Page 36 of The Thought of You

A warm sensation settles in my chest, replacing the usual fight-or-flight reaction that normally overwhelms me when she’s around. “They were fun,” I say.

And I mean it. Her stories of fairies with powers and beautiful fields of infinite flowers sparked my love of reading and all things literature. It’s what led me to the library after a bad day and why I eventually went on to become an English teacher.

She’s what also made me realize I need something to ground me, or I’d drift away into make-believe worlds of fairies and unicorns.

She indirectly taught me the beauty of magic and the need for reality.

Rain scoops a large portion of chili onto her spoon and waves it around as she says, “Remember Jazzy?”

“The four-armed princess of Solstice City?”

“Where it was summer year-round.”

“I wanted to live there so badly. I thought if I wore my swimsuit every day, I’d be transported there.”

She beams, and we settle into a comfortable rhythm of mother and daughter, just as we have in years past.

And even though our relationship is complicated, it doesn’t matter right now. In this moment, I’m merely happy to see her. As with any boat that sets sail, it returns to shore eventually.

She’s my boat, and I’m her home, nestled safely on the shore.

chapter

eleven

OWEN

The late eighteen hundreds mansion rises into the sky as I slump along the uneven path toward the front porch. Ten years ago, the weeds were so high, they obstructed half the house. Vines, and God knows what kinds of creatures, engulfed the structure that resembled something out of a horror movie.

It bore a haunted mask, for sure.

But looking at it now, it’s hard to admit it’s the same house. It’s trimmed, revitalized, and properly decorated for our high school reunion, thanks in large part to Addison Lockhart.

My button-up attire squeezes my damn throat.

This fucking monkey suit isn’t me, and neither are my heavy steps as I sulk up to the open door and enter the black-and-white tiled lobby. I wasn’t bogged down to this extreme when they wheeled me into the operating room for my ACL surgery.

And it’s all because I think I meant what I said.

Last night, when I offered to loosen Addie up, I was… serious.

For a woman as tightly wound as her, I can’t stop picturing the different ways she might release such tension. Does she have a battery-powered friend? Does she use her own hands?

The thought that Justine and Gemma might’ve been wrong about her status kept me up all night. What if she does have a guy? I almost broke out in hives thinking she might allow some chump to touch her.

Bond might become that chump. Addie might’ve told me she wouldn’t accept if he were to ask her out, but it doesn’t mean she really won’t. She could’ve changed her mind between last night and now.

Which is why I brought my alcoholic buddy tonight.

The flask practically burns in the pocket of my sport coat, so I answer its call and suck back a healthy gulp. The faint scent of something floral, like one of my sisters’ bath bombs, fills my senses. It’s sweet and calming, and it gives me a modicum of understanding as to why my sisters rave about that shit.

In the sitting area, I spot Bond and the fraction of Zen the smell gave me vanishes. I throw back the flask for another sip—an extra dose to help me survive the night.

Only a few old classmates have arrived so far, and Addie is nowhere to be found. I’m surprised she wasn’t the first one here, to be honest. Guests are here, and she’s not greeting them all at the door, which I figured was her plan.

Bond rushes up to me, eyes gleaming like a guy on a mission, and when he utters her name, I realize I did not have enough to drink. “How should I ask Addie out?” he presses.

“Give her a Skittles-covered planner.”

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