If Only I Had Told Her(4)

two





“Go away,” Autumn says when I knock. She sounds like she’s dying.

“You okay?” I know what she’s going to say.

“Yes. Go away.”

Autumn hates being vulnerable. She inherited that from her mother, despite all her complaining about Aunt Claire’s veneer of suburban perfection.

“Okay.” I have the urge to wait outside the door, even though I know she wants privacy. I turn and ignore the sounds on the other side of the door. When I was lusting after her a few minutes ago, what I should have been doing was worrying about her hangover.

Sometimes it feels like Autumn brings out the worst in me. She makes me feel like the kind of guys I hate, the jocks who say things in the locker room that stun me. I tried, especially after I was an upperclassman, to intervene in those conversations, but often I was so floored by what I’d heard that I missed my chance to interrupt. A few times over the years though, when something was said specifically, vulgarly, about Autumn, my mouth spoke before the rest of me knew what was happening.

I was able to speak up those times, berate them for their disgusting observations, because I agreed with them. I wanted what they wanted or had seen the sight they recalled. Their words were a grotesque reflection of my own feelings.

Then, after the very last track meet of senior year, a freshman came up to me and said, “You’ve let Rick say worse stuff about other girls,” laying bare my hypocrisy.

I sneered at that poor kid. “Then I should have had higher standards before today. I’ll be gone soon. You can take over as chivalrous knight next year.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and stomped off. I can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s probably going to remember Finn the asshole for a while.

In high school, Autumn only had eyes for Jamie. She didn’t want those jock jerks thinking about her, and she doesn’t want me thinking about her like that, then or now. She made that clear years ago. I get why she needed to make it clear. It’s for the best that she did. But someday if we talk about it, I will tell her that she could have at least told me that she didn’t feel the same way. She didn’t have to leave me the way that she did.

That’s probably what my mother meant yesterday. Aunt Claire is celebrating her divorce from Autumn’s dad, Tom, with a wine-themed weekend. She and Mom left Autumn and I cash and surprisingly few instructions for while they were away. When Mom hugged me goodbye yesterday, she whispered, “For fuck’s sake, kiddo. Talk to her.”

It’s been hanging between Autumn and I, this mutually incomplete knowledge. She knows I wish she felt differently about me. She needs to know it’s much worse than she thinks. My love for her is the closest thing I have to religion. But it’s okay that she doesn’t feel the same. I’m fine. I can handle it. We can be friends, like when we were kids. I was in love with her back then, except this time I’m not going to wig out and try to prove anything to her. I learned my lesson when I tried to kiss her and she didn’t kiss me back.

But my mother is wrong about the timing. This is not the weekend for that conversation. I need to get through today and breaking up with Sylvie tomorrow. After that, maybe I’ll talk to Autumn. Or maybe it should wait until Christmas. I don’t know.



Once again, I have forgotten about my other best friend. I came to the kitchen to make toast out of habit, though Autumn has never been hungover at my house before.

Jack appears in the doorway. He watches me.

“Are you going to put cinnamon and sugar on it too?”

“That’s not how Autumn likes her toast, loser.” There I go again, lashing out instead of dealing with my fucking feelings like a man. I try to sound more like myself. “Do you want some too?”

“Sure.” He sits and yawns. Jack has decided to let me off the hook for today. “Did she like Goodfellas?”

I laugh.

“We’d barely started it when you fell asleep. And you talked about it enough last night that she basically didn’t need to see it.”

“There is no way that can be true,” Jack says. “That film is like a carefully constructed house of cards…”

He continues, but I’m not listening. The bathroom door has opened.

She’s back.

Behind me, I can hear her cross the kitchen and sit at the table.

“Feeling better?” Jack asks.

“More or less,” Autumn says. Her eyes are closed when I turn around, and she’s curled up in the chair, chin on her knee.

I pass Jack the first plate of toast and turn back to make more.

“So if you go back to the original source material, Wiseguy,” Jack begins. He talks about this movie all the time. I don’t have to listen to know what he’s saying. I can agree or say the right thing while focusing on her.

I butter Autumn’s toast the way she likes it, and she gives me a weak, grateful smile that melts me. I’m not sure what’s keeping me upright.

Jack is only trying to save me from myself with this Scorsese monologue, and I’m being a terrible friend.

Her breathing is focused and slow. She chews, swallows, and takes a deep breath. Chew. Swallow. Breath. It’s working. She’s relaxing. Her eyes are still closed; she still leans her cheek on her bent knee.