Page 49 of Autumn on My Mind

Dom nods.

“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.” I pause, my brow furrowing. “I think I heard he’s back in town, actually.”

“I think so.” Dom unlocks the window and then opens it, and I watch his forearms the entire time like a psycho. “Anyway, we would hang out sometimes. Kick the can, whatever. I took up smoking for a while⁠—”

“Dominic!” His name bursts out of me, and he glances over his shoulder, a little smile tugging at his lips when he sees my dropped jaw and wide eyes.

“You smoked? Your father works in a doctor’s office!” I go on, keeping my voice soft.

“I know,” he says ruefully. Then he turns back to the window and begins unlatching the screen.

“Exactly how long did you destroy your lungs?”

“You’re looking at several months of tar buildup.”

I’m actually still looking at his forearms, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Does your dad know?”

Dominic snorts but doesn’t look at me. The last tension tab on the screen releases, and he maneuvers the whole thing carefully inside. He settles it on the floor, propped against the wall, and then turns to me.

“Of course he doesn’t,” he says, dusting his hands off. “I don’t think he’d be able to take the shock. A college dropout and a former smoker?” His voice is light, but his body is tense. “He’d keel right over.”

And time slows viscously as the past stirs between us, a restless beast, so close I can see its teeth that would rip my throat out if I let them.

Or maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe that beast of the past wouldn’t rip out my throat.

Maybe I would simply wait for it to open its mouth, and I would crawl into its belly on my own.

“He’s proud of you,” I say softly, even though I know it won’t do any good.

Dominic doesn’t look me in the eye, but he gives a short nod. “He is,” he says. “Because he lowered his expectations.”

I sigh. This conversation rarely goes anywhere productive. So instead of continuing, I gesture to the gaping window. “Are you going first, or am I? How are you going to get the screen back in?”

“I’ll make up an excuse to come back later.” Dominic opens his mouth to go on, but a loud trill of laughter from downstairs finds its way to us, and I wince.

“Are you sure I can’t live in your shed?” I say, a little desperately. “Seriously. You’re completely sure?”

He snorts. “Yeah, Berkeley,” he says, maneuvering his leg through the open window. “I’m positive.”

When I go to bed that night, I don’t sleep. I stare at the ceiling.

And I wait.

I wait and wait and wait, growing more antsy by the second. I wait until I can’t keep my eyes open, and I drift off before I ever hear Alvina come home.

When I wake the next morning, however, she’s returned. She’s fussing around our small bedroom, closing drawers loudly, destroying the ozone layer with her horrible perfume, and being generally aggressive in a way I’m unfamiliar with at seven in the morning.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes as Alvina hovers at the open closet, her hair twisted into a towel, a silky robe floating about her small frame. “What are you doing?” I say.

She whirls around. “Oh, are you awake?” she says, as though she wasn’t trying her best to wake me herself.

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“Good. We have a busy day,” she says, and it’s then that I notice how chaotic she seems—gone are the usual elegance and poise, replaced by jerky movements and darting eyes as she begins digging through clothes.

“I have to go to the pumpkin patch until this evening,” I point out, but she shakes her head.