Page 17 of The Thought of You

“Just peachy,” I grind out, opting to bury the curse words inside my body as I shove my notebook back into my tote. “Why wouldn’t I be just peachy? Why would the fact that the freshmen aren’t anywhere close to finishing their float bother me? I’m cool. I’m confident. I’m perfectly well, my dear, sweet Austin.” The mix of sarcasm and disappointment in my voice echoes across the dusty old factory, and my heart races.

Why don’t they care as much as I do? Do they not realize this is part of their class legacy? This is a piece of our town’s history in the making, and the only thing they seem to award their attention to is the fact that Junior is grounded for taking his dad’s truck without permission, Maple got her braces off, and her best friend Frances was voted the freshmen homecoming maid.

It’s all exciting, but they have no idea how monumental things like the float are for the community. These are the things and experiences they’ll fondly remember down the road. These moments are the stitches in the quilt that makes up high school, but they’re treating this quilt like just another grimy cloth abandoned in an attic somewhere.

“I don’t suppose now is a good time to let you know Judd will be out of town Saturday and Sunday to visit his brother.”

I whirl around, my eyelid convulsing like a volcano just erupted in my head. Austin isn’t kidding. I should’ve known he wouldn’t joke about it—the guy wouldn’t know how to kid if he were tossed into a pen full of comedians.

I just wish he were the playful type, because if Judd is out of town this weekend, then he can’t fix my dryer. Fantastic.

Masking my frustration, I slide the drill off the table and hand it to Austin. “The others should be here soon. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

The whirring of the drill quickly descends upon us and mildly distracts me from my busy mind. It’s as overcrowded in there as peaches in a mason jar. But the unpleasant screeching from Austin screwing boards along the outside of the trailer is no match for my overpowering thoughts.

Each one slams into me as if I’m physically pushed.

Once he pauses the drilling, I continue working as I absentmindedly say, “The parade is tomorrow. I’ve already arranged for designated drivers to haul the floats to the high school in the morning, one being the big gorilla from the gaming club in Judd’s garage. The rest are scattered around town, and I’m putting more trust in these happy helpers than I do my dentist.”

No sound comes from Austin. I don’t even glance up to see if he’s listening.

“I’ve worked and re-worked the order of participants as people have dropped out, and others have been added. Is it finalized? Or will there be more changes to deal with at the last minute? There are always stressful changes in the final hour, especially with something of this caliber,” I ramble.

Austin powers up the drill again. Once he ceases, his sigh echoes across the space, and I sigh too.

“Most of the town will be there,” I say. “All those eyes will be on the school—and me. It has to go well.”

The pressure is so on, but I’m no stranger to it. Pressure and me? We’re best freaking pals.

“Are you talking to me?” Austin asks, and I finally peer over at him from the opposite side of the trailer.

This makes me laugh for the first time today.

The crunching sounds of cars pulling up the gravel path drift over us, followed by low chatter from the approaching students.

Before they barrel inside, Austin strides over to me, his voice low when he asks, “You’d tell me if you weren’t all right, wouldn’t you? Or is this one of those things where I need to read between the lines or ask you to blink twice if you’re in some sort of trouble?”

“I’ll be fine,” I whisper, but he doesn’t immediately break eye contact.

Only when the kids scramble inside does he step away, a broody shadow firmly in place over his expression.

He’s worried about me, and while it’s much appreciated, it’s not necessary. This is not my first rodeo. I will make it to the other side of homecoming week with a triumphant victory, just as I have in years past.

This might be the first time so much responsibility has fallen on me, but it’s what I do. It’s all part of my ten-year plan—more responsibility means more trust, which means more clout, which gives me a better shot at a promotion when one becomes available.

I’m going to be principal someday.

My body runs on autopilot as I idly stuff tissue paper into the chicken wire in order to give the freshmen a fighting chance to get this done, when Owen finally arrives.

He strolls in here fifteen minutes late smelling like the inside of an old gym bag that got wet, dried, then got wet again.

My senses are attacked by a whiff of him before I see him, and I make a mental note to add “all chaperones must shower before school functions” to my list for future me.

Owen smacks Austin’s shoulder and adjusts the bill of his baseball cap over his forehead, the unruly strands of his dirty-blond hair curling over the tops of his ears.

His black T-shirt clings to what some women around town call his lickable biceps. The sweatpants he wears rise over his hips and rest along his tapered waist. He’s casual, yet most women in Sapphire Creek—including a few around the teacher’s lounge—would say he’s still a mouthwatering slab of hunk they’d love a bite of.

I don’t share in their ridiculous observations. Owen Conrad is just a man. Of course, if his personality were appealing in the slightest, I might view him as a decent-looking man. He’s definitely not an ogre, even if he does currently smell like one, but that’s as nice as I’m going to be on the subject.

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