Page 58 of Again, In Autumn

“How did you know that?” I ask. “I got rid of all the evidence.”

“You bake every day.” She shrugs. “I searched.”

I pick up my keys from the hook just as David goes to collect his. I toss them at his chest. “I’m not sitting on dried play-doh in this dress.”

We get to Loxley and David parks my car in an angled spot in front of an ivy-covered historic building. Flames burn inside copper lanterns. Brass handles shine from the glossy, heavy doors that have replaced the old, wooden ones that had names and dates and profanity etched into them with car keys.

David says, “You know, my uncle Ben used to co-own this place.”

“I didn’t know that,” Fran replies. “How did I not know that?”

“That’s why he let sixteen-year-olds in.”

“Oh. And let us drink, too. What a great uncle,” she says. “We should send him a fruitcake for Christmas.”

We climb out of the car and hurry inside quickly, since Francesca and I refuse to wear coats over nice outfits. The building is just as I remembered, moody and colorful and bustling, but with a more sophisticated clientele than I recall. At eighteen, we booked it straight for a dim booth tucked by the bar.

A hand goes in the air. “Over here!” Maggie calls out.

They’re sitting at a round table glowing with battery-powered votive candles. She wears a burgundy sweater dress and beaded earrings, her hair sprayed high, and her red lipstick complements Diego’s bright vest and polka dotted shirt.

Kate beams at me and pats the chair beside her. Her wavy hair falls over one smokey eye and her cleavage pins together at the low point of her mustard halter dress.

She gushes, “Vee, sit here! I ordered you a bourbon cocktail.”

“Oh thanks,” I say.

“That dress is hot.” She clutches my wrist. “I’m borrowing it.”

“Just don’t stretch out the chest,” I joke.

Adam sits opposite her, and his eyes flicker once on my standing body. Then, again, this time a tad longer. He holds his assessment, on my legs, then my torso. His throat bounces, he flinches.

He’s brushed his hair and shaved his beard. He looks like the picture I’ve seen of him with Selena Gomez at the VMAs. Sharp, dark and clean, like he smells good and drinks hard liquor without needing to chase it down with a loaf of bread.

I don’t imagine this or dream it up, but his eyes drag once more along my body. He casts them over my hair. I think of his fingers twirling in the ends of it. His nose pressing into my scalp. His breath hot beneath my jawbone.

We meet at the eye. He looks away and I do the same, fast.

I take the offered seat.

Kate begins to tell me about townie friends she knows who work here. She gossips about the minute details of their love lives, high school behaviors, and asks me what color Stacy put in my highlights.

I pull the lighter strands across my nose. “Um, I don’t remember, but I know it’s on her Instagram. I’ll send you the post.”

“Thanks! She’s really skilled. That balayage is blended so nicely.”

I twirl the straw in my drink and reply, “Yeah, she’s great.”

The vapid conversation does nothing to stop me from thinking about Adam two seats over. The way he sits quietly, leaned back in his chair, blurred from my peripheral vision except for the fingers he taps along a square napkin.

My brain would like a moment to say, I told you so.

Adam breaks the silence, asking, “How’s your leg?” He’s not talking to his drink, but I could be mistaken for thinking so.

“Oh fine,” I answer. “Alice gave me ten Bluey Band-Aids. I hope they hold up.”

“We have Neosporin if you need it.”

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