Page 35 of The Thought of You

“Her real name’s Cynthia,” I correct and clamp my mouth shut, but my mother doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she tilts her head toward me and tells Owen, “This one’s always so caught up in the semantics of society. I’ve tried and tried to paint her life with more color, but she insists on coloring inside the lines.”

“So glad you two could get acquainted,” I chirp through gritted teeth and step between them, angling my body toward my mother. “Ready for chili?”

“Only if it’s the next item on your checklist.” She snorts, and my temples throb.

Over my shoulder, my gaze lingers on Owen’s, which darkens with each step I take after her.

His eyes—his bold, searing green eyes—follow my every movement as I hook my thumb into the pocket of my jeans and spin on my wobbly heel.

As I lead Rain toward the cafeteria, my shoulders lock into position just underneath my ears. Something like embarrassment nibbles at my nerve endings. It’s the same feeling I had when I was ten years old and had been at lunch in the cafeteria with some kids from my class.

It was around the time my father had moved out, and my mother quit her salary-paying job. Soon afterward, she asked everyone to call her Rain. I went to school the next day and declared my name would be Cloud from then on. She was Rain, so I wanted to be like her.

Rain and Cloud—we’d take on the world and pave the way for rainbows. That’s what we’d decided together.

Except when I announced my new name at school, the kids pointed and laughed at me. It went on for what felt like an eternity, until the only safe place I could escape to was in the library underneath one of the computer desks.

Their mocking laughter followed me all the way there. It was the haunting kind of sound that stays with a person.

I hid in the library every day for a while after that incident. I stowed myself away among the fictional, magical places I could get my hands on, my pointy nose buried in the pages of the books on the shelves around me.

I wanted reality to be as magical, but I quickly realized it wasn’t possible. I needed to be practical, like my father. He was settled and happy, and his way of life was safe.

I learned early on that I needed to live the opposite from my mother. My life may not have turned out whimsical and adventurous like hers, but I have something priceless—stability. Everything on my lists and calendars makes sense.

Schedules are easy to follow, and logic is on my side.

I still take trips to see my friends and get a taste of the world, and when I can’t, I escape into books. It’s all the magic I need.

With a hot bowl of chili warming my palms, I follow my mother to a corner of the cafeteria toward an empty table by the windows. Maren has disappeared. In fact, many people have cleared out, presumably opting to get home sooner rather than later. I haven’t heard an official announcement from the principal or football coach, but it’s safe to say the game won’t resume tonight.

The rain has let up now, but the lightning still blinks across the sky with warning of more storms ahead of us.

Rain curls her ankle under one knee on the chair next to me. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.”

I nearly choke on my bite of chili. “I’m not.”

Her lips curl around her spoon.

“I’m not,” I repeat more firmly.

“So, the sexual energy between you and Mr. PE was just my imagination?”

My throat closes as if I’m having an allergic reaction. “You do have a wild imagination,” I manage.

She hums, clearly not buying what I’m selling, even though it’s the truth.

There’s no energy of any kind between Owen and me. There can’t be. He’s wrong for me on every level.

“He and I exist in different realms,” I say in a language she might understand.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t hop from one to the other.”

“See? Here’s the wild imagination we were just talking about,” I tease, itching to shy away from the topic.

“You didn’t mind it when I’d tell you outlandish stories before bedtime.”

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