Page 39 of Autumn on My Mind

“Nah,” he cuts me off, and his posture eases. He leans back, folding his arms and staring off at the sea of pumpkins across the gravel path. “It’s fine. I came back here pretty much right after”—he pauses, a sticky silence—“pretty much immediately. I lived with my dad for a while and then bought a cheap little place off First. It needed a lot of work. So I fixed it up. Ben helped. It looks good now.”

I nod slowly. “You’re great at all that—working with your hands and whatnot. And you enjoy it?”

“I do,” he admits. “Much more than I ever enjoyed sitting at a desk.” Then he glances over at me. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

This is such a normal conversation, full of normal questions and normal responses, but it feels like a layer of my soul is being peeled back, or a line of defenses is being slowly lowered.

Even so…it’s nice, chatting.

“I still work for the same company. No degree,” I add, because it’s better to get that out of the way, given what happened between us. “But I’m a project manager now. It pays well as long as I keep my work load up. I’m here too,” I say, gesturing around us at the pumpkin farm, “for the month of October.”

Dominic’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Berkeley loves a pumpkin patch.”

“Berkeley does love a pumpkin patch,” I agree.

Silence falls again, and he sighs. Then he stands.

“Well, I’ll keep you updated, I guess,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets once more as the swing sways. “About our parents. Keep an eye on the two of them. I’ll do the same.”

I give him a nod, even though he doesn’t see it; his back is to me. I’m expecting him to walk away, but for a few seconds, he hesitates, hovering where he is, halfway in motion—then his body sags, and he mumbles something I don’t hear under his breath. With nothing more than a vague wave over his shoulder, he plods toward the entrance.

I’m left alone in the falling light, wondering what he said, and trying not to care—trying to remind myself of number two on our new list, No talking about the past. I amend it in my mind: No thinking about the past.

But it’s difficult on quiet evenings like this, when memories rise gently and pleasantly, when swings creak and sway and lull.

I shake my head to dislodge the spell.

Maybe in the future, Dom and I would do better to meet during the day.

SIX YEARS AGO || OCTOBER

I’m not the kind of girl who calls guys at night. I’m definitely not the kind who calls guys late at night.

I don’t really call anyone at night, in fact, unless my mother insists that we must talk right this very moment and texting is deemed insufficient.

By her, of course. Texting is always sufficient for me. I am stupidly bad at talking on the phone, and I think it’s because I don’t properly plan what I’m going to say beforehand.

This Friday evening, however, I find myself pulling up Dominic’s phone number at nine-thirty.

We’ve spent the last several weeks studying together a few afternoons a week. Sometimes we talk a lot, sometimes we don’t. He’s either easily distracted or difficult to pry away from his work; there’s very little in between. We text most days, though, about when we’re meeting up next or about things that remind us of home.

He doesn’t seem to enjoy school, no matter how hard he works. It always puts a tired furrow between his brows. So tonight I’m glad to be asking him about something totally different.

It takes a few rings for him to pick up the phone.

“Berkeley,” he says briskly down the line.

I let out a mock gasp as I settle myself on my bed, because he’s supposed to call me Reese. “Rude.”

“Sorry,” he says with a tsk, “but a late-night call usually means only one thing, and I can’t condone such behavior.”

“Yes, well, tonight the late-night call means we’ve lost our hot water,” I say, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing. I zip the feather charm back and forth on the chain around my neck, a habit I’ve never been able to rid myself of. It comes out when I’m jittery or anxious or full of energy. “Maintenance won’t be able to get here until Monday. Do you have experience with water heaters, Mr. Handyman?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” he says after a second of surprised silence. “As long as you and your roommates promise not to take advantage of me, that is.”

“We would never.”

“Liar. I got nothing but googly eyes from the girl you were with when I bumped into you on campus last week.”