Page 2 of Again, In Autumn

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

She adds, “We just had the house cleaned last weekend.”

“I know, but –”

“And David’s sisters are coming. I’m sure Kate needs content for her Instagram or OnlyFans account, so I apologize if she asks you to take a picture of her feet.”

I don’t even try to speak again. It’s not worth it. Instead, I drink my wine, glance at the Netflix logo as it booms, and watch the unnecessary Love Is Blind recap roll.

Francesca continues her speech, but she’s not begging or demanding or threatening anymore, it’s just mindless jibber jabber, no different from the other random nightly phone calls I’ve endured for eleven months. Without her husband to talk to, I became her earpiece.

Before last week, I had planned to spend Thanksgiving break on the couch, but my sister had a different idea. Our absentee father will be on a business trip somewhere and our godmother, Heddy, is busy with her witchy New Age shop, so Francesca, David and their kids decided to trek back to Captain’s Lake for Thanksgiving.

The number of calls and text messages I received last week is obscene. Practically stalking.

But, she and David did just get back together a month ago. How is this grown woman supposed to navigate the trials and tribulations of a formerly estranged family? How is my older sister supposed to do anything alone?

I drink a sip of wine and watch the girl on my screen, crying alone in her pod, when Francesca’s voice crawls its way into my consciousness with a specific set of words.

She says, “I think Adam’s parents still own the house next door. Maybe we’ll finally run into him again.”

Wine spurts out of my mouth.

“What was that sound? Are you gagging?” she asks.

Yes.

Dying a little, maybe.

Shit, I just almost spilled wine all over the beautiful autumnal wardrobe I folded and organized on my bedspread. High-waisted jeans, suede boots, chunky sweaters.

What is wrong with me?

“Vienna, are you okay?” Francesca says.

Wiping my mouth and stepping away from dry-clean-only clothes, I reply, “I’m fine. Just…something surprised me.”

It shouldn’t surprise me, hearing his name, not when he’s the reason I haven’t been back to the lake since I was eighteen. He was bound to come up in conversation.

He. Him.

The name I can’t say out loud.

None the wiser, Francesca continues her assault on my fragile state of mind. “You know, we saw Adam in concert two years ago. Dave tried to get backstage.” She snorts a laugh. “He kept telling security, No, I know him. For two months twelve years ago, we were best friends.”

All true things.

Shaking myself back to focus, I sigh, “Fran, look, I’m kind of tired.”

Ignoring me, she says, “Adam’s probably too famous now for free vacations.”

Probably.

Too famous, too handsome, and too busy to remember a lake house in the mountains and the teenage girl he romanced there once upon a time.

I attempt to veer the conversation from Adam Kent because I’ll have another episode and choke on my wine. “And maybe I should stay home, Fran. I’ve got a ton of stuff to catch up on here. Laundry. My dishwasher needs to be unloaded. I’ve got a bag of clothes to donate in my trunk.”

“Don’t give me that – you just had a shit-ton of free time,” she says.

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