Page 73 of Again, In Autumn

“Two people who barely know each other. Like a famous musician and a schoolteacher.”

He tugs absently on the strings of his hoodie. “A schoolteacher who doesn’t like the musician’s music.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s what’s really grinding your gears, isn’t it?”

He pauses. “Well, I pour my heart and soul into my work all I ask for is recognition and praise and validation and money.”

“Fame hungry,” I scoff. “I knew it.”

“A man’s gotta earn a living.” He attempts a smile but is too busy wondering if that’s allowed.

A child’s laughter wafts through the trees.

I tell Adam, “In all honesty, it’s not that I don’t like your music. I’ve never listened to any of your songs.”

He shifts his weight. “Why?”

I stare at his confused face, waiting for him to realize. “I just…couldn’t,” I answer, my tone carrying the obvious subtext. Duh. Obviously. I was incredibly in love with you, and I couldn’t handle listening to songs you wrote about your love for some other girl who is probably a supermodel.

“That makes sense,” he mutters.

I take a beat and say, “We haven’t seen each other in fourteen years, so we are basically strangers. It shouldn’t be too hard to play that role.”

“You must have changed so much,” he says with a dramatic sigh.

This part, the one where we try to move past our history, feels awkward. Do I joke? Do I ignore him? Do I ask him everything about himself and listen to the sweet scratch of his intoxicating voice?

Not that last one.

I say, “Oh, I have changed. I eat salads now, sometimes.”

“I’ve only ever seen you eat baked goods and Pringles.”

“And I don’t get winded when I run a mile anymore. I have the stamina of a racehorse.” I tilt my head. “Well, like an old, ready to retire, no one’s betting on me anymore, racehorse.”

Adam’s crooked smile returns. “We can race later. I’ll be the judge of that.” He bends down and picks up a rock. “Any other new hobbies I should be aware of?”

“That wouldn’t make us strangers,” I point out.

He nods, rubbing his thumb over the smooth, flat stone. He points it toward the kids running back and forth from the house. “We were invited to game day.”

Grayson hops down the steps and runs around the yard, stabbing herb plant markers in the thinned brown grass.

I scowl. “Oh yeah. That’s happening today.”

David blows up a beach ball and Francesca shouts at Grayson to come put on a sweatshirt.

I explain, “Just so you know, it’s weird. It’s a mix of games the kids made up, that Fran and I made up, or Heddy claimed to witness when she was astral projecting. David has this thing where he sends us all on a scavenger hunt for stuff, but he doesn’t remember what he hid, and everyone gives up but Grayson. Caroline’s game is a talent show and we’re all painfully talentless.”

Adam rears his head back. “Are you uninviting me?”

“Just preparing you. And myself.”

He’s indistinct with his eye contact. “So, from now on we’re just…going to act like…nothing’s weird…there’s no history -”

“Neighbors,” I complete. “Strangers.”

His throat bobs. “Okay.”

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