Page 27 of The Thought of You

I blink and bring my friend into clearer focus. As I stroke the scared cat in my hands, I clarify, “The reunion. I’ve set up high-top tables outside for us to enjoy the last of September, but we can’t hang outside if the sky is falling.”

She rubs my upper arm in a soothing rhythm like she, Birdie, and I took a page out of my mom’s whimsical book and are partaking in some calming assembly line. “If it rains, I’ll help you with the tables, but there’s nothing to do right now. Let’s just warm up and enjoy some chili.”

She makes a good point—I can’t do anything about the rain now, but I can eat. I forgot yet another meal today.

My stomach is officially out to get me, with my organs feeling like they’re clawing their way out of my stomach lining.

With the parade at one o’clock, I didn’t have time to eat in between lining everyone up to start on time, and Addie Lockhart is punctual as hell.

I managed to successfully rally half the town for the parade, launching every float, police car, and horse into action according to my detailed itinerary. I was so alert and focused that I never even stepped in manure, which was a miraculous feat. Holding horses hostage in the back of the line was not easy, and it definitely didn’t happen without a few piles of shit.

I deserve to eat my precious bowl of chili in peace and not think about the fact that my mom isn’t here.

She was in town this week, but I never saw her. Now, she’s missing our one tradition that’s lasted past the divorce.

Birdie sticks her tiny claws into my shirt. She’s wrecked. Even drenched, this pitiful thing weighs next to nothing. It would be a good idea to take her home, if I could just locate DeDe in the crowd.

I come up empty as I follow Maren toward the long line of people waiting for their turn at the chili pots. With a snort, I tease, “How are you going to enjoy this chili? You put more effort into taking out the beans than you do eating it.”

“Why do people insist on beans in their chili? They’re mushy and gross,” she hisses.

Her distaste draws a few heads our way, and I stifle a laugh.

“You can’t have chili without the beans,” Judd weighs in with a husky cough from in front of us.

“The beans give the chili flavor,” his wife Mary adds. “Otherwise, you’d basically have spaghetti sauce and crackers.”

“Need I say more?” I ask Maren with a lift of my brow.

She holds her hands up in surrender. “Fine, but when you need backup because you believe hot dogs are sandwiches, don’t come crying to me.”

“They are sandwiches,” I insist.

“How can you say that? It’s like calling a taco a sandwich, and that’s just madness.” This new opinion comes from a guy behind us.

Bond Nicholas, a fellow high school classmate—he’s in town for our reunion.

“There’s no comparison between a taco and a sandwich,” I argue, angling my body toward him. “Each one is in a separate category, like cats and dogs.” I lift Birdie as half of my evidence. “Just because they’re both animals, it doesn’t mean they’re the same.”

“Then you can agree hot dogs are of a different category than sandwiches. You made my point for me.” He folds his lean arms over his chest. Last I heard, he works for a law firm in Atlanta, but I didn’t expect lawyers to be so fit. He must have a set of dumbbells in his office, with a walking pad under his desk too.

I narrow my gaze, internally navigating our argument. I’m normally much better at debating than this, but my head throbs too hard. I need some damn sleep—and food—before my brain resumes proper function again. “Save the lawyer talk for the courtroom, would you?” I toss back at him.

“You’re right. It’s poor form to work on vacation,” he jokes with a low chuckle that is rather endearing.

When he opens his mouth, I instinctively lean in for what he’ll say next, but someone behind him taps his shoulder. What ensues is a reunion of sorts as the man behind Bond shakes his hand and tells him how good it is to run into him.

Maren nudges me to move forward in line with her, and the snicker she releases catches me off guard.

“What?” I shrug.

“I was totally invisible.”

“You couldn’t be invisible if you tried. If your strong cheekbones didn’t draw attention to you, your loud—and might I say, snarky—comments would.”

“I saw you two at the game together.”

“And? Out with it, Maren.”

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