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“I really like this guy,” I admitted. “I’d like to think there was something there, but…”
“But?”
“But what if I’m wrong?”
Edmond grinned behind his thick black mustache. “Unfortunately, that is something you can never know until you give your heart. Trust. Trust and love are flour and water. They need each other to stick, non?”
“I guess.”
I’d let my heart trust Mark and he’d tossed it away. Maybe it was better to be practical with Connor. Smart. Safe.
It was Connor’s idea to visit the Emily Dickinson Museum next Saturday. Half of me struggled to envision the tall baseball player interested in Dickinson’s painful history or reading her poetry. The other half felt it might be exactly what he enjoyed doing, if only he’d share that side of himself more.
Maybe we both were holding back, but the only thing I knew was that I desperately needed a little time and perspective.
I picked up my phone and texted Connor.
Hi. I don’t think I can make the museum on Saturday.
His reply came in a few minutes later, as I was walking my bike down Pleasant Street under the falling twilight.
Bummer. Yancy’s later?
No. I don’t think so.
A pause. Then, Is everything okay?
I bit my lip. How to answer? That was exactly the source of my unease. Everything wasn’t okay but there was nothing wrong either. It was as if my heart was split right down the middle, just like Edmond had said.
I’m really behind on my Harvard project. I need to devote a solid chunk of time to it.
OK. Have you been considering Thanksgiving?
I stopped walking and leaned against a tall oak tree, my bike against my thigh. Connor hadn’t been able to stop talking about the holiday. The thought of meeting his parents felt incredibly flattering and a little bit too soon at the same time.
Not sure. I have to see what I can get done this week and let you know.
OK.
I’m sorry.
It’s fine, he wrote.
Talk to you later?
Sure.
And nothing else.
“Shit.” I started to walk again but the tight feeling in my stomach strengthened. I had to tackle this head on, not over the phone.
Connor?
A tense ten seconds later, then, Autumn? ?
His sweetness eased my breath a little. Are you at your place? Can I come over? To talk?
I’m here, he wrote. Come over.
