“Oh, Jack spent the night.”
“Sounds fun!” She tells me about her plan for the ten-hour layover in London, including taking a minicab to a nearby picturesque village, sitting alone and drinking a pint in a pub, then walking along the Thames before catching another cab back to Heathrow. Sylvie has done that her whole trip: every hour accounted for so that she can experience as much as possible. It’s one of the things I love about her. She never does anything by halves; she never lets an opportunity pass her by.
Autumn would like that about Sylvie too. She appreciates passion. If they weren’t both so convinced that the other hated them, they’d be a good influence on each other. The moment Autumn stepped outside the airport, she would lose her sense of direction and her passport, both, perhaps, never to be seen again.
Early on, before I realized how the summer would go, I told Sylvie that Jamie dumped Autumn. We were sitting on her porch before Sylvie left for the airport. I was in the habit of occasionally updating her with public information one might pass on about a mutual acquaintance. It helped to keep up the story of my platonic feelings for Autumn. My lie. Because if I never talked about the other girl whose life so constantly collided with mine, Sylvie, rightfully, found that suspicious too.
Sylvie had a lot of questions about the breakup. As I sat next to her and her bags, I told her all I knew was that Aunt Claire said Jamie had broken up with Autumn. Sylvie was surprised, much like everyone else seemed to be. She asked twice if I was sure about that part. I mean, we’d all heard Jamie brag about how he and Autumn would be together forever.
At the time, I’d suspected Jamie of taking Autumn’s virginity and then dumping her, but I didn’t say so or act too worried about Autumn. I wasn’t about to reignite Sylvie’s jealousy over nothing.
But then, it wasn’t nothing. Autumn was so depressed about Jamie that The Mothers asked me to try to talk to her. Suddenly, Autumn and I were hanging out every day.
At first, I told myself it wouldn’t last, so it wasn’t worth mentioning to Sylvie. Then after about a week, I let it slip that I’d missed her call because I was watching a movie with Autumn. Hanging out with Autumn again had felt so normal, even after all these years, and her name had just slipped out.
Sylvie interrupted me. “You and Autumn are friends again?”
I hadn’t heard that tone in her voice for a long time. “We were never not friends,” I said, and there was a pause on Sylvie’s end.
“So,” she said, “anyway.”
And that was that. Sylvie never asked about her again. I’ve managed to not mention Autumn, despite how much we’ve been together this summer.
In those early days of the summer, when Autumn and I started hanging out again, I hadn’t planned to break up with Sylvie. What would have been the point? I was still in love with Sylvie, and when I originally fell in love with her, I’d already been in love with Autumn for years. So emotionally, for me, nothing had really changed.
But over the past few weeks, it’s become clear: I love Sylvie, but I can’t say that I will be in love with her every day for the rest of my life. I adore so much about her and understand her foibles, but I’m not devoted to her. She’s a partner but not a part of who I am.
My devotion to Autumn is engraved on my very being. I am in awe of her. I will sit in the stands and cheer her on in life as her most ardent admirer. I know I will always love her in the same way I know I’ll always need oxygen.
Sylvie is taking time off before starting college. She needs some more time to figure things out, so I’m glad. But our situation won’t get easier when I’m down in Springfield with Autumn and Sylvie is still here in St. Louis.
“How about I call from my layover in Chicago, and you can let me know if you’re going to be at the airport when I arrive tomorrow,” Sylvie says.
“Okay,” I say. I’m worried about her acceptance of my dereliction of duty. Does she know what’s coming? Is she hoping that by being agreeable, she might convince me to stay? Is she clueless, so happy to see me that it doesn’t matter if it’s at the airport or after? Do I want her to suspect or not?
“Well,” she says, “I should go. Hopefully, I can sleep during the flight.”
“What time is it for you?” I ask, a go-to question of our stilted conversations of the past few weeks.
She answers, but there’s an announcement in the background, and I can’t quite make out her words. “Oh. It’s…”