“Hey, Finn,” Jack says. “Come get your cleats out of my car.” He’s getting ready to leave, and my cleats are not in his car. His car is a dumpster, and I’d never leave something of mine there, even cleats.
“Sure.” I glance at Autumn before I get up. She’s nestled in a blanket, finishing the glass of water I got her and having another slice of toast. I take note again of how unfair it is that she can be so beautiful while hungover.
I walk Jack to his car, and when he turns to me with that look on his face, I know what he’s going to say. I open my mouth.
He beats me to speaking. “Your story doesn’t make sense.”
That’s not what I expected.
“My story?”
“That she knows but also simultaneously doesn’t know that you’re in love with her.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It basically is. Maybe you are the two stupidest people on earth who somehow don’t realize you’re in love with each other, but I’m leaning toward she knows you love her and she’s fucking with you to make herself feel better.”
“That is not—”
He gives me a look, and I stop talking.
“Break up with Sylvie tomorrow. Call me after. Think about what I said.”
“Fine.” I shrug one shoulder and look away.
“We’re cool?”
I meet his eyes again. “Yeah.”
He nods and leaves. I head back inside.
I wonder if I should have pretended to go upstairs and put away my imaginary cleats before sitting next to her on the couch, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Did you have fun?” I ask her.
She smiles faintly. “You were right about that fourth drink and maybe about Jack’s bartending skills.”
“I was definitely right about both things. You’re looking better though.”
She looks amazing; that’s how she looks by default.
“The toast helped. Thanks.” She flashes me another smile, which fills me with warmth.
“Just a trick I learned.” From taking care of Sylvie, I don’t say.
“I think I’m going to go home and take a shower,” she says.
I’m surprised and disappointed. I feel myself blink.
“Okay.” Perhaps it’s for the best. I need to collect my thoughts. Figure out what I’m going to say to Sylvie tomorrow.
Autumn stretches her arms above her head and groans before getting up, and I wish I could have that moment, like so many others, on instant replay.
She calls, “Bye, Finny!” over her shoulder as she heads to her house next door.
I pause, then rush to my room to catch another glimpse of her before she goes inside, perhaps see her again when she goes to her room, since our windows are across from each other.
Not that I’m trying to see her in any state of undress. Believe me, I’ve had my chances, and there’ve been close calls, but I’ve always made myself close my curtains when she forgets to close hers. Today though, she comes into her room and closes the curtains with efficiency. I leave my curtains open and stretch out on my bed. I should be thinking about what my mother and Jack have said to me about my relationship—my friendship—with Autumn. They both agree that I need to tell her.
But all I can think about is Autumn. The way her brown eyes shone as we built the tent yesterday. The way I could smell her soft hair as she was curled up against me this morning. The way she had arched her back and made that noise before getting off the couch. That she is now undressing to take a shower.
I am thinking about Autumn intensely, but not in a way that is going to make me feel better, now or in the long run.
three
I cannot look back and say when I fell in love with Autumn Rose. Something I felt for her before I even learned to read had grown and sharpened as we grew up together. If I tried to pin it down, I would guess the first time I had thought of myself as “in love with Autumn” would have been before fifth grade. I don’t know if a psychologist would believe someone that young can be in love. All I know is what happened to me.
I was in love with her, but we were only eleven, so being just friends felt natural, even if in my mind it was assuredly temporary. We always talked like we were living our whole lives together like The Mothers; surely she would realize we should get married. But I never got the sense she was preoccupied with me in the same way. She did not understand why The Mothers said we could not have sleepovers in the same bed anymore. And I did. She did not, when our hands happened to touch, try to make the moment linger. And I did.