Chapter 8

chapter

eight

ADDIE

"I cannot believe I wore my party jeans for this," I grumble under my breath as I sling my wet hair to the side, thankful to have finally reached the shelter of an awning.

Thunder cracks, and a strike of lightning slices the evening sky in half.

My attempt to squeeze the excess water from my hair is painfully futile as I join the growing crowd inside the school lobby, scanning each face for a familiar one.

With the parade complete and wildly successful, I'd planned to enjoy the homecoming football game with my friends and a salty bag of popcorn, my level of cares nosediving into the negatives.

But Mother Nature had other plans.

We got ten minutes into the game before the storm reigned its terror on our town. In record time, mass chaos ensued as we scrambled toward shelter.

I take one step into the school lobby when Principal Weathers hands off a shivering Birdie to me like a football, calling over another clap of thunder, plus the echoing chatter, "I need to find my wife!"

I fold the cat into my chest, holding her tightly as I search for DeDe, but everyone's merely a blur. My clothes cling to me as I shuffle into the cafeteria and shake out my long hair, flinging even more drops of water onto my shoulders.

I'm soaked from head to toe.

My bones ache.

The arches of my feet cry for the relief of a hot bath.

And the twitch in my eye works double-time as my gaze immediately falls onto Owen Conrad.

On the other side of the crowded cafeteria, past the rows of long tables that stretch between us, I find the bane of my existence with very little effort or desire. He hands napkins to someone I don't recognize, which she uses to dab at her running mascara. It's like he's a gentleman. Does this woman know who she's dealing with?

An arrow of kindness and thoughtfulness could spear him in his perfect ass and stick like a tick, but he still wouldn't grasp such concepts.

Maren sidles up next to me. "I lost you out there. You okay?"

I drag my focus away from he-who-doesn't-matter and squeeze my friend's arm. "Fine. You?"

"Almost sprained my ankle trying to get inside, but I had help." She rises onto her tiptoes and glances over my shoulder.

"Who are you looking for?"

Maren plummets back onto the heels of her feet and snaps her gaze to mine. "No one. Just… taking all this in." She shimmies out of her drenched shacket and ties it around her waist, her dark hair falling in stringy tendrils around her face.

"If we get totally rained out, this might be the first homecoming game to do so in the history of this school." I pet Birdie in hopes of comforting her, but her trembles don't subside.

Through the window, another streak of lightning pierces the sky, and I jolt as if it strikes me personally. Birdie practically shoots out of my arms, and Maren helps me calm her down, which is proving difficult with our surroundings.

Everyone is scattered about the cafeteria with more chaos than every lunch during a school day put together. Parents chase their little ones, young couples and groups of friends dip their heads with high-pitched laughter, and Alonso plays his harmonica in one corner, drawing a small crowd like this is the subway in New York. I've visited Caroline up north a couple of times over the years, and the scene in front of me resembles several of the ones I've witnessed while waiting for the train.

"I didn't think the storms were supposed to be here until Monday," Maren says with a groan as she twists the ends of her hair to rid it of excess rain. It's no use, though. We'd need seven blow dryers aimed at us to really make a difference. "The radar showed clear skies for tonight."

"I just hope this is it for the weekend, because I do not have the energy to drag all the tables and the bar from the courtyard inside. There's no room for them all unless they go into the sitting room, but then that would leave zero space for us to move around," I ramble, but it's mostly for my own benefit as I mentally run through my checklist for tomorrow night.

"Not following, babe."

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."

"He's cute, and he's obviously smitten," she whispers.

Even if she talked at a normal volume, I doubt anyone, including Bond, could hear her over the pounding of thick raindrops against the windows of the cafeteria. It sounds like the crackling static of the backup radio stashed in my storm preparation kit at home.

"Is this like that summer before eighth grade when you insisted Spencer Smith had a crush on me?" I ask.

"He did," she draws out. "Why else did he bring you a pumpkin streusel muffin to the park every single morning?"

"Because he always bought too many," I answer, repeating what he'd told me back then.

Maren tilts her head. "Then why did I never get one?"

"You're ridiculous. Why are we even talking about that?"

"You brought it up, and I go where the leader leads." She traps me under her unwavering stare.

I glance over my shoulder, as Bond has now moved out of the line to chat with Owen and the mystery woman. She seems to captivate Bond's complete focus. What's so special about her?

"You should see if Bond wants to get coffee tomorrow. I know a great little place." Maren snorts, clearly referring to her coffee truck. "And if you're extra nice, the owner might even toss in her new iced pumpkin cookies—on the house."

My mouth instantly salivates at the mention of new baked goods from her skillful hands, and it's not just because I'm starving, either. The woman is a mad scientist with a whisk and a bag of flour.

"I will be by your truck right after school on Monday for said cookies, but I'll be coming alone."

"Bond will be back in Atlanta by Monday."

"Exactly. He lives three hours away. I don't have time to date people who live here, let alone guys that far."

"I'm not suggesting you marry him, Addie."

"Then what's the point? How can I date someone if I know from the start that it won't lead anywhere?" I catch Mary's eyes from in front of us and realize I've raised my voice above a hushed whisper.

I'm outing myself, and I should really nip this in the bud before word travels around town that I'm marrying Bond Nicholas. Knowing the insane rumor mill around here, they'd probably drum up some tale about how our whirlwind romance led us to elope in some faraway land like Switzerland.

The people of Sapphire Creek can really get out of hand with spinning wild stories—bless their hearts—but there's nothing to know about my love life other than it's nonexistent. This is a purposeful construct on my part as of a couple years ago, when I decided I'm better off single.

If I were to get back out there, though, I'd be lucky to find someone like Bond. He's smart and has an important job. Plus, he's not bad to look at.

I imagine he'd accept me as I am too.

A crack of thunder practically rattles the building, and Birdie nearly leaps from my hold. As I tuck her back into my chest, careful to ride the line between comforting and crushing her, my gaze catches on Sable's on the other end of the table, where she waves me over.

"I'll be right back," I tell Maren.

"What about food?" she asks as she grabs a bowl from the stacks.

"I'll get some in a bit," I say over my shoulder, already maneuvering through the throngs of people toward one of my bosses. On the way, a strong whiff of the chili spices assaults my senses and hurls a wave of boos across my empty stomach.

When I reach Sable, I find DeDe with her too.

"Addie, I'm sure you're tired of holding Birdie, and DeDe has offered to go ahead and take the poor thing home for the weekend." Sable nods.

"I don't mind helping," I quickly say, expelling any doubt of my servitude, then nobly add, "But I think she could use a break. She had quite the scare." I coo as I give our not-so-brave little mascot one final scratch on her head before I slide her into DeDe's waiting arms.

"She could use a rest by the warm fireplace." DeDe makes kissing noises toward her furry companion.

"Couldn't we all," I joke, and it earns me a laugh from Sable.

Is it pathetic to practically gloat right out of my body from my well-received joke? Maybe for anyone else, but I refuse to be ashamed over it, not when fostering goodwill with the higherups can only lead to bigger and better things for me.

More people filter through the chili line, dividing me from Sable and DeDe, and I attempt to get back into place for my own bowl.

The line is twice as long as before— great .

Shoulders slumped, my gaze involuntarily lands on Owen again. The mystery woman leans into him, giggling into her palm like he's just so hilarious.

When the storm hit, he led her inside, his jacket slung around her shoulders. What's completely bonkers is that she probably thinks he's so chivalrous, but what about the rest of the town? Who helped Mrs. Marilyn and old Gus inside? I did. I'm the one who thought about the whole group and not my arm candy for the month.

"Who are you staring at?" Maren sneaks up on me.

"Hmm? What? Nothing. I'm contemplating a new… paint color." Squaring my shoulders, I rush to add, "The walls of this cafeteria have not been touched up since we were seniors here, and it's just a crime against this building. It's been so good to us, and look how we treat it. It's tragic."

She squints at me, then turns to face Owen. "It's scary how serious I know you are, but also, that's not the whole truth. What's going on?"

"You're too damn good of a friend and see right through me."

"It's a gift." She shrugs.

"Owen and that girl have been glued at the hip all night."

"And that bothers you because…" She pauses with a question in her tone.

"Because he's always just around for a good time. He never lends a hand. Yet he's Principal Weathers's favorite all because they're both obsessed with baseball. I can play baseball too, I'll have you know. I'm athletic as hell."

"Honey, please don't take this the wrong way. You're good at many, many things. You're good at scheduling and bossing people around?—"

I hold a finger up. "I'm a leader."

"Yes, and you're the best in the biz. But the only physical activity you're good at is dancing. Baseball requires a level of hand-eye coordination you do not possess."

I gasp. "I could be good at baseball if I tried."

"The only sliding you do is when you stumble over a parking block."

"That was one time, and those things are hazards!"

The corners of her eyes crinkle, and she purses her lips like she's fighting a smile.

Sighing, I give in. It's futile to argue with her when she's so right. I wouldn't know what to do with a baseball bat even if a million dollars were at stake.

"Hey, did you leave dinner on my doorstep last night?"

"No." She pinches her brows together. "Someone left you dinner? That's thoughtful."

"It was, and I'd like to thank the person responsible. There was no note, though."

"I'm intrigued." She leans in. "Could it have been Caroline?"

"Possibly." I scan the room, but there's no sign of her. She's the kind of woman who sticks out in a crowd, so I'd definitely spot her easily. "Have you seen her tonight?"

"Not since the parade. I don't see Austin here, either. Was it him?"

"Doubtful." I chew on my bottom lip as my eyes find Owen for the millionth time tonight. What is up with that? It's like he's the south pole of a magnet, and I'm the north. We're polar opposites, for sure, but the principle of being drawn to each other should not apply here.

But I can't tear my gaze away. He's laughing with Bond, and the girl from before is nowhere to be found.

"Are you staring at Owen again?"

I whip my head to my outrageous friend. "As if," I say, exaggerating the words like Alicia Silverstone in one of our old favorite movies, Clueless .

Her soft giggle is mixed with an exhale. "When are you going to admit he's not so bad?"

"A hundred years from now, when I'm a bitter old ghost haunting him and all his descendants."

"That kind of grudge should be directed at musical haters and people who pass other cars on the shoulder, not decent guys who are capable of changing for the better, like Owen."

"I agree with the first part wholeheartedly, but don't start with the Owen bit again. I've heard your heinous spiel too often for one lifetime."

"Heinous, huh?"

"It's downright offensive. You should be on my side, always." I jut my chin up. The last time we argued like this was over who Rory should've ended up with in Gilmore Girls .

"There are no sides to take here. All I'm saying is that he might surprise you, if you let him," she says.

"You're right about a lot of things, but you couldn't be more wrong about Owen."

"He's changed since high school, Addie," she presses, and the weight in her voice grows irritatingly heavier. "He's funny and very generous. I see him downtown a lot, helping Lottie at her studio."

"Lottie?"

"His sister. She's the one who's with him tonight."

I blink as the puzzle pieces finally slide into place, and the tight bundle of nerves in my body untangle. "That was his sister? She looks so different than the last time I saw her. I didn't recognize her."

Owen's twin sisters weren't in high school yet while we were students there, so I never got to know them. I'd heard one of them had opened a paint and sip art studio on the square recently, though I haven't had the chance to stop by.

And she's the one who was here with him. It wasn't some bimbo who'd naively bought into his gentleman act.

Why does that information give me such satisfying relief? I shouldn't care who's hanging out with him. His personal life is of absolutely no concern to me.

In fact, the only reason I did care was because the poor woman might've needed saving from wasting time on Owen, but since she was his sister, there's no damsel in need of my brutally honest assistance.

No harm, no foul.

My racing heart has nothing to do with him.