I tilted my head to show her that I was listening.
She said, “The thing to do is focus on what makes you feel good about yourself, like school and soccer. You have your new friend Jack. You can remind yourself, ‘Autumn is where she wants to be right now, and that’s okay. I’m still great, and I’ll be around if she needs me.’ Hmm?” She squeezed my foot again.
“Okay,” I said. “A bit after-school special, but thanks.” I shrugged and let her hug me.
After she left, I turned out my light and thought about her advice.
It made sense, because it wasn’t that different from what I had thought before, though I had overshot the goal. I needed to get cooler. Soccer was the best path forward to looking more manly. I’d show Autumn that I wasn’t a loser without friends; Jack and I would make more friends somehow.
I’d met my father twice before at that point, and he was very tall. The pediatrician said that I would be tall too, that it was only a matter of time. Time was what I needed to become a better version of myself. While Autumn ignored me, I’d transform myself.
So though it hurt whenever I was near her, I ignored that and stared at her out of the corner of my eyes like an addict desperate for a fix. But I gave Autumn time, and I gave Autumn space, and I worked on myself.
The next Valentine’s Day, I sent one anonymous red carnation to Autumn, and I sent one white carnation to Jack signed, “Paola.”
He whacked me with it at lunch as he sat down beside me.
“Thanks,” he said, “but don’t think this means I’m going to put out.”
“I just felt sorry for you,” I said.
By the end of lunch, the table was littered with white petals from hitting each other with it. The other guys we hung out with, more for numbers than their conversation, were annoyed with us, but it was probably the most fun I ever had for two dollars.
four
Fantasizing about having spent a different sort of night with Autumn in that tent and then mulling over all my mistakes that have kept us apart did not improve my mood. My head aches. I’m even more exhausted, and the guilt is back. Autumn doesn’t want me thinking about her that way. I need to get control of myself.
I roll off the bed and head to the bathroom, unable to stop myself from glancing out my window at her closed curtains as I go. I strip down and get into the shower, switching the water to as hot as possible and staying under the stream for as long as I can stand. Then, quickly, I turn the dial all the way to cold.
You are here, in this moment, right now, I tell myself as the frigid water batters my fevered skin.
The reality is, what you imagined will never happen, and what you remembered is already done.
In this moment, Autumn is your friend.
Don’t fuck this up.
But be ready for when she leaves again.
Once I am shivering, I turn the water dial to the middle. I wash away the fantasy of her beneath me and the memory of her head under my arm.
My cell rings as I’m putting on clean boxer shorts. I answer automatically, assuming it’s Autumn without looking at the screen.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi!” Sylvie says.
My stomach drops.
“Oh. Hi. Wow. Where are you?”
“London. I have a long layover until my flight to New York, so I’m going to go sightseeing, and I’m trying to squeeze in a lot, so I’ll be busy. I wanted to talk to you one last time.”
She means one last time before she’s back in the States, but it feels like she means one last time before I break up with her, not that she knows it’s coming.
“Yeah,” I say. It’s been getting harder and harder to pretend there will be something for us after Sylvie returns.
“So?” she says. “Are you looking forward to seeing me tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say again, and it may be the biggest lie I have ever told. “When are you arriving?”
“Around four or so… You’ll be at the airport, right?”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course she expects that. But I can’t hug and kiss her in front of her parents, then break her heart in private.
What can I say? “Probably. I’ll let you know.”
“You don’t know?” There is suspicion and hurt in her voice. At times, it seems like she’s putting the pieces together. I don’t know if it’s cruel or not, to let her suspect. Is it better for her that way? I don’t know how to do the cruelest thing the kindest way.
“Sorry, I—”
“What did you do last night?” Sylvie asks, cheerful again.