Page 111 of Autumn on My Mind

“Alvina loves fancy foreign food,” I say with a grimace. “She thinks it’s sophisticated. Well done, Daryl.”

Dom’s lips twitch with a huff of laughter. “Well, it’s not black tie or anything. I’ll probably wear what I wore last night⁠—”

He breaks off, but I am a champion, so I soldier through.

“I’ll see what I’ve got,” I say as though my green dress is not buried in a trash can. I should probably dig that back out; I’m more clearheaded this morning than I was last night, and I can admit I’ll probably want to wear it again. Then I thumb over my shoulder. “Welp,” I say. “Uh. Pumpkin patch.”

I guess I am now a cavewoman, reduced to grunted words instead of those pesky, newfangled, more-evolved full sentences.

So without waiting for his response, I and my cavewoman self turn and head toward the driveway, around the back of the house and to my shed. Every step I take feels like an incremental stretch of the rubber band inside me, the tension that keeps growing.

But Neanderthal or not, I do need to go to work. Those pumpkins aren’t going to patch themselves, and although my weekday hours are now reduced, there are still things to get done.

The day passes in a haze of dirt and straw and leaves. I work extra hard, hoping to tire myself out, with the result being that I’m dirtier than usual upon returning to my makeshift home. There’s dust under my fingernails and brown smudges on my overalls. Dominic pulls into the driveway just as I’m about to enter the shed; I make eye contact with him, walk right into the door I’m trying to open, and linger just long enough to see him wince in concern before running inside.

I wait until he leaves again before sneaking up to his house to shower.

Saturday is spent at the pumpkin patch, and by the time Monday rolls around, I’m a balloon so full of air that I’m about to pop. I have two competing desires at war in my mind:

Hunt down Dominic and tell him every thought I’ve ever had, and

Hide from Dominic and never talk to him about anything ever again.

Neither of these feel smart or even realistic. So I’m hovering in the liminal space between, and I’d say the inner tension is one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever experienced—clocking in below nausea but above a UTI.

Our parents are going to dinner at six, so Dom and I start driving at five-thirty that evening. We can arrive a bit after they do and find a seat strategically out of sight. Dom has on what he wore to the wedding—WHEN WE ALMOST KISSED AND THEN TRIED TO ACT NORMAL ABOUT IT—but I’ve chosen a loose dress I grabbed from my closet at Nathan’s. Alvina was there when I dropped by, humming to herself and asking no questions about the night of the reception.

Small mercies.

Dominic and I greet each other a bit too casually before setting out. There’s a stiff breeze in the air that pushes at my back as though trying to move me closer to Dom, but I leave suitable space between us when we meet on the driveway.

It’s a relief when we get in the truck. He turns on the music immediately, and although it’s better than total silence, it doesn’t quite banish the living, breathing memories seated smack-dab between us. They’re crouched on the center console, looking back and forth to see which one of us will crack first, and every time a love song plays, they cackle.

I want to scream. I want to kiss Dominic.

I do neither of these things. I keep my hands in my lap and my face turned to the window, paying no attention to the autumn scenery as it zooms by. Honestly, Bigfoot could be running alongside the truck and I wouldn’t notice.

What I can tell you is that Dom clears his throat three times over the thirty-minute drive, and that seven songs play, and that five of them are love songs. I’m nervous-sweating so much that I feel sticky; when I roll down the window, Dominic doesn’t say anything. He pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant—medium-sized but understated with immaculate landscaping.

No pumpkin patches here.

My legs are shaky when I basically flop out of the truck, but a few deep breaths of crisp evening air help enormously. Strangely, it also helps that when Dom rounds the front of the truck to join me, he points at a car across the lot.

“There,” he says quietly, adjusting his sleeves. “That’s my dad’s car.”

I turn and look at the little sedan, some of my nerves falling away.

We’re here with a purpose.

“All right,” I say after taking another deep breath. Smoothing my hands down my dress, I ask, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” he responds, so immediately that I’m caught off guard. “Always beautiful.” Then he tilts his head at me. “Ready?”

I nod firmly and resist the urge to fan my face. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Dom offers me his arm as we walk into the restaurant. He holds it out like this is something we always do, like we’re one of those adventurous couples who try new places to eat for fun.

We’re not a couple, and I’m not adventurous. But I slide my arm through the crook of his elbow anyway, ignoring the feelings it brings and turning my attention instead to the restaurant itself.