Page 145 of Again, In Autumn

Adam was right. I don’t need my dad. I have a lot of other people who show up and work hard to keep healthy relationships. It’s time to let go of someone who doesn’t want me in his life, and just wants to feel important in mine.

I sniffle and clear my face, breathing deeply. I tuck my cold fingers into my jacket sleeves and ask, “So now what?”

David says, “I think we should all go home tomorrow. This has been a heavy week, for everyone.” He stops. “Except for Caroline. She’s had a pretty easy couple of days.”

“Thank you, Davey,” I offer, crawling across the boards to hug him.

He pulls me in, and I think about all the times, since I was twelve, that I’d been glad David was in my life. Glad that I had a brother.

We climb down from the treehouse and walk back inside. I take one last look at Adam’s house. I wish I could go over there and talk to him, make everything right. I’m struck, thinking about how he must have felt fourteen years ago, when we didn’t have time to cool off and talk about it later because I had hoped in my dad’s car.

I left last time. He left this time.

Chapter Forty

On Friday morning, I kiss the kids goodbye, hug David and the girls, watch Francesca collect her things without looking at or speaking to me, and head back on the road.

I could message Adam on Instagram. I could say, I was wrong. I should have told my dad to take a hike, to leave us in peace, and I should have chosen you. It wasn’t right for me fourteen years ago, but it’s right for us now.

That seems too impersonal. I could have asked Maggie for his new number. That would have made sense if I wasn’t so distraught last night and eager to get away this morning. As it happens, I have no way to contact him.

If he wanted to talk to me. He could still be angry. For all I know, he spent the entire drive back to Chicago deciding I was the wrong girl and that he had dodged a bullet. Or worse: he might assume I’d heed my dad’s ultimatum and chose my father over him.

As I settle into my apartment for a weekend of self-pitying and crying on my couch, I can’t bring myself to turn on Bravo. I don’t even stress bake. Every time I think of doing so, my skin cries at the memory of Adam tying that apron so sensually around my waist, breathing into my ear, the smell of sugar in the air. Instead, I snuggle into a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa and turn on Hallmark to watch a girl fall in love with her old high school boyfriend in a town where Santa is the mayor.

Why is Santa always so creepy in these movies? And so obviously the real Santa. He knows full names and what people wanted for Christmas when they were seven, plus he shows up unexpectedly at town events with his reindeer pet, Rudy.

This just makes me cry more.

On Monday, Noelle comes in to ask about my vacation. I spill it all, leaving out the bit about Adam being Adam Kent, and she spends a solid ten minutes of our biweekly planning hour patting my back and muttering, “Three weeks, babe. Three weeks.”

Three weeks until our next break, which should be a breeze, but kids expect you to be chipper during that stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas. They don’t understand why we’re not making snowflake popsicle crafts or why I sit down during brain break dances.

They line up for art one day and Kennedy says, “Miss Rose, you look sick.”

“She’s looked like that all week,” Journey adds.

Quinn says, “She just don’t got her eyelashes on.”

“We watched The Grinch in Spanish yesterday. Can we watch a movie tomorrow?”

I cry a little more when they finally leave me to go learn about color mixing. In an attempt to brighten my spirits, since my sister still hasn’t reached out and I’ve scrolled through several happy pictures of Adam at a bar with his Chicago friends, I string lights up around the dry-erase board. The kids make a fake fireplace. We have a Christmas break countdown.

Ten days.

Five days.

One day.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Rose,” Everleigh offers as her mom cleans up from the class party. I say goodbye, collect my gifts and belongings, and lock the back door for the next two weeks.

I don’t have Christmas plans. I don’t have a family that speaks to me, save for Heddy. I visit her straight from school, where she and Zander set up a table on the street for the night’s Christmas festival.

“Try calling his agent or manager,” she suggests, adjusting a red tablecloth. “Or slide into his DM’s.”

I cover my face. “That option sounds mortifying to me right now. It’s the only way I have to contact him, but the thought of being another thirsty, random girl messaging him on social media grosses me out. That’s not me.”

“That’s not what you are to him.”

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