Page 23 of Again, In Autumn

I swallow. “I’m here.” Barely. “Lost in thought.”

I learned that stomach butterflies can appear on recollection of a memory. Who knew? That’s an inconvenient bodily reaction.

Grayson brushes past me and drops a plastic container on the kitchen counter. The blue Beta fish inside swims frantically in circles, and he begs, “Mom, where’s Miggy’s bowl?”

From inside the pantry, she replies, “It’s wrapped up in beach towels in the front seat. Wait for your dad, I don’t want you carrying a giant glass bowl. Where’s Alice?”

In need of fresh air, I offer, “I’ll go get it,” as Alice comes careening through the hallway to show off the most beautiful leaf she’s ever seen in her life.

I hop off the stool and walk toward my boots. They’re tall and dirty beside Lego-themed sneakers and a pair of tiny, glittery Uggs. I smile, sliding my feet into the warm soles, remembering our jelly sandals and white Keds tossed in a heap beside Heddy’s gardening boots and umbrella. It never occurred to me how gratifying it would be to share this home with the kids.

Crossing the threshold, I finally see the lake in its Autumnal, daytime glory, and it’s like stepping into a burgundy world. October feels orange, but November is warm and deep like a cabernet, having been aging slowly for an entire season. The sounds outside are sharp: a closed door, a squirrel scampering in the forest, my breath floating off toward the lake.

The wind whistles between branches. The soft rattle of it shudders through my soul. I close my eyes, feeling the chill wrap around my body and loving the shock on my bare knees as my feet crunch through the gravel to the van’s open passenger door. I’m leaning inside, reaching for the pile of towels on the floorboard, ass out and on my tiptoes, when footsteps crunch behind me.

“Excuse me,” a man says. “Sorry, to bother you. Are you all renting the house for Thanksgiving?”

I twist my head, hair covering my eyes. “Oh, no, we’re not exactly renting. We’re family.”

There’s silence on the other end.

I hold the ridiculously heavy fish bowl against my shirt, in between my bra-less boobs, and turn around.

He’s just a few feet away. Worn jeans, scuffed brown boots. Plaid flannel peeking out from behind a blue sweater. Dark rumpled hair, thick broody eyebrows, and a short, untamed beard that surround the same chocolate eyes I see in my dreams. I immediately commit this moment to memory. I know I’ll see it, every detail, for the rest of my life. Paint him in black and white, fingers folded into guitar strings, and he’s the portrait I’ve been avoiding for fourteen years.

Adam’s frozen too.

I focus on his frown and the eyes dragging from bedhead to bare thighs, and my body drains of blood. For a second, our eyes meet, and I can’t imagine what’s going through his mind because all I see is that last day.

The world is sunny, sticky, hot. He’s clean-shaven, just the same height, with a sweat-stained shirt and bright red eyes. He’s asking again, just like he did the first time under the stars and the second time in the dining room in front of my father. With a single look he’s asking me to run away with him, but I don’t have an answer this time. One yes, one no, one moment of silence.

That’s all over.

It’s Autumn now.

Chapter Seven

Adam stands in front of me. To someone else, he’d be a Grammy Award-winning musician judging their loungewear and hoping not to be bothered for an autograph.

To me, he’s the eighteen-year-old boy I loved. I wasn’t sure before, not when so much time has passed, but I’m sure about it now, and it was love, on my part at least.

God, if we hadn’t been stopped, I would have given that boy my entire soul.

This man still might have some part of it. His familiar dark eyes find mine, and I’m only aware that I’ve stopped breathing when he finally looks away and I catch my stifled breath.

After an expressionless once over, I’m no longer worthy of Adam’s attention. Instead, he directs my screaming nephew. “Hey,” he calls out.

“No!” Grayson shouts.

The colors of the present seep back into reality. I assess my empty hands, the chill of my nipples, the nothingness in front of my body.

I’ve dropped the goddamned fish bowl.

I did hear it crack – shatter, more like – but I was too busy staring at Adam and being in a state of shock to care. Not that a kindergartener would accept that defense.

Grayson shouts at me. “What did you do?”

My hands stay out in front of me, clutching the imaginary fish bowl and wishing I had dignity within reach. “I – I –”

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