Chapter 3

chapter

three

ADDIE

The wind decided to rearrange my hanging line—again.

A pair of leggings and a few socks decorate a rose bush in my backyard like the most unique Christmas tree in all of Georgia.

I rush down the steps of my deck and delicately untangle them from the branches, wary of any flying critters. The last time I gathered my clothes from the line I've draped across my deck, a bee zipped out of my black dress and gave me a scare.

I skim the rest of the yard to ensure I've gotten them all, and with a huff, I mutter, "This cannot be my long-term fate."

I had no intention of going this long without a proper dryer, either, but once again, I missed Judd. He came by to fix it, as promised, but I wasn't around to let him into my house. I delivered a box of his favorite donuts to him as an apology with a note to beg him to come back soon.

Judd's usually busy with his auto shop, where my friend Austin works, but Judd is also rather handy in unclogging a vent hose. I'd find a YouTube video and do it myself, but when Judd mentioned over the phone that it might need to be replaced altogether, I washed my hands of the issue.

I'm good, but I'm not fix-a-damaged-dryer good.

But I haven't been home much over the last few days, so I still have no dryer, which is why I'm now completing a scavenger hunt around my yard for my clean clothes.

They were clean, anyway.

I lay the rescued items across the top of my loaded laundry basket, hoist it onto my hip, and head back inside.

I've just set the basket on the floor at the foot of my bed when the front doorbell rings.

With extra pep in my step, I race out into the hall, through the living room, and yank the door open.

"Your wish is my command." Maren holds up a brown bag in one hand and a wine bottle in the other.

"I only asked for a glue gun." My lips twitch.

"Yes, but since I've known you for most of my life, I figured you could use some Skittles and wine."

"Bless you." My mouth instantly salivates. I imagine this is how dogs feel in the presence of juicy meat or peanut butter.

As she enters my living room, she asks over her shoulder, "How bad has this week been for you?"

"Not bad. It's been great. Full of opportunities and fun." Some might call their items on a to-do list tasks or chores , but I refer to them as opportunities—rungs on a ladder to success.

"You're stressed." My best friend sets the goodies down, and I help myself to the contents of the bag.

"When am I not stressed?"

"I'm starting to think that while the rest of us need water to survive, you're gulping back lists and calendars to thrive." Next to the coffee table, Maren reaches a hand toward the stack of photos and gasps. "Oh my God. What are these?"

"They're for our reunion Saturday. I'm going to put a few copies on each table so people can reminisce. They can also take them home, since I have multiple of each. They're kind of like nostalgic party favors." I point to a separate stack and say, "Those are ones of Caroline, you, and me."

She skims through the pile and holds one up. "Oh, my pageant days with Caroline."

"Your hair was a fire hazard," I playfully tease as I take the picture from her.

In it, we're around twelve, and the circumference of Maren's hair is bigger than a beach umbrella. The curls are glued together with an ungodly amount of hairspray. I stand between the two in the picture, my jeans and T-shirt remarkably plain next to their sparkling dresses. Their coordinating puffy sleeves hide part of my face on either side, but our matching smiles are wide and excited.

The three of us remained close, even after Caroline moved to New York ten years ago. She's in town for the class reunion, and even though I had plans to enjoy many a stress-free girls' nights with her and Maren, I have not had the time I expected I would, not with all the last-minute arrangements to be made for homecoming and our big reunion this weekend.

Maren continues sifting through the photos while I rummage into a Skittles bag and scoop up a handful. "You should've printed this one in a much larger size." She presents a picture from a legendary bonfire, which features many classmates sticking out their tongues. Owen is front and center with his shirt stretched over his head.

I roll my eyes. "I could not, in good conscience, draw any more attention to Owen with a larger print."

"I'm surprised you printed it at all."

I furrow my brows. Why did I? "It's a memory, that's all," I say, but my voice is faint.

"This one definitely deserves a larger size." Grinning, she shows me the one from spirit week during our senior year. A few guys wear gold bandanas around their heads, and several girls are decked in black-and-gold shirts with the letters SCHS filled in with glitter.

It's been ten years since this picture was taken, and this week, it's all coming full circle.

With a sigh, Maren arranges the photos back into a neat pile on my coffee table, just as they were before she arrived. "Let's get to work. I have an early morning."

As the owner of a coffee truck, every morning is early for her. Even so, she's here to help me this late in the evening. Giving up on rest and sleep equals true friendship, which is why I've already made a note to stop by her house tomorrow with a bouquet of air fresheners. She mentioned earlier that she's run out of her favorite scents, so it's only fair and proper for me to return the favor with a nice gesture of my own.

I hop up from the couch to follow her into the other room, but a glimpse of the top picture on the stack gives me pause. It's the same picture from the bonfire, with Owen's abs on display.

I was the one who snapped the shot.

It was the one time I'd gone to one of those parties, and since I'm not in the picture, there's no proof of my presence. I made no impression on these people back then other than to be the one who organized and documented their fun.

And I'm still doing it.

As our senior class president, the opportunity of hosting the reunion ultimately falls on me. I've worked tirelessly all summer to get the Buchanan House ready for us. I've stalked online sites for sales on décor, I've gone back and forth with caterers on a menu until I was dizzy, and I've spent all week trying to bring it all together.

We're under budget too.

I've done it all with little support from our class's beloved VP—Owen Conrad.

But even if he were around to help, he'd only be in my way. Getting things done has been my thing since I was young. I'm good at it, and more than that, I enjoy this stuff as much as I do dance and Skittles.

In the kitchen, Maren pours two glasses of wine, and I make my way to the dining table, the bag of Skittles tightly clutched in my hand. "Thanks for coming over tonight," I say as she hands me a glass. "And thanks for this."

I savor a sip, and my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. It's probably not as good and flavorful as the wines from faraway places like Napa Valley or Italy, but right now, it's the best wine I've ever had.

It hits the spot like cold lemonade on a hot day.

Maren plugs in the glue gun, then holds up a black vest with a ribbon of gold sequins hanging off one end. "What is this?"

"Another unfinished project for my outfit tomorrow." I sit in front of a pair of white shoes just begging me to bedazzle them for spirit week.

Tomorrow is black-and-gold day. Principal Weathers wanted to assign that day to Friday, but with the homecoming parade at one, and most students needing to wear dresses, cheerleading uniforms, and such, I convinced him our school colors deserve a whole day.

I point to the vest, which is my next order of business tonight, and say, "I ran around town in search of one like it, but it's true what they say—why ask someone else to do what you can do better?"

"Totally." She sips from her glass, nearly draining it, and I know she gets it. She's also good at sewing, like me, but neither one of us knows how to knit, contrary to Owen's buffoon-ish assumption about my friends and me.

With the kitchen table covered in a plastic tablecloth, I bring the untouched shoes over for us to decorate. She tests the glue gun, and I spread out a handful of sequins to stick to the shoes.

To my side, I tap my phone to play a song for us, then switch to my messages, where I find a text from my mother.

RAIN

Lunch on Friday? I'll come over. I have fresh green beans from Kin's garden I want you to try.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I release a rough exhale. I'm not surprised she asked me to lunch on a weekday—on the day of the homecoming parade, no less. It's not the first time, and much to my chagrin, I don't imagine it'll be the last.

Rather than respect my life choices, she lectures me, claiming the tension in my body and the negativity in my aura are the products of me being trapped by "the system."

My mother and her free spirit don't confine themselves to a regimented work schedule, or to a single home address. According to her, the world—and beyond—is her home.

But there's one important thing her text indicates. The fact that she's inviting me to try green beans means she'll be in town. Is she coming to the chili dinner on Friday night? I'd ask her, but what's the point? Anytime she's told me of her plans in the past, they've always changed at the last minute, so I stopped asking a long time ago.

I skim past her message without responding and locate the thread I need. "I texted Caroline to come over too, but she hasn't responded."

"She's probably with Austin."

I lift my head, my eyebrows shooting into my hairline. "Oh?"

She shrugs. "They've been spending a lot of time together this week."

Maren takes minimalism to a frustrating level when it comes to her expressions. The fact that she's so nonchalant about this flabbergasting bit of news could be because it's not shocking or interesting at all.

On the other hand, it could still be epic gossip, but Maren's pursed lips are sworn to secrecy.

Could she know something? I've barely seen Caroline all week, and when I have, I've been flustered and preoccupied. I've practically redecorated the Buchanan House three times in an attempt to get it just right.

After all, we're going to remember our reunion for years to come. Even if Owen thinks I'm ridiculous for the lengths I've gone to, which he's obnoxiously mentioned multiple times the last few days, I know I'm doing important work. It's my responsibility to ensure Saturday night is memorable for all the fun times rather than for it being lame.

"Are you surprised?" Maren asks as she finishes gluing a line of sequins along one side of a shoe. She picks up the other and begins the same task over again to match the first.

"They didn't get off on the right foot last weekend," I say as I recall the morning I ran into Caroline at Bready or Knot downtown, and she introduced herself to Austin.

I had to remind her that he was in our graduating class, and he was less than amused or forgiving, which is putting it nicely.

I pull the thread through the sequined ribbon, sewing it to the edge of the black vest. "I figured he'd avoid her like the plague this week."

Maren snorts. "Doesn't he avoid everyone?"

I hum in agreement. Austin Kyle is a friend, one I've grown relatively close to since high school, but the guy is grumpier than Leon, the eighty-year-old man living across the street, who calls to scold me about my hedges not being trimmed to his liking. Last week, he called to inform me my trash bin was still on the curb, and I should've brought it up my driveway already.

When I first started living here alone after college, I gave him my number in case of emergencies. In hindsight, he and I have very different definitions of the concept.

"The other night, when I asked Austin to drive Caroline in the parade tomorrow, he turned green." I shake my head, picturing his scrunched face like I'd twisted his arm into a pretzel.

"He's going to do it, though, right?"

"He is, but I think it's only because his mother was standing next to him when I practically begged. There was no one else to drive her."

As our class's homecoming queen, Caroline was in the top five people I needed to secure a ride for in the parade. She's giving a speech on the courthouse steps to conclude Friday's afternoon festivities, so I might've actually cried had prickly Austin not agreed to lend his truck and time for one of the highlights of homecoming.

Then again, I'd worked too hard to let him worm his way out of helping. I was ready to promise him a kidney, but thankfully, his mother's excitement over the idea was enough.

He loves her more than anyone, so he basically had no choice.

"Are you sad Nathan isn't coming this weekend?" I peek over at her, but she doesn't visibly react at the mention of her high school boyfriend.

"So, it's not just a rumor, then?"

"He RSVP'd with his attendance, but I heard he's stuck on a job somewhere in Wyoming that's taking him longer to complete than he previously thought."

"Hmm" is all she offers.

But I know just the thing to crack this nut—if I continue pressing, she'll eventually cave.

"You didn't answer my question," I say as I bring the ribbon around the bottom corner of the vest, careful not to make eye contact as if she were a deer I stumbled upon in the woods.

"You prying little shit." With a sigh, Maren drops the shoe to the table with a thud. "Would it have been nice to see him? Sure. For nostalgia's sake. But he'll be back soon to visit his parents, and since they live right next door, odds are I'll see him then, not that I'll be glued to the window waiting for that day." She scoffs, and a giggle accidentally escapes me. "Oh, since you think that's so funny, why don't we talk about Owen?"

"Whoa." I hold a hand up as if it's a white flag. "I only asked about Nate because I care."

"That's why I'm asking about Owen."

"There's nothing to talk about when it comes to that dickheaded butt munch."

"Such strong words imply strong feelings," she sings sarcastically. "Especially when those words are a decade old."

"Strong feelings of hate, maybe, and don't you dare give me shit about some mythical line between love and hate."

"Not love. Just lust." The evil grin she wears stretches all too proudly from cheek to cheek, and I vehemently shake my head. "Come on. You complain about the guy more often than you use your car."

"Because he's the bane of my existence," I remind her, although I shouldn't have to. That much should be as clear as freaking day. "My life was great before the Devil spit him back into town."

She tongues her cheek.

"I'm serious," I assert.

"Fine, but you have to admit he's good-looking. It's an objective fact."

"He's cuter than Leon, and that's as far as I'll go."

She dips her head and laughs. "Okay, you don't have to admit it, but he's changed since high school. I'm telling you this as your friend and nothing more. I think you'll be happy to see I'm right. If you would just give him a chance, then maybe your blood pressure won't be so high. It's not healthy."

"My mother claims I should eat fewer Skittles to fix my health problem."

"She's not wrong."

"It's my one guilty pleasure. Let me have this." I put an end to the discussion by popping a few pieces of my beloved candy into my mouth.

Just like I will never abandon my obsession with Skittles, I refuse to let even one of my best friends sweet-talk me into changing my mind about Owen. I'm not biting on that thread unless it's to chew his stupid head off.