Page 7 of The Thought of You

My answer comes out quickly—a little too quickly, in fact. “The other kind is waiting for your bullies to grow up, marry for money and status instead of love, and miserably stomp around town with permanent frowns on their Botoxed faces.”

She blinks. “Weirdly specific, but I like it. I think.”

I smile, thankful she doesn’t push the topic so I don’t accidentally tell her that’s exactly what happened to Emmy Salinger, who’s Emily Winchester now. “Let’s get inside, because this smell is going to make me pass out. How are you not getting sick over this?”

“I’m used to it. I live on a farm.” With a shrug, she follows me around the corner of the weary structure toward the sliding door, where she pauses to dry the last of her tears on her cheeks with the end of her shirtsleeve.

My heart cracks, but the way she raises her head high keeps it from breaking altogether.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Only one way to find out.” She plasters on a smile, and I wave for her to lead the way inside.

“Alonso, stop it already!” One of the kids shooshes the harmonica player. She then taps on her phone and shifts a Bluetooth speaker to the side, which plays even louder music than the harmonica.

“Walk much?” One of the guys snickers as Beth inches by, and the kid next to him joins in on the laughter.

Beth’s steps falter only slightly, but she doesn’t crumble. She makes a beeline for an open spot on the other side of the trailer and dives into the work.

As hard as it is to get through this phase, I find comfort in knowing she’ll be okay, because I was.

“Let’s keep it at a reasonable volume,” I call out.

This grabs their attention. It’s safe to assume they hadn’t noticed my arrival before this moment, given how wide their eyes grow.

“I thought Mr. Conrad was going to be here tonight,” one says, but it’s more of a question. It’s laced with disappointment too.

“He told us he’d bring his cornhole set for us to play,” another student chimes in and nudges the first boy with his elbow. “I was going to show Ray what’s up.”

Irritation pinches my nerve endings, and my eye twitches. I’m exhausted and flustered to the hundredth degree, but I’m the one who showed up—the second-rate, non-fun adult compared to the cool guy who acts and talks just like them.

“Mr. Conrad couldn’t be here tonight, unfortunately. Last-minute obligation,” I say through gritted teeth. What I truly want to tell them is that they idolize the wrong teacher. They don’t know me yet, as they won’t have me in English until next year, but they should learn now that Owen’s the wrong teacher.

But I’m a professional. I’m above childish antics and drama.

I’m responsible, and some day, when these teens grow up, they’ll appreciate me.

“But if you work really hard over the next hour, you can leave early,” I chirp, and it seems I speak their language.

The group dips their heads practically in sync, and they don’t make much of a peep for the next hour. The snickering boys don’t even make another crack at Beth. Not one that I hear, anyway, and I do strain to listen.

With the music turned down and the tissue paper dedicated once again to the actual float instead of their nostrils, I dig my phone out of my massive tote and call Owen for the third time tonight. But just as the previous two times, I’m greeted by his voicemail.

And my blood pressure rises, as if it’s not high enough already.

I’m the one who loses sleep over school functions.

I’m the one who takes my job, this community’s traditions, and general human decency seriously.

I’m the one who… I peer down, and my jaw drops to my chest in horror as I fold my arms across my unsupported breasts.

In my efforts to arrive as quickly as possible to relieve Gemma, I forgot to put a bra on.

Owen Conrad is going to fucking pay for this.

chapter

two

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