Page 71 of Again, In Autumn

Adam tugs a gray hoodie over his head. He shakes back his flattened hair and says, “I need to say something.”

I swallow and dangle the half-eaten pancake in my hand.

“A few things, actually,” he continues. “Starting with an apology.”

“I wondered if that was coming.” I put the rest of my pancake in my mouth, cross my arms and stare at an acorn resting between two planks of wood.

He says, “About last night.”

I nod, mouth full.

“I was out of line.”

I wipe a hand across my lips. “I didn’t know you were trying to walk a line. It felt like you were swerving, looking for ways to hit me.”

“I was a little drunk.”

“That’s not true,” I mutter.

He pauses. “No. It’s not.”

I’m not looking at him, but I feel his gaze. I imagine it’s the same warmth he used to wrap me in, but it won’t be. The wood creaks when he shifts.

Adam continues, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“What exactly?”

“Yelling at you in general was a dick move, but I’m sorry for thinking I know what you should do with your life. It’s not up to me to have an opinion.”

I can tell he’s trying to be mature and comfortable about saying this to my face, but his darting eyes reveal the struggle. He’s having a hard time looking at me.

I feel bold this morning.

“I don’t care if you have a silent opinion about my life, Adam.” I meet his eyes. “I care about you judging me. Out loud. And telling me what I’ve done wrong without knowing me at all.”

He nods, solemn. “You’re right. I don’t know you. I don’t why you’ve made your choices.”

“Why do you care?” My voice comes out quiet. Pained. I don’t care if he hears it.

He fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

I add, “You think little of me, I get it, but why do I need to know about it? Why do you need to hurt me?”

His head twists toward the window. He takes careful steps to stand opposite me, leaning against the frame of the porch’s screen door. My spine straightens against the wood panel. The toes of our shoes settle between one another.

“I was mad at you, Vee.” He exhales. “I’ve been mad at you for fourteen years and I finally got to take a swing at you.”

My face crumples in confusion.

“Come on,” he says, reading it. He leans his head to the side. “You have to know that.”

“Mad at me for –”

“For rejecting me, Vienna,” he completes. His eyes dance a circle around my body. “Obviously…”

Rejecting him?

That’s not a word I would have used, ever, in our relationship. The thought of him entertaining an emotion like that surprises me. Confuses. In fact, realizing that my actions meant a damn thing to him, after all this time…

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