Someday, someone would get her pregnant.
“Maybe, but that won’t be for a while, right?” We’re finally approaching the box to order.
She laughs. “Yeah, I’m not immaculately conceiving.”
The employee asks for our order, and I’m saved from the urge to make a joke about helping her raise a little Jesus II.
Because I would help, stupid as that sounds.
With our tacos in tow, our mission is half complete. I turn us back toward the highway and the odd little gas station that sells Autumn’s arcane candies.
She finished her novel.
We’re eighteen, almost nineteen; our birthdays are coming up.
She is as extraordinary as she is beautiful.
“Do you want the windows back down?” I ask. I’m so proud of you, I think.
“I need to finish at least one taco first,” she says, chewing. “I’m really hungry.”
“What did you eat at home?”
“Um.”
“Autumn?”
“I was writing!” she cries.
“It’s eight o’clock at night!” I glance at her. “All you’ve had to eat were those two pieces of toast and that taco?”
“But I have six more tacos right here,” she says. She finishes the first and unwraps another.
After a minute, I ask, “Would you have eaten if I hadn’t come by when you didn’t answer my text?”
“What text?”
She shifts in her seat, and there’s light from her phone as she opens it.
“Oh!” she says. I’m glad she’s surprised that she didn’t notice. “Sorry.”
“Not a big deal. It’s good I came by before you passed out and hit your head on something.”
“Oh, har-har,” she says, but I mean it.
This, this right here, is why I need to wait until Christmas break to tell her that what I feel for her is more than physical attraction, that I need some space. First semester, I’m going to need to make sure Autumn remembers to get to the dining hall before it closes.
When Autumn is depressed or stressed or writing, she gets so inside her head that she forgets about her body. I can’t imagine not noticing that I’m hungry. I can’t imagine living so outside the physical world the way she does.
Autumn would probably say that she can’t imagine having a body like mine, one that runs in a confident rhythm or that can take aim and hit the desired mark.
“Do you want to steer on the way back?” I ask as I pull into the gas station parking lot. The light inside glows warmly, and I park in one of the spaces illuminated by the windows.
“I’m too tired. I’ll crash. Even you couldn’t save us,” she says.
“I’ll get your candy. Stay here and eat.”
I should probably tell Autumn that the “nice older man” inside, who always smiles and says hi to her, also leers at her when she’s facing away. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but it’s gross. He’s fifty at least. I’m eighteen, and I have a better handle on my hormones than him.
“I’ll be right back.”
Autumn nods and chews another mouthful. She looks content. I know this summer could never mean as much to her as it does to me, but I want her to remember it fondly. I don’t want this creep saying something to sully the memory.
Autumn’s sludge tubes and the little powder packets are at the bottom shelf of the candy aisle with the other sugar oddities. For example, this must be the last place on earth that sells candy cigarettes. I wonder if we’ve been the only ones buying this candy here all summer and if, after we’ve gone, this shelf will sit untouched for months.
I get sodas despite my earlier teasing, because I know it’ll make Autumn happy. I will go to dental school and rebuild her teeth if she needs it.
The older guy is there. I see him see me as I wait in line. I see him look for Autumn behind me.
As I set my items on the counter, he says, “Alone tonight?”
I look at his face, because I’m not certain of his tone. He’s raised one eyebrow and gives me the sort of smile he makes when he thinks no one sees him eyeing Autumn.
“No, she’s with me.” I emphasize the words so that they imply what I wish were true—that I am hers.
As he’s ringing up the items, his gaze moves out the window to my car. “So how is it?” he asks, like I have something to share.
“I don’t need my change.” I grab our stuff and leave. Tomorrow, I’ll buy the whole stock of Autumn’s weird candy so that we never have to come back here again.