Page 48 of Falling for Autumn Again

It’s not true, but she won’t be able to let it go. Maybe I’ll annoy her enough to get her to say something real.

We’ve walked just outside the rows and rows of trees, growing seven feet to just two feet, with the saplings in sight just yards away.

She looks at me—finally—her jaw clenching. She reaches out and with all the strength of a tiny sumo wrestler, she punches my shoulders.

"Ouch," I mutter, stumbling backward. Geez, it took her long enough.

“You know that isn’t true.”

I reach up and snag her by the wrist. “I don’t know anything. That’s the problem!”

More rain pelts my face. Autumn blinks as dollops fall onto her cheeks and lashes. “You had to leave!” She yells over the wind and rain of the storm. “You had to. You couldn’t stay here. Not withhim. We both knew that.”

“You stayed.” I squint, staring past the rain and gusting winds.

She swallows, but she doesn’t speak.

Her head falls and just past her I see one little sapling whisked away with the wind, ripped from its home in the ground. Its ends never had a chance to take root.

“Crap,” I mutter, thinking of all the work Autumn has done here. It can’t all be destroyed with one windstorm. If nothing has changed, there are tarps and stakes in the shed just for occasions like this.

Autumn’s head whips around to see what I’m seeing, but I’m already running to the shed, praying I can make it before another sapling is lost.

Autumn is right on my heels despite her short legs. I yank open the door as though nothing has changed, not in ten years. I snatch up the tarp and stakes while Autumn grabs a mallet. The wind has rain pelting us sideways and stealing each of our breaths. We work silently—chances are we wouldn’t be able to hear the other well in this mess anyhow—but we move and work just as we did all those years ago, without needing to tell the other what we’re doing.

It takes time—she’s planted rows and rows of little trees—but we get them covered. The tarps are staked down, keeping the little trees safe. We only lose a handful to the storm.

I peer up, breathless and drenched, to see Autumn staring atme. She’s wet to the bone, her chest rising and falling with every breath.

I drop my mallet to the ground. Like a magnetic force, I’m drawn to her. I need to be closer. Ignoring the wind and cold, I lock my eyes on hers and move my body until I’m standing right in front of her. I peer down into her eyes and she looks up at me. I can’t tell if those are tears on her cheeks or raindrops from the sky. Her long hair hangs limp and drenched down her back. Her chin quivers and I cup her cheek—she’s ice cold. She leans into my touch, her eyes on mine.

“You told me to go, but youhadto stay.” I’m hearing her exact wording for the first time. I’m tossing my pride aside and realizing the girl—for whatever reason—hadto stay. She couldn’t come.

She nods, and with the motion, more tremoring quivers shake from her lip and chin.

“Come on!” I yell into the wind, sliding my hand down to hers. I lace our fingers together and drag her into the shed, praying Don still stores a few blankets in here. In the colder months, we covered the base of the younger trees, keeping the fragile roots warm. I imagine they still do. Last time I checked, Wyoming still had bitter winters. And if no blankets can be found, at least it’s shelter from the rain.

Autumn’s entire body shivers once I’ve got her out of the wind and in the safe cover of the shed.

"You need to get out of that jacket." The denim is drenched and weighing her down with cold rain water. It'll only increase her chances of hypothermia.

I peel the jacket from her body while she stands, shaking and moving inch by inch with my directions.

"Sweatshirt too," I say. Surprisingly, the girl doesn't argue. Slowly, she lifts her trembling arms and I tug the drenched thing over her head. She's only in a tank top beneath it, which might behelpful at this point. The thin cotton material should dry quick enough. I swallow, trying not to stare at the curve of her hips and the softness of her belly. Autumn's not eighteen anymore—in the best of ways. I clear my throat. "Jeans too."

At this, she tilts her head. Eyes deadly, though her lips are still quivering.

“Hey, I’ll turn around if you can get them off yourself.” I turn just to prove it, finding the blankets I’d hoped would be here in the process. I gather the dry, thin blankets and peek back at her. “Here,” I say, holding out one of the old polyester blankets toward her.

She takes it without complaint, and while she’s busy peeling her clinging jeans from her body, I tug my sweatshirt over my head too.

I turn back to see the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her wet hair on the outside, dripping onto the ground. She’s shaking and on instinct, I move closer, rubbing my hands up and down her arms, shoulder to elbow.

Her teeth chatter and she watches me like it’s the only thing she can do.

“How long was your dad sick, Autumn?” I ask. This is key to her secret. I know it in my gut.

Her lips tremble, but she opens her mouth. “Five,” she says with a shudder. “Five years.”

---