Page 23 of The Thought of You

What the hell was that?

I’m still in a confusing daze as I reach The Boozy Brush and find out Lottie needs more than just my spare key.

Once I enter the studio, I find her in the corner, hunched over the sink washing paintbrushes. “Can you please help me?” she asks over her shoulder.

The pleading look in her wide eyes hits me in the gut, and I can’t say no, even though I’m well aware that Addie will never forgive me for this delay.

I told her I’d be right back, but it’s not going to happen.

I can’t leave my sister high and dry. Addie at least has Austin with her, so she’s not alone, not like Lottie would be if I leave.

So, I sidle up next to my little sister, make a show of sliding imaginary sleeves up to my elbows, and assist her in washing the used brushes.

She briefly leans her temple to my shoulder as the sink fills with streaks of greens and reds. “Thank you,” she says on a sigh.

Over the last few months, I’ve been pulled in all kinds of directions, but at times like these, where I know I’m making a difference for my family, my world rights itself. Like my life steadies on its axis.

I couldn’t do this sort of thing when I played baseball. I lived in Atlanta, a brutal three-hour drive from here. There were also the practices, games, and traveling. I couldn’t show up for my family like this, for all the big and little moments. At times, it felt like I was a forgotten member of the Conrad crew.

Being needed and fulfilling that need provides me a special sense of purpose I never knew before.

Thirty minutes later, I lock up and wave toward my truck. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift home real quick.”

Lottie’s living with our parents for the time being, and Dad should be there to let her in since his pharmacy closed an hour ago.

After I drop her off, I cruise through town, checking the time on my dash repeatedly. This is taking far longer than I anticipated.

A glimpse of the neon sign at Lucy’s Diner stops me from heading straight back to the float site. I’m already on thin ice with Addie, so what’s another ten minutes?

I pull into the lot by the diner, park, and shoot a quick text in a group thread with Austin and Addie to apologize for my delay.

I get nothing in return from Addie, but Austin tells me they’re finished and have left already.

In a separate thread, I text only Austin and ask for Addie’s address.

Also, what’s her favorite meal from Lucy’s?

AUSTIN

How should I know that?

You’re her friend.

I’m the kind of friend she calls when she needs help with her car, and that’s only because I’m a mechanic.

You must have shared a meal with her at some point in the past.

I guess that might’ve last happened over the summer.

And what did she eat?

That’s like asking me what we talked about, or what her favorite color is. I don’t know the answer to either, man.

I press the heel of my palm into my eye, then text him back, practically begging him to dig deep into the recesses of his stubborn brain to recall her favorite order. It doesn’t even have to be her favorite. Anything she does, in fact, enjoy would be helpful.

After five whole minutes, he finally returns with a useful answer—fried green tomatoes and a BLT.

With these new pieces of information in my holster, for yet another inexplicable reason, the stirring in my chest from before intensifies.

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