It strikes me how backward my plan sounds: give up a girl who adores me, who I love well enough, to be a disciple for a different girl who will never fall for me. Jack has always said I’m irrational when it comes to Autumn, and maybe I should have taken him more seriously, because he was right earlier today.
I’m in way over my head.
six
It’s only Aunt Claire and Autumn’s house. I go over there all the time. It wouldn’t be weird to head over, ask if she’s eaten, because we still have cash from The Mothers and a little rum—just a little!—or whatever. It’ll be clear that we don’t have to keep hanging out if she doesn’t want to.
Then, depending on how she acts, I’ll know if she overheard anything this morning, if I need to explain myself.
No matter what, I will tell her how I feel…eventually. But it can wait. I’ve waited this long. The thing to worry about now is what I will say to Sylvie. I escape the guilt of thinking about Sylvie by getting off the couch and heading out.
Aunt Claire always locks her back door. My mother often forgets to lock ours and she often loses her keys, so she keeps an extra key hidden. Aunt Claire doesn’t keep a key hidden, but Autumn often loses her keys and forgets to lock the back door, so I’m betting that she forgot to lock it today.
She forgot to lock it that day she snuck Jamie over freshman year. I saw them go inside from my window, then closed my curtains. But to my horror, Mom asked me to run next door and ask Autumn if they had eggs. As I crossed the lawn, I prayed that she’d left the back door unlocked. She had, but it hadn’t saved me from intruding on them.
Today, I knock gently, but there is no answer. I try the doorknob, and it turns. It’s Aunt Claire’s house. Autumn hadn’t been surprised or confused to see me that day I came over for eggs. The only awkward part had been when Jamie emerged from the hallway, making eye contact with me while Autumn was looking in the fridge. I could tell she didn’t want me to know that Jamie was there. We both knew her parents wouldn’t want Jamie over while they were out.
I even pretended I thought that no one had been home to save her the embarrassment.
Jamie, on the other hand, made his presence known, staked his claim. I wanted to say something, but then Autumn was handing me the eggs for Mom. Should I have exposed him? Would Autumn have realized back then that his ego was more important than her wishes?
Autumn hadn’t minded me inviting myself in. She hadn’t minded that day or a million times before or after. That’s what matters. It’s always been that way with The Mothers and our houses. Still, my heart is beating hard. Where is she?
I expected her to be watching a movie in the living room or eating in the kitchen, but the rooms are empty and the lights are off. I turn to the stairs and listen to the creak and groan under my feet as I climb. Surely, she can hear me? Has she gone out?
I knock and push open her bedroom door, half expecting the room to be empty. But deep in the darkness, in the far corner of her bed, I see her shape.
“Autumn?”
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is calm, yet it shakes.
My shoulders tense. What happened?
“I came to check on you.”
“I finished the novel,” she says. She’s crying. She’s more emotional than with other books she’s read, and if she means her own novel, surely they would be happy tears? These don’t look like happy tears.
Still, it doesn’t matter why she’s crying, because she’s crying. Instinct takes over, and I cross the room, pulling her into my arms the way I have dreamed of so many times before, with so many different tenors of emotions and desire.
But there’s only one thing I want right now: to stop the pain that is making her fingers curl around my shirt. It’s been so long since she let me see her vulnerable like this. We were so young the last time.
Autumn’s sobs reverberate in my chest as she presses her sweet face against me, and it is proof I am awful. I am taking such pleasure in comforting Autumn. Just as I have been all summer, ever since Jamie made me the happiest man alive by breaking Autumn’s heart.
My Autumn.
No, Phineas, not yours.
She’s in her bathrobe, but I try to push that thought aside.
She starts to quiet. Her breathing slows. I want to stroke her hair, her back, kiss the top of her head. I can’t. I won’t. Autumn.
I feel her shoulders slump, followed by the faintest of whimpers. She’s done crying. I could move, but I don’t. I hold her gently, careful to make sure she’s in control, and she can pull away with the slightest of movements.