At the end of the night, when we were dropping Jack back at his house, he looked at me with pity before getting out of the car. I don’t think he meant to, but I could see it on his face. He didn’t believe that Autumn was—or ever had been—my friend. The daughter of my mom’s best friend, who was around a lot? Sure. But he thought I had deluded myself into believing this hot girl was my friend.
I made it my mission to prove that Autumn was my friend. For the next two months, Jack was flooded with invitations to my home, where pictures of Autumn and I, arms slung around each other, covered the walls and where my mom could tell him story after story of all the adventures Autumn and I had together.
I succeeded in proving to him that Autumn and I had been friends, but I failed to prove to him （or honestly, me） that she and I were still friends. On the last day of school before winter break, Jack finally said something. I cannot remember what I had been telling him, only that it had been about Autumn.
“Finn. Dude. I mean, I get it. I’d eat broken glass for seven minutes in heaven with her. But does she even talk to you anymore?”
“We aren’t guys who get invited to parties where they play spin the bottle or whatever,” I said.
“And that’s why she doesn’t speak to you anymore,” Jack said.
I didn’t bother telling him that she did speak to me occasionally.
“We’ll probably hang out over break,” I said and shrugged.
Jack, always generous with me, did not tell me I was dreaming.
And as it turned out, it wasn’t a dream. It happened.
Autumn had come out of her trance, and it was as if she could see me again. The relief was so deep that it hit me on a physical level. I slept better in those two weeks than I had in months.
I was back in the game. Our relationship still wasn’t where I wanted it to be, but I was holding the line again. I could make my move.
The locker room conversations hadn’t reached the level of smut that they would in high school, but I’d heard an eighth grader bragging about following a group of hot seventh graders at the mall. I recognized Autumn and her friends in his description—he called Alexis by name—and I was shocked how he said they smiled and winked at him, then walked into the fancy underwear store when they knew he was following them.
For the first time, I questioned if I knew Autumn as well as I thought and then made assumptions about her life without me that were wrong. It wasn’t the last time. I later assumed that Autumn was drinking and having sex freshman year based on a combination of hearsay and envy.
But back in seventh grade, I thought I’d figured out the kind of guy Autumn was into. I needed to be more masculine, like the older jocks. I was already good at sports, but I’d get better. I didn’t have a real dad in my life to emulate, but I could learn more about dudes. I thought it would be months, though surely not years, before I would have my chance to impress Autumn.
Then the miracle happened. Autumn came back to me that Christmas. We were friends again. Every day, we were together, talking and laughing like old times. I wasn’t going to miss my chance to show her that I could be who she wanted.
We watched When Harry Met Sally with The Mothers over the break. Obviously, I’d loved the friends-to-lovers rom-com, and when Autumn told my Mom, “It was romantic at the end,” I made my plan.
I would kiss her at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I would show her that I could be bold, that I could be manly. My plan was, after we’d run outside and banged our kitchen pots to greet the new year, I'd throw them down, grab her romantically, and kiss her. I assumed that I would know how to do something like that instinctively.
I was so exuberant at midnight that I’d almost exhausted myself whooping and yelling, the way Mom’s boyfriends had in other years. When I realized that I was about to miss my chance and everyone was going to go back inside, I’d reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Wait,” I said. Talking hadn’t been part of the plan, but it was already a couple of minutes past midnight.
“What?”
I had meant to take her in my arms and hold her, but I’d caught her above her elbow, and it would have to do. I leaned in, and her eyes widened.
Her lips were as soft as I had imagined. Again, I had assumed my romantic instinct would take over, telling me how to kiss her like people do in the movies. But I pecked at her, like I had kissed so many cheeks before, mostly The Mothers.
Still though, I was kissing her. My body was full of wonder and hope. I watched her face as I pulled back, waiting to see her reaction.