Page 39 of Again, In Autumn

“When did the world stop spinning?” he sighed.

“When you had to save me from drowning.”

“I thought you said we couldn’t date.” He stared at my mouth.

“I didn’t say we couldn’t do this,” I replied, listening to the sound of his unsteady breath.

Half a smile lit up. “You saucy girl,” he purred.

“What did you just say?” I laughed. I leaned back, my legs kicked out in front of me.

Adam snatched me to him. His hands held my waist, tight around my rib cage, and he smirked. “I heard that in a movie, once.”

I stopped laughing when he stopped smiling.

He straightened up. One hand went to the side of my face, and I rested in his grip felt like I’d left my body. That time stood still. That what was happening right now had nothing to do with changing seasons, schoolwork, learning to drive a car. It was a highly spiritual experience, just like Heddy claimed everything should be.

He kissed me deeply then and continued to do so every day for the next two months.

Adam’s eyebrows raise. “Maybe you should go lay down,” he says now.

I remind myself to breathe.

“That’s not concussion protocol,” I argue.

“You take a lot of hits to the head?”

“I’m first aid certified, and I watch Gray’s Anatomy.”

He mulls this over while continuing to look at the ground. Barely a sound emits when he says, “When you’re baking for one, alone in your house.”

“What was that?” I ask.

He shudders, rubs the side of his face. “Nothing. Never mind.”

With every movement, I catch a whiff of his scent. Aftershave, cologne, cinnamon. I was gifted a candle that smelled just like that once. It was labeled: Hot Man Smell.

Kate is definitely going to ask for a layer of his clothing to get warm. Damn that tube top. The kids these days know what they’re doing.

I gingerly touch my wound. “You can go. I’ll bring you that wine after I’ve cleaned my face up.”

He tilts his head, catching the edge in my voice. “Don’t worry about it. You have a lot on your plate, I’ll get myself something later.”

“What does that mean?”

He slowly points to his head.

“Oh, you think I’m too busy with my head injury to pour a glass of wine?” I snap.

It’s nonsensical, but out of everything I could find offensive, I’ve suddenly become enraged at the idea that I can’t be half conscious and still pour wine. I’ll show him.

I collect a glass from the rack overhead and slowly, carefully, with mind-numbing cautiousness pour him a very small, small glass of wine. Just enough to trap a fruit fly or make me seem incompetent.

He takes the glass from my outstretched hand and inspects the contents. “Don’t be stingy with it or anything.”

“That’s a proper restaurant pour,” I say. “Just be glad I don’t charge fifteen dollars for it.”

He’s quiet, but he doesn’t move. I notice his chest rise. Air sneaks out of his nostrils like he has something to say but doesn’t. He simply raises his glass and nods in my direction before walking away.

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