just right.

After all, we’re going to remember our reunion for years to come. Even if Owen thinks I’m ridiculous for the lengths I’ve gone to, which he’s obnoxiously mentioned multiple times the last few days, I know I’m doing important work. It’s my responsibility to ensure Saturday night is memorable for all the fun times rather than for it being lame.

“Are you surprised?” Maren asks as she finishes gluing a line of sequins along one side of a shoe. She picks up the other and begins the same task over again to match the first.

“They didn’t get off on the right foot last weekend,” I say as I recall the morning I ran into Caroline at Bready or Knot downtown, and she introduced herself to Austin.

I had to remind her that he was in our graduating class, and he was less than amused or forgiving, which is putting it nicely.

I pull the thread through the sequined ribbon, sewing it to the edge of the black vest. “I figured he’d avoid her like the plague this week.”

Maren snorts. “Doesn’t he avoid everyone?”

I hum in agreement. Austin Kyle is a friend, one I’ve grown relatively close to since high school, but the guy is grumpier than Leon, the eighty-year-old man living across the street, who calls to scold me about my hedges not being trimmed to his liking. Last week, he called to inform me my trash bin was still on the curb, and I should’ve brought it up my driveway already.

When I first started living here alone after college, I gave him my number in case of emergencies. In hindsight, he and I have very different definitions of the concept.

“The other night, when I asked Austin to drive Caroline in the parade tomorrow, he turned green.” I shake my head, picturing his scrunched face like I’d twisted his arm into a pretzel.

“He’s going to do it, though, right?”

“He is, but I think it’s only because his mother was standing next to him when I practically begged. There was no one else to drive her.”

As our class’s homecoming queen, Caroline was in the top five people I needed to secure a ride for in the parade. She’s giving a speech on the courthouse steps to conclude Friday’s afternoon festivities, so I might’ve actually cried had prickly Austin not agreed to lend his truck and time for one of the highlights of homecoming.

Then again, I’d worked too hard to let him worm his way out of helping. I was ready to promise him a kidney, but thankfully, his mother’s excitement over the idea was enough.

He loves her more than anyone, so he basically had no choice.

“Are you sad Nathan isn’t coming this weekend?” I peek over at her, but she doesn’t visibly react at the mention of her high school boyfriend.

“So, it’s not just a rumor, then?”

“He RSVP’d with his attendance, but I heard he’s stuck on a job somewhere in Wyoming that’s taking him longer to complete than he previously thought.”

“Hmm” is all she offers.

But I know just the thing to crack this nut—if I continue pressing, she’ll eventually cave.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say as I bring the ribbon around the bottom corner of the vest, careful not to make eye contact as if she were a deer I stumbled upon in the woods.

“You prying little shit.” With a sigh, Maren drops the shoe to the table with a thud. “Would it have been nice to see him? Sure. For nostalgia’s sake. But he’ll be back soon to visit his parents, and since they live right next door, odds are I’ll see him then, not that I’ll be glued to the window waiting for that day.” She scoffs, and a giggle accidentally escapes me. “Oh, since you think that’s so funny, why don’t we talk about Owen?”

“Whoa.” I hold a hand up as if it’s a white flag. “I only asked about Nate because I care.”

“That’s why I’m asking about Owen.”

“There’s nothing to talk about when it comes to that dickheaded butt munch.”

“Such strong words imply strong feelings,” she sings sarcastically. “Especially when those words are a decade old.”

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